The Sky's Gone Out

10/30: The Ghost of Uncle Joe's

2010-12-07T17:16:00.000-08:00

It was 5:30 in the afternoon when I clocked out of my job at Balance Salon in downtown Jersey City. Sweeping hair, swiping credit cards and running around to grab toilet paper and cleaning supplies had certainly exhausted me. Still, like most Saturdays at quitting time, I had other plans that did not include a long nap. That Saturday's script entailed covering the 2^nd annual Ghost of Uncle Joe’s rock and roll cover show, this year to be held at the historic Jersey City and Harismus Cemetery.

Needless to say, I was psyched.

In honor of Halloween, I had worked my entire seven-and-a-half hour shift in costume. I was dressed as Snake Plissken from John Carpenter's 1981 film, Escape From New York, complete with black eye patch, leather duster and a B.B. gun rifle. But this costume wouldn't be practical for my reporting, so I ran home to change into a sweater and peacoat. Besides, I would have hated to have the cops ask me why I was wandering in a graveyard with what looked like a real shotgun.

I hopped on my Huffy bicycle, which has no working brakes, and pedaled my way up Newark Avenue. It was fiercely cold and cloudy, and yet there were many passersby out on the streets, both in normal wear and in costume. In a close-knit community like Jersey City, Halloween refuses to be confined to the small calendar box labeled "The 31st."

I veered left into the six-acre graveyard on 435 Newark Avenue, where I was greeted by a short woman named Eileen E. Markenstein. Markenstein is the President of the Board of Trustees for the cemetery. I was asked to give a small donation to aid in her restoration project and so I quickly handed over a fiver. I learned that all profits gathered for the evening were going directly towards the improvement of the graveyard, including upkeep costs and new equipment, such as work gloves, gardening supplies, tractors, snow-blowers, and a Bobcat lift. It would be a night of rock and roll for a great cause.

"I have several of my family members buried here," said Markenstein. "This is a beautiful landmark that's important to the history of Jersey City."

I was then asked to sign a liability release form, just in case I should stupidly lean against a gravestone, fall, and break my hip. I couldn't help but think, "Why would an honest and friendly woman like Markenstein, who is out seeking such a noble cause, allow hundreds of people to dance and jump around on the plot of land where her grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles are buried?”

* * *

Down the narrow path was a small stage where a band, set to cover Motörhead, was tuning up for their performance. They were surrounded by hundreds of tombstones, some of them marking the graves of soldiers who served in the Revolutionary and Civil War. At stage right, a stone read:

ANDREW JACKSON BARNEY

Born April 23rd, 1829. Died September 12, 1878

His wife, Henrietta Boken, born June 22, 1841, and died on November 19th, 1884, rested by his side. Their neighbor was a man by the name of Antonio Ramos, who had a final and permanent sendoff reading "Con Amor de tu Familia." He was more than one hundred years younger than the departed couple. Their graves were overshadowed by a gnarled, wretched oak tree that stretched upwards to the cloudy twilight, like something out of a Washington Irving story. A large, inflatable tarantula rested in its bare branches.

More stones stretched out of the faded, fresh-cut grass at stage left, where the Melendez and the Lockwood families reclined and received a close spot to the performance. If they couldn't see the bands play, perhaps they would absorb some of the immense volume through the soil, and silently rock out, down below in their caskets.

Under the pale darkening sky, it was easy to see that the cemetery was beautiful. Graves stretched up hills to the western Journal Square area, towards a natural rock wall, wrapped around sycamore trees and an old, two story caretaker house, then cascaded into a steep hill back towards downtown Jersey City. A life-sized replica of Jason Vorhees was placed just before the hill’s descent to warn visitors not to cross. The horror icon served as a decoration and a safety precaution.

Motörhead had now finished tuning up, and dozens upon dozens of people filed into the cemetery. I caught a man wearing a red sweatshirt, bandana and blue jeans that were absolutely filthy with soil. He was an exact caricature of a caretaker. He moved his 16oz. can of Budweiser to his left hand and shook my right, passing off some trace dirt into my palms.

“Do you see that?” said John Wilson, 48, pointing to the gravesite of Roberto Rolon. “That’s 8 hours of digging! I can handle it,” he boasted, patting his protruding gut. Wilson, who has been a caretaker at the cemetery for two and half years, explained that he found peace living in the on-site home, and that aside from a few high-school trespassers, his job caused him no grief.

Wilson went into detail about the evergreen trees and the rosebuds he helped to plant, and the heavy stones he had moved around the land. He was proud and laughed often, exposing his crisscrossed teeth like a set of tossed yellow Chiclets. He explained that while the cemetery currently had no more available plots, he still had a job burying those who had a reservation. I liked talking to Wilson, and promised myself to give him his own story someday. But at that point, Dancing Tony was taking the stage as Master of Ceremonies.

* * *

If you live in Jersey City, then reading this section is not necessary, simply because you already know who Dancing Tony is. For those who don't live in the sixth borough, Tony, born Anthony Vito Susco, is by and large the brains behind Jersey City's social scene. Whether he is organizing the annual Pagan Feast (which this year, raised hundreds of dollars in donations and food for the Human Needs Pantry) or throwing together various bands and artists at the collective 58 Gallery space on Coles Street, Dancing Tony is dedicating himself to downtown Jersey City and ensuring that no one is ever bored. As I write these words, he is currently setting up for a superhero-themed costume party at his apartment tonight.

"If you have an event and get a lot of people out, for me, it's just refocusing the power of people," said Dancing Tony, who acquired his nickname for his notoriety to cut a rug. "The strange thing about where we're at venue-wise is that we are now forced to use these alternative spaces."

In this circumstance, the "alternative space" was a graveyard.

Jersey City's most infamous music venue, Uncle Joe’s, closed in May of 2005. It was one of the last vestibules where debauchery and rock and roll still walked hand in hand, a mirror to the East Village days of the late 1970s. Local bands from New Jersey as well as more established traveling acts were frequently put on Joe's bill. But due to what Tony refers to as, "the antiquated laws against Jersey City's entertainment," the building was sold and demolished, much to the misfortune of the Garden State's bar-hoppers.

Where Uncle Joe's once stood, there is now a vacant lot. Empty coffee cups and potato chip bags are strewn about to complete a picturesque scene of a rock and roll tragedy. The Ghost of Uncle Joe's event is named in honor of the legendary dive venue, and is now appropriately held in the cemetery off Newark Avenue.

The first meeting between Dancing Tony and Markenstein was somewhat serendipitous. Upon organizing the annual Fourth Street Arts Festival, which brings dozens of bands, shops and artists together for an all day outdoor celebration, Tony realized he would need a parking lot cleared to make room for visitors. This required some gardening tools, which wereborrowed by Markenstein's cemetery coalition, thanks to the help of the Village Neighborhood Association.

The two got to talking and decided that by holding an event at the historical

graveyard, they could help to raise money and throw a hell of a party.

As aggravated as Tony is about the inability to properly house musicians, Tony

was delighted with the turnout at the cemetery, and said that he would happily organize the event there every year from now on. He confided in me that his larger scheme was to open up a venue of his own, but until then, Jersey City's social masterminds would continue to get creative, and find more obscure, (though certainly not less entertaining,) places to play.

* * *

"Ladies and gentleman," Tony said to the crowd, dressed in a 19th century undertaker outfit, "I will be taking measurements tonight should anyone like any post-mortem preparations," holding up a lengthy piece of rope. Never being one to skimp out on details, Tony addressed the audience that he had changed his nickname for the evening to "Riga Mortis Tony," and had even fashioned a huge black top-hat made from a spray painted Tecate beer box. He issued a brief statement to be respectful to the grounds and to not litter, and then introduced Motörhead, who immediately ripped into their best known song, "Ace of Spades" from the album with the same title.

The three-piece band, which any other night goes by Animal, did not simply perform Motörhead songs, but rather transformed themselves into the actual Motörhead. The group sported large cowboy hats, aviator sunglasses and mutton chop beards. The singer even drew on two enormous moles to his face that Lemmy Kilmister is so famous for. Meanwhile, the audience thrashed about and proved they were anything but shy, slam dancing into eachother, raising fists and chugging cheap beer. More and more participants were jogging towards the stage by the second.

Motörhead took little time between songs, giving only a brief second to tune up. They played songs exclusively off of the classic 1980s release, with such hits as "Love Me Like a Reptile," "Shoot You in the Back," and "Live to Win." They closed with the extremely racy and abrasive track, "Fast and Loose," where someone in the audience commanded the group to "raise the dead!" Though I saw no actual zombies that night, I would not be surprised if the audial intensity did awaken at least a dozen departed souls. The audience roared with applause as Motörhead stepped down.

At this point there were about 150 or so costumed citizens wandering around the graveyard. I thought to myself how much downtown J.C. was like the sitcom Cheers. Everyone knows your name, and likewise, you know theirs. I ran into my friend and local music blogger, Zac Clark, who had borrowed one of my shirts to complete his costume of Seymoure Krelborn from the movie The Little Shop of Horrors. As I was talking to him, a man in tight blue jeans and a werewolf mask ran up to me and gave me a beer. It was one of my best drinking buddies, Augie Catarella.

Still speaking in his mask, Catarella shared his opinion on the city and its appreciation for the arts.

"I think that downtown Jersey City is an untapped reservoir. We're an unpretentious lot and we're used to having so little, so naturally our parties are the shit," said Catarella, who, when not playing in his band, The Radio Exiles, works full-time as a teaching assistant to adults with special needs. "I mean, how fucking cool is it that we're in a graveyard right now?"

He lifted his mask to gulp down his Pabst Blue Ribbon, and then detailed his sexual escapades from the night before.

Riga Mortis Tony got back on the microphone and reminded everyone that there was to be no smoking, drinking or urination on anyone's grave sites, half as a joke and half in sincerity. He then introduced the next cover act, R.E.M.

To be honest, I was never a huge fan of R.E.M. I always felt that Michael Stipe was kind of a square. But the band on stage did an excellent job of keeping the crowd motivated. This was quickly becoming an increasingly harder task, as there were now more than 300 live souls on site. The group only performed the lesser-known songs that came out of the late 1980s.

Midway through the second song, the band's power was cut off, an apparent electrical shortage. The music was quickly restored with the busy sound crew (working pro bono, of course) but within a few minutes, the power cut out again. Anxiety spread throughout the audience, fearful that their plans for the evening might be dashed by a few faulty surge protectors. There were murmurs among friends about where to go next, and a middle-aged man, holding his three children, drunkenly shouted, "That's some bullshit!" over and over. The power was restored and the band, as if expecting a shortage, started the song directly where they had left off, on the very same note. The rest of the set went on without a hitch. The few interruptions may have startled the audience, but nobody left the party.

I congratulated the singer, Adam Schlesinger, on a job well done, who informed me that the band had only two rehearsals together before their performance. He then said he had to run because his main band, Fountains of Wayne, had a show at the Hammerstein Ballroom in a few hours. This man had been nominated not just for a Grammy for the 2003 hit, "Stacy's Mom," but also for an Oscar for writing the titular song to the film, That Thing You Do, and no one watching had even known of his musical credentials.

Go figure.

I was excited for the next band, covering Neutral Milk Hotel, for two reasons. The first was that two of the members were loyal clients at the hair salon where I work. I was very familiar with the scalps of Chris Landry and Sean Kiley. The second was that the band holds a special place in my memory bank. I can distinctly remember being seven years old, driving around with my mother listening to On Avery Island (1996) and In the Aeroplane Over the Sea (1998). She played it constantly in her minivan voyages to the grocery store. I can picture her crying as she sang the words to "Two Headed Boy," the two of us looking for parking at the A & P.

That was 15 years ago.

The band opened with "The King of Carrot Flowers" parts 1-3. Admittedly, it was nearly a one man show with Kiely playing harmonica, acoustic guitar and singing over the soft drums and back up guitar. What the Neutral Milk Hotel cover act lacked in dynamics, they made up for in encouraged audience participation.

The words echoed across the plot of land, "And your mom would stick a fork right into daddy's shoulder/ And dad would throw the garbage all across the floor/ As we would lay and learn what each other's bodies were for." There were only a few strobe lights and generator-powered bulbs to provide the entire illumination. In the distance, the lights from Dickinson High School poured out into the two way street. Even in the dark atmosphere, I could make out the faces of the hundreds singing along. By the completion of the set, there was hardly room to move.

It was only in the downtime between acts that I realized how absolutely freezing it was. The week prior to Halloween was absolutely gorgeous with night time temperatures in the mid to upper 60s. Those halcyon days of autumn were now behind us. My body was violently convulsing with chill. Further up the hill by the spirits table was a tiny space heater as well as a raised fire pit, but there was not enough room to support all of the frigid bodies. It was clearly the smokers' location of choice.

Those not fortunate enough to grab a warm spot sought comfort in another's arms, either caressing or doing jumping jacks to stave off hypothermia. I chose the next best thing: after running into a girl with whom I had a one night stand a month earlier, I helped myself to her whiskey, which was concealed in a Poland Spring water bottle. The warmth was quick and artificial, but the comfort was real.

For full disclosure, I am friends with all of the members of the next cover band up, The Descendants. Chuck Daly, the bass player, and his brother Joe Daly, guitar, are both drinking partners of mine, and we occasionally share the same DJ set. Chuck is also a licensed tattoo artist who has been doing the artwork on my arms and ribs for nearly two years, and is just one of those dudes that everyone, especially women, try and get close to.

Pat Byrne was playing the role of Milo Aukerman, the band's four-eyed, loud-mouthed singer. I consider Pat to be one of the nicest people in Jersey City, and I attend every one of his DJ sets at our local watering hole, Lucky 7s. A week prior to the Halloween show, I saw Pat biking down the street while I was eating outdoors at a French cafe.

"Pat!" I yelled. He squinted his eyes as if trying to make out who I was. "It's me, Dave!" Without stopping, he raised his arm and flipped me off. I like to think he was just getting in character for Milo.

Lastly, the drummer, Matt Wector, is a Manchester United soccer fanatic. He has full sleeve tattoos, and teaches a fourth grade elementary school class. He once told me that he makes his kids cry every day.

The band perfectly replicated the actual Descendents lineup. Although I was surprised they didn’t play anything from the record Milo Goes to College (1982), they still annihilated the crowd with 1-2 guitar riffs and spastic drum beats from songs like, “Sour Grapes,” “I’m Not a Loser,” “Silly Girl,” and “Clean Sheets.” The good thing about having the songs be no more than two minutes long is that everyone was able to hear more of them. Some of the cutest chicks in the crowd were slam-dancing just as hard as the boys. Meanwhile, Pat was screaming and hopping around in denim shorts, saying that he and the band had driven all the way from California. “You guys better fucking enjoy this!”

They did.

After the show, I went over to Chuck to tell him that I appreciated the show. Our conversation went like this:

Dave: Chuck! That was a great set, dude.

Chuck: Thanks, brother! It was drunken insanity.

Dave: Oh, you were drunk by the time you got on stage?

Chuck: Yeah. I’m not going to remember anything I’m doing right now.

Dave: Can I quote you on that?

Chuck: Fuck yeah!

I never bothered to do a follow-up interview.

Up next were the Misfits, who were going by the name, Glen D and the Lodi Three. The Misfits are the original horror punk band, so to have a Halloween without the Misfits is like having Christmas without Bing Crosby. It just doesn’t make sense. The fact that the Misfits are also New Jersey natives (specifically, Lodi) meant that the crowd was going to go absolutely bat shit. I no longer wanted to be a reporter; I wanted to be a part of the audience, throwing my arms and singing every word (I am a Misfits fanatic and own their entire discography.)

So I put down my binder. The drummer rolled out the unmistakable tom-toms that begin “Hybrid Moments,” and at the first cymbal crash, a wave of angry zombies was pushing towards the stage. It was only a matter of seconds before I felt an immense blow to the back of my skull, falling straight down to my knees.

So much for wanting to be a part of the audience.

Some concerned concert-goers pulled me up to my feet, as I could have easily been trampled by the sea of people. I began to vigorously rub the back of my head and make guesses as to what could have happened. Did someone throw a baseball at my cranium? Could it have been a thrown beer bottle? In about 30 seconds, there was a lump protruding from my skull of about half the size of a golf ball. Nevertheless, I soldiered on and listened to the Glen D and the Lodi 3 play “20 Eyes,” “Astro Zombies,” “Braineaters,” “Bullet,” “I Turned Into a Martian,” “Angelfuck,” Skulls.” They closed the set with “Last Caress,” one of the first songs I ever learned on the drums when I was just 11 years old. Everything comes full circle.

After their set, a kid about my age came up to me and said that he elbowed me in the back of the head. He apologized, and I accepted. What other cities do you know where something like this wouldn’t end in fisticuffs?

It was nearing 11:00pm. The event was supposed to be over an hour ago and there was still one cover act left on the set: one of the founders of psychobilly punk, The Cramps. I remember when lead singer Lux Interior passed away in early 2009. I was glad to see that another band was going to try and fill their shoes, although I knew it was going to be an extremely difficult task.

People around me got to talking about where to go afterwards, either the Lamppost Bar, Lucky 7’s or a costume party at Parlay Studios. I just wanted to see the Cramps. A tattooed youth got up to the microphone. I could see their set list, which only had five songs on it.

40 seconds in the sludgy classic, “Human Fly,” the microphones and power cut out. A universal groan spread out. A full five minutes later, they started up the song again, and, like a bad T.V. re-run, the power cut out, again. This time, the singer tried to entertain the crowd like Interior might have, rubbing his crotch against the P.A. system, the stage, the girl bass player. But of course, there’s only so much a man can hump before the audience is going to want a change of scenery.

Three more times: power turning on, the band starting up the power cutting out. It was becoming embarrassing. But as I looked around at the hundreds in the cemetery, at Marge Simpson, Wayne from Wayne's World, a few rastafarians, the Blues Brothers, an escaped convict, Wonder Woman, Superman, Frankenstein, Groucho Marx, a bloody doctor, an army of zombies in corpse paint and fake blood…none of them were making moves to leave. I understood that this was more than just a celebration of music, or even more than a fundraiser for a graveyard (which evidently ended up raising money $4,000). This was an event about community, about solidarity.

The band started up again and finished without interruptions. The bass player couldn’t keep in tune or in rhythm. They were awful but it didn’t matter, because we were all there.

Somewhere upstairs, Uncle Joe smiled.

The Biters: The Biters EP

2010-11-30T15:05:00.000-08:00

The Biters, The Biters EP

I do not believe in ghosts resurrection or anything of the sort, but damn if I didn't think The Exploding Hearts, one of my favorite bands of all time, had crawled out from the grave the first time I listened to The Biters. Like the Hearts, the Atlanta-based foursome looks like they belong in the late 70's East Village (think pretty faces, long straight hair, and lots of leather and denim). They even created their own rock and roll gang with their buddies, The Booze, known as the Hate City Rockers. And, like the Hearts, they managed to reach that seemingly impossible line of power pop-punk perfection.

For those that don't know, power pop is a genre that walks the line between a 1970s rock and roll sound and simple pop music. Good examples are Nick Lowe, Cheap Trick, and Slade. We are NOT talking about Blink 182, New Found Glory, or any of that other rubbish I simply call "Mall Pop" (or, perhaps even more often, designating it as "shit.") Without trying to subcategorize the endless genres in Rock, I'd like to move on.

"Hang Around," the first track on the self-titled EP, is friendly enough to chew bubblegum to, but stompy enough to pound a pint glass on a sawdust-covered bar. Lead singer and guitarist, who simply goes by Tuk, beautifully nasals out, "We're gonna waste this town/Burn it to the ground/We could get out/Maybe we'll just hang around/Hang around!/And when the money gets tight/I'm selling on the side/I could get high/Baby I can hang around!" Words that any small-town high schooler, or your run of the mill junkie, can relate to. The gang vocals contributed by back up guitarist Matt Gabs and bassist Travis (the latter is Tuk's brother) make it irresistible to sing along to.

"So Cheap So Deadly" has a grittier feel, although the slicked production is far from abandoned. The faint chirps of a piano have been added, most likely by drummer/percussionist Joey. It's a simple, sleazy song about the similarities between girls and drugs, an issue not so distant for Tuk since the dismantling of his former band, The Heart Attacks, a Hellcat signed band that broke up three years ago.

"Ain't No Dreamer" starts off with a long, drawn out guitar scratch descent, and has the same stomp that helps to unify the EP. The hamonizing is strangely angelic, as the band chants "I ain't no dreamer baby, I ain't got nothing to say/And it wouldn't be that much anyway." The bridge changes into a far-more agressive key change, followed by a perfect, dare I say epic, build up as Tuk confesses, "I keep losing everything I own/Or I break it, I can't Take It/I started talking but I lost my thoughts/I was faded...Just so faded!" What can I say? Aphasia's a bitch.

"Beat Me Baby" is probably the weakest song on the release, although I still find myself singing along everytime. Perhaps it's just a problem that the production is so...damn...slick. But structure-wise, it's perfect. It's got a real 50's bop to it, and the high pitched doo-wop backups do it well. Like every song on the EP, it's got a perfect guitar solo, and at just over two and a half minutes, the song ends without becoming irritating.

The closer, "Anymore," is one of those songs that everyone in the audience claps their hands to. It also has the near identical guitar beginning to Cheap Trick's "Surrender," (which is certainly not a bad thing!) "NO! We don't want to anymore! They all live to...SLOW! No we don't want to anymore...anymore...anymore." It's what I've been trying to tell you all for years! Who wants to hear all this slow, crummy crap coming through the airwaves now anyways? Not me. After-you guessed it- another ripping solo-there's a jungle-like drum solo (albeit, a brief one) by Joey, and the return of the "Surrender" guitar phrase.

"They say/I'll just fade away/And I won't be around/But I won't listen anymore."

Indeed you shouldn't, Tuk. This is the best EP I've heard all year. I give it 5 stars, and I cannot wait to see what's next from The Hate City Rockers.

Down, But Not Out...

2010-11-30T14:50:00.000-08:00

So you thought I was dead...?

Nah, bitches. Not me. I've just been super swamped with a whole lot of bullshit. You may be asking yourself, like what?

Well, of course I'm kicking my ass with school. But a lot of my time, thankfully, has gone into more Wyldlife stuff. If you haven't downloaded the album please do so right here, right now! We are currently working on a new album which should be out in the spring. We've played some amazing shows like the one with one of our favorite bands, The Biters (album review to be posted shortly) and The Radio Exiles. It's been groovy.

I bleached my hair (partially) blonde, as you can see by this photo taken by the very cool Richard Rothstein. Oh, yeah. I let gay dudes with photo skills take photos of me in my drawers for some extra money. So what?

This is me and my "So what?" face. Suck it.

"Who'd have thought her man was coming home so early?

I had to make a quick break for it!"

Oh, and if you've been wondering what the hell that is on my

arm, that's Chuck Daly's newest piece he put up a few weeks ago.

It's very festive and celebratory, I must say. You're the man, Chuck!

I know my mom's gonna see the beer bottles and lose it. Sorry, ma...

I also got a Daggers tattoo on the back of my right

bicep with my main man, Big Grizz. Down for life with

the Thrashin' tats!

What else? Mayim Yael has been crashing at my house

for damn near a month now. Freeloaders! Just kidding,

she's the coolest.

So I won't tell you I'm gonna be putting up plenty of more

posts, because as you can see, I'm totally unpredictable.

As Bart Simpson once perfectly put it, "I can't promise I'll try,

but I'll try to try."

Love (Or at Least Like-Like)

2010-09-21T17:35:00.000-07:00

Love (Or at Least Like-Like)

The taste of caffeine at midnight

And the sound of the sedan’s ignition

Shooting echoes around the Harlem parking lot.

The passengers envision four-day vacations.

My eyelids are anvils, and my heart’s a grenade

I’m thrown to the West to detonate.

The blare of the truck's horns

As I drift at the elbows

Of the outstretched arms of Interstate 80.

The trees outside Ohio

Begin to look

Just like dinosaurs,

Hunched like Tyrannosaurus Rexes.

The wheel surrendered, I recline in the backseat

Eyes shut to the landscape,

But the smell of corn postpones sleep.

We are spreading over now

Like your cancer

Once did.

The food here is garbage, you once told me.

And we laughed.

And we shut up.

And we agreed we’ve never missed anything so much.

An ascending elevator,

A pair of perspiring palms.

An 18 hour lurch to this point on an Iowa map.

The sterilized fourth floor

Of a general hospital

With a specific aim:

We’re all here to see you,

But I’m here to save you.

The Telephone

2010-09-21T17:26:00.000-07:00

The Telephone

The telephone hangs

With veins entangled below its body,

Humming Gregorian at first

And then chirping melodically

As it, like so few creatures,

Accepts my touch.

It is the medium that connects time zones,

That lets me know my brother

Is safe in Jacksonville, or

That Eric died this morning.

Tonight, your face is broadcast

And I’ve summoned the telephone

And preyed on its transmissions,

As if crossing fingers could make

Our paths follow suit.

Repeating purrs of want and of hope

But the telephone does not make guarantees.

The telephone clicks.

For My Mother

2010-09-21T17:24:00.000-07:00

For My Mother

The dashboard is a foot rest.

My heels vibrate to the engine’s hum.

The lights of the Atlantic & Pacific

Flood the cool October night

Like a traveling carnival.

“Who is the horse?” you wonder,

“Who is the carrot? Who drives who?”

The cart pinballs from

Aisle wall

To aisle wall.

The milk is toppling about.

The eggs are bleeding, the bread’s been deflated

And the bruised strawberries are seeking shelter up top.

Your laugh is the soundtrack

Composed by my steering.

You are still a giant to me

And will be for four years.

You store me in the back seat

Among the paper bag jungle and the cereal box skyscrapers.

The garage door opens and I am awake.

Never Believed in Nothing

2010-09-17T20:56:00.000-07:00

I never believed in nothing.

But I keep finding myself walking around aimlessly, looking up at my ceiling, or at the sky.

"Eric, I miss you, man."

And then I can't help myself from laughing.

That's how I know he's still with me.

That's all.

Why, Oh Iowa?

2010-09-14T13:57:00.000-07:00

The last week of August, Sam, Spencer and myself decided to go to Iowa to visit our friend Dora, getting to stop in at the Iowa State Fair and Iowa City along the way. When the trip was approaching, none of my other friends believed me that I was actually going to Iowa. Little do they know- and in fact, little did I know- how amazing of a trip it would be. Here are the images from the vacation, although I will say, about half way through I decided to stop taking so many photos so that I could better enjoy myself.

We had just played a show in Brooklyn, and so here, Spencer is driving back to his apartment in Harlem to get ready. We didn't officially hit the road until after midnight.

If this is how tired I looked before the trip, you can only imagine how I looked after taking the first driving shift, over 7 hours from New York through Pennsylvania. For some reason, I was obsessed with driving into the sunrise, which I did, and it was beautiful. I only stopped for gas, and didn't pull over until I started to fall asleep and thought that the trees were turning into dinosaurs. Luckily the punk mixes I had made on my iPod helped my long crawl across Interstate 80.

Sam took the wheel next.

I was alive! Took a victory photo, yellow teeth and all.

Spencer lounged in the back.

This was pretty much the sight for 18 hours. Lots and lots of corn.

American flag sightings became entertainment for our fragile minds.

The people of Iowa did not personally welcome us, but it was an inviting gesture nonetheless.

The Novak residence! This is where we would spend the next three days.

Spencer and I shacked up in Dora's little sisters room.

We immediately tried on her collection of Chinese/cowboy themed hats.

We wasted no time and drove off to the Iowa State Fair, which I truly believe everyone should visit at least once in their lives. The food is lacking in any nutritional value, but it is goddamn delicious. Here, one family sold snacks like chocolate covered bacon from their front lawn.

This guy had a bottle of whiskey "disguised" in a Poland Spring bottle, and asked for donations as children got to pet his snake. I know that sounds very wrong, but I assure you, it was very innocent.

Dora's little sis was not afraid to use the snake as a scarf.

Headed over to the petting zoo. Put Dora's sister on a camel.

Dora looks on.

Sam is a friend to the animals.

It quickly became a heavy petting zoo.

The world's first two headed goat! Not really.

Spencer got to feed this majestic forrest animal.

The fairground. I got to see people, tee shirts, tattoos and sights that I will never get to see again at another location. The best people-watching spot in the world is the Iowa State Fair.

Apparantly, Tone Loc played a few nights earlier.

My first snack of the night: Corn Dog. I also ended up trying deep-fried Snickers, fried pickles, and about a half gallon of beer.

Kum and Go is a convenience store in Iowa. They are having a contest to name their newest 32 Oz. Guzzler cup, which I vote should be named, "The 32 Oz. Kum Guzzler."

Sam and Dora shared a snack.

Spencer having a Turkey Leg. I tried it, it wasn't my favorite.

We went for a ride on the skyline, which was so fun because you got to people watch all the folks coming across you, as well as bird's eye people watch!

We all got progressively wasted and wandered around the fair until late in the evening.

The next day, the entire family invited us out onto their boat in the lake.

Paul Novak takes the picnic supplies out to his extremely beautiful boat.

These fish would swim up to the dock. I tried to catch them with my bare hands, but to no avail.

Spencer worked on his tan.

I felt so wealthy to be with such a good group of people and in such a gorgeous setting.

We all started doing flips and stuff off the boat, which is a favorite pastime of mine. Eventually, I let Dora's little sister fake punch me off the side of the boat where I would fly back into the water. Only the second time I did it I separated my shoulder for the second time. I can assure you, there is no worse place to be than the water when your shoulder comes out of place. You have to tread water in an immense amount of pain. I managed to not only swim back to the boat, but to pull myself up and pop my shoulder back into place. No problem! But that ended the swimming for the rest of the vacation.

Later that night, Dora, Sam, Spencer, Dora's older sister, and myself spent the night drinking liberally and lighting off fireworks out of our bare hands. After a bottle rocket mishap, I had to quickly check that I had all five digits on my right hand. Then we lit off some more fireworks until Dora's sister's friends showed up and invited us out to "The Lumberyard: Where real men go to get wood."

Now I had never been to a strip club before, so I told the fellas that I wanted the girls to be gnarly, preferably with black eyes, fake everything and a severe limp. They told me that wouldn't be a problem. Truth be told, the girls were actually pretty decent, and one of them asked if I was single (over the bass of songs from Nickelback and West Coast rap, I thought she asked if I was seal).

Shortly afterwards, a meth-tweaked stripper took the stage. The audience (of about 12 people, not bad for a Sunday night,) went absolutely bananas when tweaker strutted over to Dora's sister, removed her top, and started sucking on our best friend's ta-tas in front of everyone. I didn't know whether to laugh or to look down at my shoelaces. Then the tweaker tried to pull a repeat on Dora, but she wasn't having it.

The tweaker was getting pretty frustrated, and eventually Sam started pulling Dora away from the stage. I went off to piss, but when I returned, I was greeted by re several 300 something pound bouncers looking over me telling me they have to talk to me. I was awfully confused as to what I could have done, but then the situation got explained that they simply had the wrong guy and that both the girl and her boyfriend had left the club. That was the end of Dora and Sam at the Lumberyard.

Spencer and I were far from through, and continued to enjoy the fruits of these fine dancers' labor. The night concluded by drinking (yes, even more drinks) at Dora's sister's friends house, which we were escorted to in a refurnished ambulance.

The next morning, I prepared for a second outing on the boat, still thinking about the previous night's insanity.

We had another delicious picnic, and then spent the remainder of the afternoon driving around Des Moines eating at drive through restaurants and laughing at the scenery. I went to a Wal Mart for the first time, people watched some more, and tried to hold one of the rifles in the gun section. The man behind the counter told me I wasn't taking anything seriously and that he was a cop for over 30 years. I told him that both of my dads were cops.

We took a mandatory cornfield photo.

It was kind of corny.

That night, the three of us plus Dora went to her friend Jon's place in Iowa City. What a neat little place to live! We got wasted, played the board game Life, and watched Pawn Stars. Spencer and I even got to stagger around town and buy late night pizza and obliterate a discarded television set. We concluded the evening by putting all of our coins on the train tracks. The next morning, they were totally warped! So cool.

We woke up, went to Which Wich, a very creative sandwich place, and then went to visit Mayim at the hospital. I am happy to say that Mayim is now out of the hospital recovering. We did so much during the four days, but our last stop to see Mayim had to be my absolute favorite. She is the coolest girl in the entire world, not to mention drop dead gorgeous. We played yet another round of Life in her presence, which she won by a landslide. I mean, can there be a more obvious metaphor to insert here?

I didn't want to leave her for a split second, and I certainly didn't want to leave Iowa, but it was getting late in the afternoon on Tuesday, and I had school early Thursday morning. The open road was calling us back East.

The Iowa sunset, shortly after a pit stop at the world's largest Truck Station.

Sam started the drive off back towards New York. On the home, I acquired over 200 dollars in driving related fines. I had a sore shoulder that was separated. I was riddled with bug bites. I risked serious heart failure from eating so much fried food and drinking so much alcohol. It was all in all the most worthwhile trip I've ever taken. Good friends, good times, and Mayim. What else do you need in life? I'm actually planning out my trip back to Iowa to see Mayim, and although this will have been an extremely difficult vacation to top, I'm expecting this journey to be even better.

Thank you to the Novak family, Jon Waters, Andrea, and all of our other friends we met along the trip. Those four days will stick with me for the rest of my life. Be well!

Jeffry Kilmer is a Goddamn Genius

2010-08-28T18:26:00.001-07:00

The night I saw the Chameleons shred it out at Home Sweet Home, I met photographer/architect/cool bartender Jeffry Kilmer. He asked if I wanted to shoot some photos at a studio a few days later. I love myself too much to say no, and I, of course accepted. Here is a small taste of what Jeffry shot. You can see the final photo and words on the Paper Mag blog, by clicking here.

Good evening, ladies.

Oh, there's that rib tattoo I was talking

about.

All in all that was a fun time. Thanks, Jeffry!

My Letter to Eric

2010-08-28T17:57:00.000-07:00

A fair warning: this is not a feel-good post, so do not read if you aren't looking for tragedy.

On Monday, the 2nd of August, I got a phone call from one of my best friends, Jason Sherman, saying that his brother (and one of my best friend's) Eric would be refusing treatment for his leukemia. If you've ever wondered what it might feel like if someone removed a thread of your life force from your body, that just crushed the breath straight out of your chest, I'm sure it felt something like that phone call.

Two days later, I was granted permission to see Eric in his hospital room, the two of us essentially knowing that we were saying goodbye to each other. It was also, as it turned out, the last day Eric would be able to hold logical conversation and speech as the painkillers took their effect throughout his body. On that day, I got to tell Eric how much he meant to me through a letter I had written the night before. I feel like it wouldn't be right if I didn't let others know how much he meant to me. That is why I am going to post the letter that I read aloud to Eric that afternoon. It is as follows:

8/3/10

10:45pm

Dear Eric,

The first time we met was at Taylor Sakaratt's place. I even remember the night before we met: my mom had locked my board in the trunk of her BMW because I refused to stop wearing-what else? my infamous Batman painters hat. I almost didn't make it to that session that beautiful Saturday afternoon (I believe it was in April). Luckily, I managed to smooth things over with my mom and got my board. Thank God I did because that afternoon, I met you.

Taylor and I played S-K-A-T-E while we waited for his "dope friend from the village," to show up. He introduced me to you, an afro-wielding skater from Massachusetts with an infectious laugh and a genuinely friendly and welcoming personality. I haven't really seen that in any person I've met in the city since (barring, of course, Corey and Jason); as I write this now, it only makes perfect sense that you aren't from New York!

The three of us skated all across downtown and midtown that afternoon, and I remember being supremely impressed by the amount of pop you had with all of your tricks (perhaps it was hidden inside your 'fro). As Taylor and Corey swore and smoked and talked to the "moldy bitches," as they preferred to be called, you just skated and laughed. That's how I knew you were totally different from the rest of the skateboard scene in New York City, as little as I knew about it then. I'm sure we ate Wendy's that afternoon, where we traded laughs and numbers and found out about our common interests.

You know what happened next: friendships can change and alter and for one reason or another, I fell out of contact with Taylor, Corey, Mark, Kevin, and the rest of the Moldy crew. But I never fell out with you. We remained friends and, even if we couldn't skate, we would just hang out at your place. My friendship with you opened the door for so many other relationships and friendships like your brothers, your folks, your grandparents (your family became my second family), as well as Damon, Calder, Nabi, Esteban, and so many others. If in life, you can pick your battles and you can pick your friends, I know I made the best decision in having you be my best friend.

I remember sitting in my room on a disgustingly humid summer afternoon the day I got the phone call from Jason. I wouldn't wish that pain on my worst enemies. I came out to visit you and I was so happy to find that despite a terrible situation, you were the same old Eric. There was less hair of course, but your spirit was unscathed. I'm so happy that we got in those bits of skate sessions and birthday barbecues and the like. As messed up as it is, tragedy often brings people and family together, and we all worked as a family to raise you up. That's how much we all love you, Eric. You are everyone's son. You are everyone's brother. You are everyone's best friend.

At about the halfway mark into my senior year of high school, I was forced to make "a decision" about where I was going to attend college, if you can even call it that. For me it was a no-brainer: New York all the way. Even if CUNY Baruch lacked the traditional college experience everyone raves about, it made no difference to me. I would have my Brooklyn Banks, my Fed-Ex buildings, my pyramid ledges... I'd have my friends like you and Jason. What I was "giving up" in keg stands and frat parties (totally overrated in my opinion) I was more than making up for in real, worthwhile friendships and experiences. I might have ended up a finance major in Michigan, or an accounting major in Florida, or a law student out West, but I am a writing major in New York, Eric, because of you. All of the times you and I have shared together since we were in high school, whether we were skating or just goofing around, gave me ideas and thoughts that needed- that still need- to be translated out to written words. And they will be.

Without you- or perhaps without snatching my board out of mom's BMW- I would not end up in Jersey City. I wouldn't be working (happily) at a hair salon writing freelance journalism on the side. I wouldn't be meeting the people I'm meeting (and that includes the women too). I wouldn't be developing the person that I am developing. I'd have eyes that would have seen far-different things, and I swear the things they'd have seen would not have been as remarkable and extraordinary as the things they have indeed captured. And that is thanks to you.

Eric: You are the pivotal reason I am me and will always be me, and as abstract as that may sound, I know there are others who understand exactly what I mean. It bares repeating: thank God I got my board out of my mom's BMW, the fraction of a spark, the infinitesimal catalyst that would make us friends and would change my life.

With certainty, friendship is one of those bizarre, beautiful things that is forever. It cannot be stopped, nor can it expire by the strict and unyielding time restraints of life. Friendship is undying. No matter the situation or circumstance, our friendship will always remain, and the light of our greatest, most fun and thrilling times will always outshine life's darkest moments, helping to guide us. In some sense, we ourselves become eternal through the lives of others. And you will always be here and be incredible through me and through others.

Thank you for everything you've ever done for me, which is so much more than anyone can comprehend. Thank you for every word you ever said to me, for never a harsh word was uttered by you. For encouraging everyone to take it easy and to be themselves; as you perfectly said it, "You should never have to explain yourself to anyone." Thank you for always having my back, and for always doing the right thing by friends. Thank you for being you.

Thank you.

Thank you!

I love you.

Now and forever your best friend,

Dave.

And then I kissed him on his bald head.

That night, I saw the Chameleons UK play, one of my all time favorite bands. OK, so it was just Mark Burgess singing with a backup band, but it was still absolutely incredible. See that? That's me. I was as close to Mark as I could be without being on the stage. I was so moved by the performance that I got Mark's words from the song "Second Skin" tattooed onto my ribs. I found that I could relate it to my situation with my friend, and so the two hours of pain I underwent is a tribute to Eric. The words read:

I realize a miracle is due

I dedicate this melody to you

But is this the stuff dreams

are made of?

If this is the stuff dreams

are made of

No wonder I feel like I'm

Floating on air

Eric passed away the following Sunday and was burried (with a massive service attendance) on Tuesday. As horrible as it is to say goodbye to a friend, I am so honored that I got to spend part of my life with such an incredible person. And I know how lucky I am that I got to say goodbye to him.

He is here with me and anyone who ever knew him.

Shine on, Ricky.

My Summer

2010-08-28T17:51:00.001-07:00

Hello All,

I realize that I haven't posted a whole lot this summer. In fact I barely posted at all. My summer was, to be honest, not that great. I turned 21 (see below), I worked a crummy job at 101.9 in the promotions department, I got to see a few good shows (including the Dwarves, The Booze, and the Biters), I played a bunch more fun shows, my best friend died, I got a few more tattoos and I went to Iowa (and hung out with my fiancee, Mayim). Then I started school again.

That's pretty much it.

I am now going to post some of what went down over the past few weeks/months.

-Dave.

My 21st BirthDave

2010-06-20T09:57:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone! I am officially 21 years old, if you can believe that.

For me, this new birthday is more symbolic than practical, seeing

as I've been in bars for such a while now. Still, it was one of the

best birthdays ever. Let's see what I did!

I decided to share a DJ set with Lucha DJ Pat, Jersey

City's nicest human being. Thanks for letting me get

in on this, Pat! This was Wednesday night, I turned 21

at midnight.

Nick Fierro spent the night behind bars.

"Think I'm just gonna play songs off my iPod? C'mon, son!

Everyone knows that you ain't a DJ 'less you spin real wax."

The bar was starting to fill out like a 12 year old girl.

Calder and Owen rolled through. Best dudes to skate

with.

The hour of legalization was upon me.

Birthday love.

The lovely Gynnene Visconti or however the hell you

spell her name.

Ed!

Bro love.

Pat with the truly infamous DJ Bill.

Ron DMC.

Bobby!

Angelo and Panch.

Angelo is probably one of the few dudes I respect who

rides fixed gear bicycles.

Panch is the reason Jersey is so diry. Besties

for life.

Giggles and shenanigans.

The clock had struck midnight, and with a Cape Canaveral

countdown, the entire bar celebrated my birthday. I wasn't

drinking at all prior to midnight, because I wanted to make

it legal for the first time in my life. After midnight, things

really kicked into gear and I was offered drinks by all the

homies, even though I was able to drink for free anyway from

sharing the DJ set with Pat. Oh well!

Like a silk tornado, Spencer blew into Jersey City

flawlessly.

He brought me the best birthday card ever.

Resumed my DJ duties with The Crossing by Big Country.

I had such a blast doing this, I can't believe people

get paid to basically play their music and drink. I really

hope I can get a weekly gig in JC DJing by this time next

year.

Peace to all.

When I turned 20, the first beer I had was a Miller High

Life. When I turned 21, the first beer I had was a Miller

High Life. It's the Champagne of Beers!

Here's the proof. My first legal beer cap.

Zombies!

No, really. Zombies.

Getting late, getting weird.

Zac came through to wish me well! Thanks, Zac.

Calder had to show some muscle.

Nick says closing time! You don't have to

go home but you can't stay here.

But we did go home. A little while back, my friend, Luis,

drew up this contract with Satan as part of a project for

his book making class. Now that I was 21 I was ready to

take on the world! But I thought I might need a little help.

Don't take this next part too seriously, folks.

Yay! All done.

Here come the 4,000 Facebook Happy Birthdays, mostly

from people that I don't know.

Calder and Owen wanted more alcohol. We went to the

Barge Inn, but they were closed. On the way back, we stopped

in back at Lucky 7s where apparently, someone thought it

would be a good idea to kick the window in. Weak.

The three of us went to 24-7 Deli where we ran into my

friend and local pretty girl Candice! We then spent an

hour goofing off outside the deli. That seems to be a running

theme with this blog.

The neon lights are bright on birthdays.

Fixed gear bikes are scary and hard to stop. That's one

of the reasons why I don't like them.

We then all took turns taking photos with the guy at the

deli. Since this was taken, he has asked me for copies

several times.

After this, Calder, Candice, and Owen went back to my

place for some Jameson over conversation. I went to bed

at 4:30.

Maybe I shouldn't say I went to bed, but rather took a

brief power nap. I got up at 9:00 the next morning, wanting

to make the most of my birthday. What a treat! Dora Novak

drove in from Des Moines to visit us all and she stopped by

my place. Calder, as you can see, was still very tired.

Gay ballet photo.

Spencer and Dora left and Calder and I

went to skate at the rink.

Calder came up on a new shirt at JCTC, then bounced.

I came in for something else completely...

Got work done, son! Thanks again, Chuck.

Headed over to Balance to see my other family.

Well there's the sneak peek at the new piece.

Carla hooked it up with some Jameson. Thanks,

sugar mama love.

The best place I've ever been in employed.

Trekked over to the city to go gallery hopping for free

drinks with a cornucopia of babes.

Chiara's got such a pretty smile, no?

The first gallery was creepy and awesome. One guy

just put up pictures of coffins. Note the glasses on the floor.

This dude had some installation of some torn-up cyborg.

It was some real Sky-Net shit.

It looked way... way too real.

"Believe your drank gon' get drunk up."

More homies arrived. Safe to say that I got my fair share

of Spencer this birthday.

Naked chicks with snakes are cool.

At the last gallery, I saw a bunch of pieces by Hiroshi

Senju. I used to babysit his kids! That was such a trip. I

wanted to say hey but he already left.

Closed out the evening by hanging out with my brothers

and Caycee Black and Patrick South.

Mike showed up and iced Kurt and me. This was my

first icing, so it's kind of appropriate that it happened on

my 21st. I get that you look stupid and that Smirnoff is a

really sweet tasting pussy drink, but I don't understand

the fad beyond that. I got a bad stomach cramp. Luckily,

we had the remedy for that...

BOOYAH!

Psyched Mike.

We ate so many burgers and had a marathon of watching

Steve Brule's new show. Check it Out. It was such a perfect

way to conclude such a perfect day.

When I turn 22, I hope you will all join me. I'll probably

drink a 22 of Miller High Life.

Ah, but wait! There's more! The party doesn't stop until

this Saturday, June 26th for a Wyldlife show at Lit Lounge

and birthday celebration. Check the flyer below and I hope

to see you all there!

Best Texts Ever

2010-06-15T15:56:00.000-07:00

I thought this guy had the wrong number the first time he called me and said, "Jeff! It's JT." I mean, he was at a bar or something or somewhere crowded. I told him he had the wrong number and he said to someone in the background, "Yo, this isn't Jeff." Eventually I just hung up.

That was on Saturday night. We then started the best text conversation over the past few days that I have ever had.

Received Saturday, June 12. 10:31pm
Jeff jaz, its cousin jt, where u at? We got Ur food

Sent Saturday, June 12 10:31 pm
Yo this is Dave. I dunno who this is but I'll take the food.

Received Sunday, June 13 2:46 am
Jazzy jeff its cousin mostyle where you at we got yr food

Sent Sunday June 13 11:28 am
Yo leave the food on the corner of First Street and Newark

__________________________________________________________________

Received Monday, June 14 6:51 pm
DUPLICATE MESSAGE: Jazzy jeff its cousin mostyle where you at we got yr food

Sent Monday, June 14 6:52 am
Yo what up boss. Can u stash the food for me?

Received Monday, June 14 7:02 pm
Jazzy just scarfed down yr collared greens i may be able to save you a thigh

Sent Monday, June 14 7:03 pm
Yeah. Boneless i hope. Nah mean?!

Received Monday, June 14 7:07 pm
Yeah it is but ashy larry just sucked all the juices off

Sent Monday, June 14 7:09 pm
Yo amscray the biscuits to 3rd and monmouth and tell them large marge sent you.

Received Monday, June 14 7:13
I love me some large marge

This and That

2010-06-08T08:12:00.000-07:00

Here are a bunch of random photos I collected over the weekend.

I was drinking in Welcome to the Johnsons when the

Stumblebum Brass Band walked in and gave us all a

three song set.

Like the name implies, they are a bummy brass band that

comes into bars, plays awesome punk songs (this singer

also ripped at trumpet), and asks for some money. Their

live show is better than most.

Here he jumped up on the bar and sang

a catchy number called, "I Want to Fuck You

in the Ass."

Friday night was Spencer's art opening at Balance. Here

he is, dressed to ill.

My lovely boss, Carla Anderson.

Sasha, totally fanning out.

Cigarettes and tortilla chips.

Gang's all here!

Ephiram and Elliot were really, uhh, feeling the artwork

Later on, Elliot got into a fight with the lady at Dunkin

Donuts after she wouldn't give him change.

All's well that's Manuel.

Sam looking his most Kip Berman-esque.

I love this photo because it looks like Carla is so angry

at this old lady for examining her gin and tonic.

Augie and a very sweaty Jimbo from the awesome

Radio Exiles. They rocked 58 Gallery that night.

Best of Luck

2010-06-03T09:42:00.000-07:00

This is just a little story for you all on this disgustingly

hot Thursdave afternoon. I was sitting on my roof

drinking coffee and having a smoke with some extreme

feelings of self worthlessness. Paul Westerberg was on my

headphones while I texted my brother to see if he wanted

to come over tonight to hang out. Then a bird shit on my leg.

Best yet, I don't have any other pants to change into, so I have

to walk around like this for the rest of the day.

The guy who said that it's good luck when a bird craps on you

was just trying to make up for his own humility.

MEGA POST! Part 3: Party Expo Disaster Show

2010-06-02T17:23:00.000-07:00

OK, so I finally finished school by this point,

although I still had a microeconomics final

by the time Spencer's party rolled around.

I got home. Studied my ass off for three days

straight and...

...I failed! First test I ever failed in college and

it was a final exam! Luckily, I was still above the

mean and median score, and so the curve was big

enough to get me a B+ in the course. BUT WHO

CARES ABOUT GRADES, ANYWAY?

After the exam, I hit summer running doing a

few shooting gigs for Japanese handbags and

Tokyo cafes (apparently I'm really big in Japan).

But what I was really looking forward to was

the Street Boners book release party at Party

Expo in Brooklyn. Street Boners is Gavin Mcinne's

brain child, as were the Do's and Don'ts from Vice

Magazine, which he started and left.

For some reason, even though his book makes fun

of these hipster squares, millions of them flock to

his party and worship his every word! It's like a cow

bowing down to Ronald McDonald. Anyway Wyldlife

was invited to open up for the hilarious Das Racist.

We knew there'd be really hot skinny chicks,

we were in! But the night turned out a bit differently.

I don't want to beat a dead horse, considering

Igor from Driven by Boredom already covered

the event (the photos are

of way better quality as well). Basically, the cops

showed up 3 songs into our set, Das Racist didn't

show up, none of us got laid, and our 45 EPs were

given out in 45 seconds to kids who just wanted

more, more, more. Next time, kids. I promise.

Gavin Mcinnes warms up the crowd with a sampling

of his book. Even though he is extremely terrifying to

meet, I gotta say, he was a pretty nice guy to me.

The massive crowd was stoked.

Awaiting Wyldlife...

You know the book is shocking when the chick on the right

is just simply appalled.

No Wyldlife photos of us playing. I'm not stealing them

and again, if you really care, you should check out Driven

By Boredom. The cops busted in and I told the crowd we

had free EPs. It was as if I had told a bunch of zombies

that I had free fresh brains.

I then told the crowd to make a zombie face as a matter

of fact, which is why you have some zombie hand

gestures here.

MEGA POST! Part 2: Spencer Turns 21

2010-06-02T17:07:00.000-07:00

After many, last minute and panicked phone

calls, Spencer finally secured himself an apartment

in Harlem with fellow band member, Sam, and fellow

awesome dudes Louise and Manuel. To celebrate both

the 21st anniversary of Spencer's birth and the warming

in of a new apartment, the boys threw a party. I was in

attendance.

These guys were all drinking. Spencer can now drink too.

Cool.

Attractive people gather on New York City roofs to express

feelings of how great it is to be young and artistic and

to rejoice for Spencer's birthday.

The eyes...

This may be the coolest photo ever taken. The smoke is

so relevant to Elliot's interests.

Filmmaker and friend Elliot returned the photo favor.

Ephiram, the strongest man in the world,

also provided coverage of the event.

Ladies and gentleman, Spencer Alexander. I imagine the

sound he was making was like someone who got the wind

knocked out of him. But he's so happy.

No facial changes for Spencer

between this photo...

...and this photo.
Spencer threw his guts up that night, which

I think is the rule when you turn 21 right? I

wouldn't know, I'm still just a baby.

MEGA POST! Part 1: Crashing in Jersey

2010-06-02T16:50:00.000-07:00

Party people in the house say yeahhhh!!!

(Yeahhhhhh!!!)

If you were wondering why the hell I

hadn't put up photos in so long, the answer

is because I lost the USB cable. But I bought a

new card reader today, so not only can I post

up all the exciting things that have gone on in the

past few weeks, but I can start bringing my

camera out even more for new ThursDaves!

Yay!

Here are a few photos from a couple weeks ago

when Russ and Spencer freeloaded on my couch

for what seemed like forever! Just kidding. They're

good house guests.

The night these next 3 were taken, Wyldlife had just

played a show at Lit Lounge, which was a boatload of

fun. For some reason, I was really really wired and

excited, and so the next thing we know, the band and

our friends were at St. Jerome's getting hammered

at a KISS themed party. What more do you need?

We were also treated to free pizza because our beautiful

friend, Chiara, spoke that divine language that is

Italian to the shop owner. Sam slept over at some dudes

house (no homo) while the three of us went back to

Jersey City. By the time we crawled out of the PATH,

it was 6:15 in the morning and the sun was fully up.

Everything was hilarious and I was certain the three

of us had become insane.

Observe the photos of us

just as we touched back into my apartment:

Spencer, looking like an escaped convict.

Russ, looking like a former asylum inmate.

Myself, looking like a struggling drug addict on my way

to the big house. HOORAY FOR SLEEP!

The dudes stayed over for a few days living off of ramen

noodles, Chef Boyardee, and water. We had lots of fun

scoping out some Jersey City night life. I will miss them

and they are both welcome back into my place anytime.

As a token of appreciation, Spencer drew me my very

own portrait from this watercolor like ink. I was so

pleased. If he were my court artist, I would never

behead him.

I will have this forever. If you like this art,

you should check out Spencil's first ever

exhibition at Balance Salon this Friday

night at 7pm! 18 Erie Street. I'll be there,

and not just because I'm working!

Last Laugh, Punk.

2010-05-30T00:59:00.001-07:00

The following was written at 3:25 in the morning on Sunday, May 30th 2010. The "story," if you can even call it that, took place in 10 seconds. It felt good, which is why I'm sharing it with all of you.

As a journalism major, I assure you, everything is accurate to the best of my knowledge. Details, as far as I know, are not exaggerated. Enjoy.

Forward: I had just spent about 2 hours and 50 bucks on drinks at St. Jerome's in the lower east side, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite bars. I met up with Sam, Spencer, Manuel, Louise, Nick, and Nick's friend for many bottles of Budweiser (my wallet is now just starting to feel the massive weight loss). I worked a whole day at a shoot to promote, of all things, a Japanese coffee shop where, in true poser fashion, I had to stand around SoHo with my skateboard. Total herb status, but there's not much I wouldn't do for a hundred bucks. I felt like I deserved a $4.00 beer or ten.

Anyway, my best friends had to go back to their apartment in Harlem for the evening, leaving me to the rest of the wolves in the LES. Keep in mind, I'm nothing but a Jersey City bunny rabbit. Shortly thereafter, I received a text from a Turkish cutie with whom I tried to meet up saying she's tired from working all day and blah blah blah.

Woe. Is. Me. At least I got one free drink just for wearing a Slayer tee shirt my mommy got me when I was four. (Thanks mom!)

Downing my last beer I can consume without committing theft, I walked out into the balmy Spring night. By the time I got to Houston, all I wanted was to be in my shaky JC bed. I have the Exploding Hearts on my iPod as I cut west to the Port Authority Trans Hudson when a still-lit cigarette butt skids right towards my tattered, dirty, Sperry Top Siders. Like a baby bird following mama bird, another cigarette flies over my left shoulder landing just to the left of my leg.

I removed my headphones only to hear the cackling of a crowd in their late twenties. I swivel my neck and their are seven people wearing their bestest Hoboken/Financial district Saturday evening leisure wear (Four dudes and three chicks: Isn't it always the case that this group has a heftier dead weight tag-along?) Without batting an eye, I turn around as one gentlemen in a painted-on black tee shirt assures me, "I was just joking around, bro. It was just a joke."

To which I said, "Oh, you were just joking around?" And then I wound up...

And spit right in his face.

The last thing I saw before I turned around and proceeded to my train was something like a 12 year old victim on Slime Time Live or Super Sloppy Family Double Dare. Eyes closed and brows raised, miserable, but knowing that an audience of many had just witnessed his defeat. Worst still, the audience was a group of his friends saying, in unison, "Ohhhhhhhh..."

Knowing he wouldn't and couldn't do anything, I walked back to my train listening to one of my favorite records, Shattered.

My legs moved sans pause on that train, and all I wished was that my local dive's last call was at 4 and not 3.

100 Things That Are Ugly/Things That I Don't Like

2010-05-18T12:32:00.000-07:00

I wrote this because I feel like there's something therapeutic about telling people a bunch of crap that I hate. Maybe I can better myself eventually and learn to let it go. Don't worry, I wrote the opposite list as well. I'll put it up later this week. Until then, here's this:

1. My brother's car. It's a great car, but it's ugly. Least it's black.

2. The phlegm I hack up every morning.

3. Lady Gaga.

4. My feet.

5. The taste of drugs.

6. Baruch College's Vertical Campus.

7. The bugs that live in mom's shower.

8. Christian Rock.

9. While we're at it, organized religion.

10. Self-inflicted cigarette burns.

11. The foam at the bottom of my bottle.

12. My crooked right wrist.

13. The Osiris D3.

14. My dad's bald spot and what it's going to mean for me.

15. The bar downstairs from me that vibrates my bed with its house music.

16. My mishapen, discolored left big toe.

17. Moms who think they're cool.

18. My bleeding gums.

19. Vicious dogs.

20. Back-stabbers.

21. Cops.

22. Sunburns, which I always get.

23. Safety equipment.

24. Sunday morning anxiety.

25. Eye boogers.

26. The cracking noise my ankles make with every step.

27. Swelbows.

28. The time I got chlamydia was pretty ugly.

29. UFO pants.

30. Every girl I ever loved one year later.

31. Decaf coffee. What gives?

32. My English professor.

33. The sandpaper texture on my thumbs.

34. Cockroaches.

35. 80 cent margarine purchased at...

36. ...C-Town grocery stores.

37. When tattoos fade from black to green.

38. Scars on my legs.

39. The bus I wrote this list in.

40. Times when I lack a spine.

41. Losing scratch off tickets collecting on my sidewalk.

42. Young cynicism (mine).

43. Rejection.

44. Crack addicts' teeth.

45. Port Authority Trans Hudson: everything about it.

46. Hard-boiled eggs.

47. My best friend's Leukemia.

48. Mel Gibson's bigotry.

49. High Fives don't look cool.

50. My 360 flips.

51. The Dept. of Motor Vehicles.

52. Green, NYC cocktail puddles.

53. Muscle magazines.

54. When Ambien doesn't work.

55. Ronson Lambert's style.

56. The fact that I genuinely care about this.

57. Caldors department stores. Glad they're dead.

58. Pushing mongo, which I used to do for the first 2-3 years of skating.

59. The time Mike dropped a telephone on my eye and it swelled up black.

60. My complete indifference to the homeless.

61. The way some men treat their women.

62. The way some women treat their men.

63. Having a continent of separation between you and the ones that matter.

64. Pot-induced anxiety attacks.

65. Post-ecstasy fevers.

66. John Rocker. Remember that dude?

67. The day when Christmas and birthdays become just another day on the calender.

68. Nazis.

69. Zombies.

70. Politics.

71. The mole on my neck.

72. My obvious vanity.

73. My starvation for affection.

74. Wet socks/wet shoes.

75. Hands free cell phone conversations.

76. The smell of uncooked bacon at Paradise Deli. Fuck those guys.

77. Knowing that the people making my sandwich in Subway are making fun of my in Indian and not being able to do anything about it.

78. People who don't tip the shampoo boy.

79. MTVs Teen Mom.

80. Pornography models from 1990-the present.

81. Blood stains in my bed sheets.

82. The scum-stache I have at this time of writing.

83. The shoes my mom bought me and insists that I should love.

84. Kanye West sunglasses.

85. My yellow teeth and bright white legs.

86. The arrogant prick in my Black Studies class.

87. Summer roadkill.

88. Waking up alone. Fearing I'll die alone.

89. Wine hangovers.

90. The penis that some kid at Culture Shock drew on my leather jacket.

91. The Dave Matthews Band and the Counting Crows. Burn in hell.

92. Hot Topic and mall skate shops.

93. White people with dreadlocks.

94. Black people with blonde hair (except Rodman).

95. Women in baseball caps.

96. My old neighbor, Mrs. Biederman, who threatened to call the cops at every band practice. Her entire family is a joke.

97. Turtleneck sweaters.

98. Turkeys.

99. Watching all my friends leave school weeks before I even have finals.

100. Walking outside the subway station with 200 sleepy zombies every morning.

The Future Man I Wish Not To Be

2010-05-13T09:25:00.000-07:00

"The Future Man I Wish Not to Be"

The future man I wish not to be

Has carved real estate in my present sanity

He has long retired his jackets of denim and leather

And wears low thread count suits (regardless of weather).

Charisma gone to nought he lives uninspired

With a stuffed wallet of fast food coupons long gone expired

Gone are the days when he commanded the stages

And the various affairs with women of varying ages.

And the lines 'round his brow jest as if to say:

Mom said to quit smoking, you should have obeyed.

But he bows to his coffee and the breath of nicotine

Another swirl in a screw

In a cog

In a rod

Of a spoke

In a wheel

In a chamber of wheels

In a chamber

Of chambers...

But he enters the workplace, lowers his head with a nod

Collects his directions, his first words: Yes, boss.

And when the data's collected and the numbers are crunched

He sits down in the cafe for his tuna fish lunch

Observing the girls kiss cheeks, lower their coffees and say "Ciao!"

He thinks, "She looked like her, too. Wonder where she is now."

Then it's back up the stairs to finish his work

Boss says: Tomorrow, bright and early.

His second words: Yes, sir.

And he lurches to get to his cluttered studio

Five floors up and seven more to go

And looking out the dusty and caged hall window

Thinks how inviting the pavement looks down below.

He unlocks the door, the magazines litter the floor

With the torn lottery tickets he bought at the store

Next to the refrigerator, his tiny mattress stretches for miles

And he lays down at six thirty and closes his eyes.

But now me in my present, I shake off the thought

And rehearse my lyrics on the train that I've caught

Because I've a show downtown and I'll see you in the crowd

And when done, rush to you like the smog to the clouds.

And we'll hug and we'll kiss and try to hold on to the night

And I'll whisper,

"Thanks for coming, darling. Now please pass me a light."

Rough Sex

2010-05-10T11:16:00.001-07:00

She made me like it.

My Other Family

2010-04-21T11:40:00.001-07:00

We went to Little Stevie's recording studio in Union,

New Jersey for a live recording session with our new

best friend, Rich Russo from 101.9 RXP. Wyldlife is

becoming the reason for my existence, and I wouldn't

have it any other way.

"Switchblade" Sam on the thing that goes "Weeeeoooww

Weeoooww widdly-widdly weeeooooowww!"

Ray Gunz on the thing that goes "Buh-Buh buh buh buh

buddly buh buh!"

Last but certainly not least, Rabid Russ on the thing that

goes "Crash! Boom! Boo cao! ssshhhhHHHSHHHH

BANG!"

Myself with the future roadie of the Wyldlife Foundation,

Kenny AKA the coolest motherfucker alive.

Dude, You're Blowing It

2010-04-07T08:24:00.000-07:00

Sup guys? Sorry I haven't posted in so long. Things have been getting kinda crazy at school, and a lot of my blogging activity has been taken up by this journalism project I've been working on. It's going to be sick once it's all complete, and is focused around the skateboarding scene in Jersey City. Good shit to come.

Let's see. Since the last time I posted, I have been playing numerous shows with Wyldlife including once sold out show at Webster Hall. That got us a spot on Rich Russo's Anything Anything show, which is the best radio program on the East Coast. We're also doing a taping for this music website and it is somehow related to Steve Van Zandt. All this juggled with some shows scattered around NYC and a forthcoming Wyldlife EP.

It's finally warm out (perhaps it's already too warm out) and so I'm skating a lot and sweating even more. That comes with the territory I suppose. Hoping to get the homies together to skate more again, if only this goddamn school would end. I've also gotten Wanda the Honda out of storage so I've been riding that beast around town a bit.

Good things are coming, it's just a lot of juggling between different projects. Please excuse my lack of posting. Until the next time, pump up some Nick Cave.

-Dave.

Wyldlife strikes Jeresy City Once Again

2010-03-08T10:06:00.000-08:00

Wyldlife had a show last weekend at 58 Gallery. The

gang assembled at my place before everything got started.

From left to right: "Rusty" Russ Barnett, Myself, Spencer

Alexander A.K.A. Ray Guns, and "Switchblade" Sam Allen.

Can't play on an empty stomach. We caught a trip to

Hollywood Fried Chicken.

Russ was hyped on his meal...

...Was hyped on his meal.

Beers!

The always necessary silly shot.

After going to the marvelous Lucky 7s bar, Russ ducked

out to have sex with his girlfriend (understandably so)

and so the rest of us went to 24/7 deli. Here, I blogged a

photo of me blogging a photo of me, who was blogging a

photo of me blogging a photo of me...

Dreams do come true.

I guess you could say that we're on a roll!

Oh it's Such a Perfect Day

2010-03-04T21:55:00.000-08:00

Remember that episode of Hey Arnold where he plans his

awesome day out (activities included waking up super

early and watching cartoons with the ridiculously sugary

cereal and biking down the steepest hill in the city)? Well,

about a week ago, when I saw my micro-economics test

approaching, I vowed to myself that once school ended at

noon, I was gonna make it a great day. And unlike Arnold,

my day went according to plan and truly was flawless.

Let's have a recap:

Met up with my comrade Calder Kollmorgen after what

I believe was a successful test. We had a great skate at the

rink where homie got his tre flips back and helped me to

learn 360 shoves (Tompkins' hottest new trick).

Afterward, I had to get some food in me for my tattoo

appointment. I was psyched to finally be getting Spencer

Alexander's art on me. For those who don't know, Spencer

is the bassist in Wyldlife and one of my closest friends.

Calder was juiced to get his sandwich. Thanks, 24/7 deli.

I was saving for this expenditure for a month or so now.

The tattoo, not the sandwich.

Arrived with our meals at the wonderful JC Tattoo shop

in beautiful downtown Jersey City!

While we ate, Calder pumped me up by showing me his

first piece done some time ago: the tribute to the

Millenium Falcoln (Hans Solo won that shit fair

and square).

His newest addition is a Boba Fett helmet in the Mexican

skull style.

Getting settled, remaining feral.

Euphoria sweeps over.

Ma, you did a great job of raising your boy, so please,

dry your eyes.

Chuck Daly, hard at work.

Thanks, Chuck! I was thoroughly hyped. Chuck does

great work so if you're in the area, get to him or Adam

(also excellent with the ink and needle).

Another satisfied customer.

Shouts to Spencer Alexander, AKA Ray Guns for his

brilliant artwork. Couldn't be more happy to be

down for life, homie!

After another brief skate session and a free haircut at my

place of work, it was party time back at the crib.

Of course, all the homies were in attendance! From left

to right: John Rowley, Calder Kollmorgen (call MORE-gan)

Owen Miller, and Cliff Tomcyzk (TOM-check).

Brewed down, bro'd out, and went to the bar. A few drinks

later it was time for a nice meal and a viewing of Plan B's

Questionable with John.

All in all it was a perfect day. I'm glad I spent it with you.

P.S. Wyldlife is playing tomorrow night, March 5th, at

9:15pm with special guest opening, Big E. 58 Coles St.

at the infamous 58 Gallery. BE THERE!

Keep Dreaming, Kid

2010-03-04T04:24:00.000-08:00

Wyldlife played last Saturday at the ramp. It was an epic

show and our good friends, Silver Bullet, joined us on the

bill. I kinda want to kick myself for not bringing my

camera. I'm making a promise to myself and to all of you

that I will bring it to the 58 Gallery show this Friday.

Anyways, this is the morning after. It turned into

a bit of a tent city at my place, and I snagged this photo

before everyone was up. That's not creepy, right?

Get a room! Nah, only joking.

Young Americans and Teenage Wildlife

2010-02-23T04:12:00.000-08:00

Hopped in to Lucky's for their David Bowie tribute night

Lotta Ziggy Stardusts and Lady Grinning Souls in
attendance. Johnny super creeping into the shot.

The prettiest star for the drive in Saturday. What do you

think, too many puns?

Hey! Remember the drunk accordion player from
Thomas Francis Takes His Chances?

Panamanian devil, Jose "Felix" and his lovely girlfriend,
Princess Becky.

Goodness! Looks like they need some alone time.

Someone oughta tell John... (NOTE: Nicotine patch)

Growlin' Prowlin' Rowley, up to his old tricks.

It's more like Paul Stanley, but how can you talk
rock and roll semantics if you're too timid to speak?

These girls really went all out.

I mean really went all out.

John and a girl with whom he has no chance.

Goth dork (I have a bad habit of borrowing people's
eyeglasses and trying them on. I should really quit it.
Sorry, John).

Viva la Bowie!

Just from her face, I can kinda see where this went.

Lonesome cowboy Bill, not so lonesome.

John was thoroughly over the night. He later grabbed
some glasses and threw them out our window to prove
Newtonian physics exists.

Owls + balloons=punk rock.

Heart skulls + stars=rock=the way to my love.

EDITOR'S NOTE: I later found out this was the Alkaline

Trio logo. Mannnnn...

Ended the night by going back to these fine ladies' home
to shoot BB guns at four in the morning indoors.

Odds and Ends

2010-02-09T18:43:00.001-08:00

What more needs to be said?

Pleasant dreams, sweet prince.

He's in Fashion

2010-02-03T20:12:00.001-08:00

By this point, you should get that when I put up a

photo, chances are I'm being a dickhead with the

commentary. This time around, it's my turn.

A month ago, I had the opportunity to shoot some

photos for a Japanese clothing catalog with my friend

Hissa Igarashi (EE-sah ee-gah-RAH-shee). He's an

excellent photographer. For a hundred bucks, a free

lunch and a boatload of beers I'd damn-near pogo-stick

through the Holland Tunnel, but shit, all I had to do was

get some photos taken of me. And me...well...when the

world comes to an end, I'll be making sure my hair looks

good. Of course I was in.

The shirtless dude is Derek. He plays in an awesome

band called Soren Well. The chick pretending to play

the Fender Jaguar guitar was a total babe who was the

object of our affection the entire afternoon.

Looks like they lubed up Derek's chest with I Can't

Believe It's Not Butter spray. If that sounds gay, it's

because it is.

So here, we have Derek (top), Kevin (right in plaid) and

Jason (bottom in stripes), all of who are in Soren Well,

tripple dry-humping this babe as I look on with tear-strewn

eyes and pray she rolls over a tiny bit to her left. But I

got a ripped Ramones tee shirt, and vintage=cool.

You don't know shit about fashion, do you?

This was my first encounter with a bass guitar, pretty

much, but I still say the fake song we came up with was

rad. If you enlarge the photo, you can see the smirk on

my face because the situation is so ridiculous. How often

do you get to put a guitar-playing mouser babe wrapping

her legs around your head, and when will I realize that

sunglasses inside get you laid?

Derek regained control of the bass situation, but I started

singing on the mic (top left corner). I still remember what

I was belting the entire time: "Do you know where you

slept?/All your promises unkept/Oh no you just don't know/

Honey, you gotta go." I swear it sounded cool then, -sigh.-

Combat boots? Plaid? Graffiti in Greenpoint?

You oughta just delete your profile altogether,

because Jason's myspace photo is gonna rape yours

right outta the trauma center.

And remember, sunglasses are only for indoors.

Even lunch time was a fashion shoot, which was just fine.

I'd like to think I look cool like Paul Westerberg here,

but it is more likely that, to borrow from Stiv Bators,

"I've been caught with the meat in my mouth."

This looks like a movie poster

for a film I would call King Kong Leather,

but then I just think about how cool of a

metal band that would be.

Cigarettes, check. Tiny bicycle, check.

Converse, che- oh! What's this? Ed

Hardy edition cons?! As per usual, I

managed to blow it.

This is gonna be the promo photos for our future band,

The Valentine Sunsets. Look for our EP, Louder than

Tears, coming never.

Daisies

2010-01-27T08:53:00.000-08:00

Daisies

The day we met, I was wearing black. Of course I wore black back then more often then I do now. I still wear black. But back then it was just black. Boots, jeans, shirt, jacket. Done. Makes dressing easier, that’s for sure, but it’s not really the kind of attire you would expect someone to wear at a flower shop. And that is where I work.

Alexander’s Flowers is on Newark Avenue in Jersey City. It’s a busy street. There’s crime, sure, but in the daytime it’s pretty uh... well, yeah. It’s pretty. You get a good feeling like something groovy is going on here. Some sort of invisible, positive force that keeps most people in good spirits. The women here strut like runway models on sidewalks turned catwalks with bouquets of fried chicken wrappers strewn about. To me, they’re just clones, though. It's not really my bag. Not my scene. Neon leggings. Fedoras. Faded tees from the 90's. They're all gorgeous and the worst thing is they know it.

Anyway, I walk into work at 11am, same as everyday. Only this day it's Friday. I am a bit more chipper since the weekend is only seven hours away. When my boss, Mr. Alexander, recites the only joke he knows-that I wear too much black for a flower shop- I give him a smile today. A little smile. Normally I don’t smile but shit, it’s Friday, right? I even make a joke to him.

"Come on, Mr. A. I got some white, see?" pointing to the black and white Vibrators pin I wore that day on my lapel. He raises his eyebrows and closes his eyes. Lifts his hands up above his shoulders.

Fridays.

I shuffle past the immense flower pots and carefully maneuver myself by the cacti plants I will soon have to rearrange. I clock in on an ancient computer behind the desk just to the left of the front entrance. I get to my tasks for the day while Mr. A works the numbers in the back room. I'm the hands-on guy, you could say. I start unpacking immense boxes of soil, re-arranging pots, checking the phone messages, and sweeping out the trapped dirt where the wall meets the grey, concrete floor. There isn't a whole lotta room to move but I get it done.

Mr. A doesn't allow music to be played in here, and that’s fine with me. Not to say I don’t love music, but I know the silence allows me to sort out all of the shit in my head. I'm sweeping away, thinking about last night's news brief: four kids shot outside their middle school in Harlem. An ugly world. Otherwise, the only sounds in here are the brief conversations between me and Mr. A and the customers, and those are somewhat rare. Though sometimes I pretend the flowers are talking to me, telling me they're thirsty. I get up to water them.

As I fill up the watering pot from the back sink, Mr. A calls me into his office. Says he wants me to throw out whatever hasn’t sold and is starting to go bad. As I make my watering run, I look over all of the flowers. There are a few here and there that I toss into the wastebasket. But for the most part, the demand is high enough on many of the flowers that we constantly order in new seeds and get the customers what they want. It's April, the flowers are out. People are gonna want flowers in April.

There is only one flower whose sales constantly fall flat: the white daisies. I can see that their centers are starting to brown out slightly, and that the tips are curling inwards towards their thinning stems. They have about five or six days before they're totally dead, but I use my assistant-managerial judgment (that's what Mr. A calls it) and decide to toss them.

Eight bouquets of unsold white daisies. Why the hell does Mr. A keep ordering them? I never went to business school or anything, but even I know the idea of supply and demand. He's the boss, I suppose. If he wants to throw out his money, that's his decision.

As I lift up the lid to the trash can, someone is honking his horn and shouting, "Hey!" I turn around. A man on a baby blue Vespa pulls to the curb and shuts off his engine. He picks up his pace towards me as he removes his white, open-face helmet. I look him over. He's got some tight looking blue-jeans and a good deal of black scruff hanging from his face. I never understood people who didn't shave.

He asks me if I'm throwing out the daisies, and I tell him that I am. He tells me he'll give me ten bucks for the bouquets as he is already opening up his wallet. I make sure Mr. A isn't peering in through the window, and we make our exchange.

"What's your name?" the scooter-man asks me.

"Jason. Nice to meet you," I say sticking out my hand, though I'm peering down at his white boat shoes. He tells me his name is Ricky. Then he notices my Vibrators pin and it's just, WHAM. We hit it off. Tells me his favorite records of 1977 and we get into a playful argument. He says he loves the Pistols, I say they're overrated, but that I really love The Jam. "That mod shit's great," I say. It's a point I know the two of us will agree on since he's driving a scooter. He tells me he's in a bar rock band called the Nukes. [I check them out later that night on myspace, not really my style but it's alright.]

Then he talks to me about flowers. He says it's a waste for "beauty" to get thrown out like that. I remember the way he said "beauty", briefly looking for the word before he finally said it. He wants to know if he can come by next week and pick up anything else that's garbage-bound. I tell him that's just fine. He puts the bouquets in his backpack, making sure they won't get smushed, and speeds away.

It's warming up inside, so I take off my jacket and hang it on the dark-brown coat stand. I realize that the wooden stand is covered in dust and then I remember that Friday is my day to clean. I walk back behind the computer desk, and I notice something. It's nothing, really, but the late-April sun is piercing through the dirty windows and is spotlighting the floating particles of dust. They just float there and move about like a tiny ballet performance. Most people just erase over all that with a bottle of Windex and wood cleaner, and I suppose that includes myself. I stare at it a bit more before I grab the cleaning supplies from the back closet.

When all the windows are clean and the shelves are dusted I take a step back just to make sure I did a good job. I can't say that my work at the flower shop is difficult because it's not. I might as well make sure I do a good job. I give it a little inspection and then I realize, and I know this is going to sound stupid, that I work in a flower shop, and I just glare at all of the color that surrounds me.

Roses. Roses so rich I feel an urge to blend them up and paint my walls with them. "Red walls could work," I mumble to myself. My walls have been white since the day I moved into my apartment. And the carnations. They're so much more fluffy-looking then I remember, almost like a strawberry pastry. And these sunflowers have never been so vibrant until this moment.

But I'm not used to any of this. I tell Mr. A that I am going out to get some coffee. "Fine, my boy," he says like he's my grandfather or something. I grab my jacket and head out.

I'm walking a few blocks to get to the deli I always go to. There are two delis on the way, but I always go to the same Arab guys everyday. This is my second cup of coffee today. And shit, there's a homeless guy standing outside. He's gonna hold the door for me. I know the routine: he holds the door, I walk in, get my coffee, walk out and he asks for some change. It's just a guilt trip, really. I hate guilt trips. I never asked him to hold the door, so why should I pay him? I only got a few quarters for my coffee anyway. That and a twenty. I'm gonna give him my twenty? No way.

Yeah, he holds the door. I'm waiting at the counter now. The two Arabs are laughing. I don't doubt that it's about me. I'm a bit impatient, but they stop laughing and one of them, the one with the glasses says, "Back again, buddy? What I can get you?" What I can get you. God. I ask for another cup of coffee. "You just like it black, yes? Same as your clothes? No milk and sugar?" He asks me the questions in machine-gun-like succession so that "milk and sugar" sound like one word: milknsugar.

You see, anyone who has ever been somewhere again and again knows the feeling of pride when an order-taker finally recognizes you enough to know exactly what you like and how you like it. So just like that, I'm smiling again. "Black, that's right," I say. "I'm plenty sweet enough." The three of us have a good laugh. I fish for my 75 cents, but my old wallet is filled with little bits of crust and is a bit sweaty, so the coins just adhere to the old leather. I give it another shake.

"Hey, boss. Don't worry about it," says the other Arab.

"Really?" I ask in amazement. These are the same two guys that charge me ten cents for a fucking set of matches. I've never known them to give anything out for free. I need confirmation. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course!" he says. "You have good weekend." I tell him that I hope that they both have good weekends, and flash them a peace sign. They return with the same gesture.

I walk outside, and I'm thinking about what just happened. I get half way down the block before it hits me. I pivot on the heel of my boots. He's still there just looking at his shoes. Never said a word. That, too, is a first. I hustle back towards him and give a good shake of my wallet and hand the homeless man all of my change.

"God bless you, my brother," he says as if something has been taken away from him. It can't be easy. April nights are still freezing.

"Hey," I tell him. "You have a good weekend." I walk back to the shop sipping my hot, black coffee.

I get back to work at the shop. Some weekly regulars come in, and I try and remember what they want. Tulips, right? Oh, daffodils. I'm sorry. But they're not offended. "That's OK!" they tell me all cheery-like. Still, I make a mental Post-It note. Next time, remember that they buy daffodils. Mr. A has been watching the whole transaction take place. When they leave, he says that I look more "uppity" today. I tell him I'm in a good mood. It's Friday.

The hours press forward steadily, and before I realize what’s happening, it’s six 'o clock. Time to clock out. "You did a wonderful job today, Jason," Mr. A tells me.

"Thank you Mr. A," I say, reaching for my black leather jacket. I turn around and walk towards him. I'm looking right at him and I watch his slight, almost smug smile melt into an expression of complete puzzlement. His eyes are twice as wide now. And then I realize why. I'm coming in for a hug.

I have worked for Mr. A for two years. Never have I hugged him nor any other boss I have ever worked for. Never. But I hug Mr. A, and after one second, he hugs me and gives me a few pats on the back.

"See you Monday, Mr. A."

So that night I'm lying on my bed drinking my third cup of coffee. I'm reading the Iggy Pop biography, but I'm just letting the words pass through me. I'm not absorbing any of the text. This day has been too crazy for me in its own sort of everyday, routine way, you know? I'm contemplating going to the bar down the street when my friend texts me and asks if I want to go out to the lower east side. It's Morrissey Night at Sway Lounge, he reminds me.

As all of my friends know, I normally stay confined to my twelve-block-radius in Jersey City. But I'm feeling adventurous, and the coffee is making me restless so I tell him that I'll go. He even sweetens the deal and says that the first drink is on him. I throw my peacoat over my leather jacket and head out the door.

It's cool outside, but not nearly as cool as it was last week. There won't be many days left where I'll get to wear this peacoat. I love my peacoat. I walk past men and women all dressed up. Many of them are smoking cigarettes. The neighborhood is more alive on Friday night then any other time of the week, and it reminds me of some sort of lavish event from the 1970s that we are all excited to attend. I've got the Jam playing on my iPod.

But when I get to the entrance of the PATH train, I feel a wave of heat. It's frustration sweeping over me. Friday night is terrible for the PATH train. It's about as reliable as a dead-beat dad, and hotter down there than piss on a summer sidewalk.

The mother. Fucking. PATH train.

I am sure there are few things in life that I hate more, but right now, nothing comes to mind. Reggaeton, maybe. I contemplate just turning around and getting drunk locally, but I promised my friend I'd show, and I haven't seen him in a long while. So I take a deep breath, and make my way down the stairs. The goddamn card machine makes me swipe my Metrocard three times before it registers. I'm off to a bad start.

I have to take off my coat and my leather jacket as I wait for the 33rd street train. A train bound for the World Trade Center arrives rather quickly. Just my luck, it's not the one I need. I'm sitting on the wooden benches. "They'd make pretty good torture devices," I think to myself, what with its dividers basically cutting off blood circulation to my ass. I grind my teeth and stare at a few rats racing along the train rails. To my right is a black girl sitting on her boyfriend's lap. It looks like they are trying to devour each others' faces. Christ, they are practically fucking in public. I pick up my coat and my jacket and walk down the platform.

I spend the next eight minutes just walking back and forth avoiding gum on the floor. Goddamn land mines are what they are. I switch my music to Bauhaus and furiously rip Bubblicious from my heel. These posters advertising PATH train courtesy are so aggravating. I don't even want to say what I would do if somebody didn't hold the train door for me because the fucking poster told them not to. Over the music, I hear the obnoxiously loud horn. This time, it is my train. I will soon be on Spring Street soon getting loaded. But as the train slows down to a scraping stop, I can already see it: the most brilliant blur of white I have ever witnessed. The doors open, and I step in.

There, hanging from each of the overhead bars, are hundreds of white daisies.

Some are on the floor, and a few are resting on the seats. A couple of college girls are seated with the daisies in their hair. It was all Ricky. This is exactly what he wanted. And somehow, in undoubtedly the most creative way possible, he had transformed the PATH train, a place so devoid of beauty and serenity into a remarkable, subterranean garden of white.

I sit down in my seat. My neck swivels to check out the cars to my left and right. They, too, have daisies strung all around. I glance at the passengers. They're just smiling and laughing like they're in kindergarten again. This is one of the best spectacles I have ever seen. That is, of course, until at the next stop, you step on the train and sit directly across from me.

You are wearing your rectangular glasses. When you see me, your eyebrows lift up above the frames. You smile and quickly look down at the ground when our eyes meet. I bring my head down towards my shoulders to get a better look at you, and you finally look back up at me, like we're playing tag with our eyes. You ask me what I'm listening to. Up until that point, I had always hated that question. Now I don't mind.

"Bauhaus,” I say.

"Really? Is everything OK?" you ask, half smiling. I cannot believe you know who Bauhaus is. Girls your age...our age...don't typically listen to Bauhaus.

"Everything is great, actually," I say. I stand up and grab one of Ricky's daisies from the bar and hand it to you. You just smile and look down at your feet again.

"My name is Jason," I say. "What's yours?"

And so now you know why I laughed-why I still laugh just to think about it-when I recall how your picked your head up, held your daisy to your little, triangular nose, and told me in such a sweet and honest tone, "It's Lily."

Useless Rant: Finding Peace With the Replacements

2010-01-22T15:46:00.000-08:00

A lot of people find peace with god, or at least, their form of God: Allah, Jesus, Buddha, Shiva, or whomever.
I was raised Jewish by a Catholic mother (yeah she converted to Judaism, but only on paper) and an only somewhat traditional Jewish father. I attended hebrew school (it's like church, only with no crackers) every Sunday for my elementary school years, and twice a week during my awkward pubescent transition to prepare for my Bar Mitzah. Ever since that day, June 16th, 2001, I have never stepped foot inside my nor any other temple.
I guess you could say I never really found peace in the institution at all, and in fact, the whole thing was really just irritating. I was always looking forward to doing something else: playing with dinosaurs toys and stuffed animals when I was little, and finally skateboarding in middle school.
The first time I actually found something I could invest my faith in was when Damon Hardjowirogo (now of Starscream fame) introduced me to the Replacements when I was a sophomore in high school. The album was Tim, released in 1985.
Damon, genius that he is, previewed me the record with the track "Bastards of Young." Hearing Paul Westerberg's confessional, salty voice confided in the listener, "Wait on the sons of no one...Bastards of young," gave me something I could really believe in as a dorky, wannabe rock and roller just shy of 16, (later on, I would seek shelter through the song "Sixteen Blue" off of the outstanding record Let it Be).
After the album's opener comes the song's silly/sad sing-along, "I'll Buy", a track about someone who doesn't belong and doesn't care if he's being used. "Dose of Thunder" and "Lay it Down Clown" made me want to find a pool hall and wait until someone looked at me funny just so I could re-organize their face. Of course, at fifteen, you're never as tough as you wanted to be.
"Waitress in the Sky", a real "fuck you" to those with a power-trip authority complex, was one of the funniest songs I had ever heard and helped supply my know-it-all fuckhead attitude that I still possess today. There is no place like public high school where you really want to tell teachers and those in power exactly how you feel.
On the other end of the spectrum, "Here Comes a Regular", "Left of the Dial", "Little Mascara", and "Swinging Party" made me feel more assured about my future. Unlike everything my guidance counselors and health teachers were telling me at the time,"Don't worry, things seem hard here but they will get better", Paul Westerberg was saying, "Fuck all that. Of course it really is that bad." But if he got through it, so could I.
Tim was the album that first pulled me in and transformed me into a die-hard Replacements fan. Melencholy, throat-tearing singing with emotional, atmospheric guitars (Bob Stinson) that sounded good both on the slow tracks and the full-throttle drum beats (Tommy Stinson). Perhaps if I had heard it at a later time in my life, I wouldn't have confided in the group as much as I did... nay... as much as I still do to this day.
Most religious zealots try to find truth and sanctity through rigorous study of scripture. Paul Westerberg laid it all out in front of me at such a maleable, fragile age and saved me all of the trouble. And the greatest part is that if I someday confess to Paul Westerberg how much his music means to me, he would probably just laugh me out of the room.

Driving Cars Into Walls

2010-01-11T16:50:00.000-08:00

Stumbling back from the bar, Owen and I caught these

two chicks (who were just moments earlier coming out)

of the same bar drive straight into a building. Perhaps

they were trying to Taliban themselves into the billboard

of the cute biracial couple? No. More likely then not they

were just drunk.

Is biracial a politically correct term anymore?

Now Available: Drunk white chicks driving into condo

buildings.

"Ya' see what y'all wanted to do was not go

into the wall, but to continya on the road, purty ladies."

"I'll just let you reverse off the curb like nothing

happened."

"Oh my fucking God, Rebecca! Like are these asshole cops

are gonna make us wait all fucking night? Brad is gonna

be soooo pissed."

These cops delegated over a late-night 69 session. And

in the end, of course, the white girls got away without

a sobriety test or anything. Glad to know Jersey City's

finest are keeping our roads safe.

Big-E was so hyped on the situation, he went

yack ballz to the wall on some Hollywood

Fried Chicken...

...And then Big Grizz walked us through a day

in the life...

...Then Owen was over it. Goodnight.

A Trip to Radio Land

2010-01-06T18:05:00.000-08:00

Oh, hello! I didn't see you come in there. I had to rehab

myself at my mom's this weekend because my excessive

lifestyle was getting...excessive. Highlights of my detox

included working on new music, getting new clothes, and

being caller number nine on RXP's radio station and

winning tickets to Julian Casablancas' show next

Thursday, (yes, the guy from the Strokes).

Here's what I did today:

Headed over to the radio station to claim my prize;

I bet big Grizz is hyped that I was at Hot 97.

Security made me a super-special visitor's pass with my

name and everything.

My prize! Two tickets to Julian Casablancas. Now I just

have to start liking the album. I wonder who I'm gonna

take...

When I got home, I went back to reading Nick Cave's

And the Ass Saw the Angel, which my brother got me

for Christmas. The best part about getting my iPod stolen

is that I get to read more. I feel so totally educated right

now.

Well that's it for now. Maybe I'll update tomorrow and

give a little tour of my room or something. Yeah, you'd

like that, wouldn't you?

New Years

2010-01-01T09:04:00.000-08:00

My survival kit for the evening. I went all Ludacris and

slammed some chicken and a sixer of Coors before I

headed out to 58 Gallery.

My rather dapper ensemble for the evening.

Gave this guy ten dollars and got in about 5 minutes

before midnight.

Adam Patterson was there. Thanks for the tattoo, Adam.

I'm pissed I only saw two songs from this band,

Thomas Francis Takes His Chances. They were sick.

It was a family affair.

The infamous Dancing Tony was there, leader of all

social events going on around Jersey City.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure he was drunk because

I would be talking to him and his eye would

just roll off to the side.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Once it was officially 2010, the titties and champagne

flowed liberally.

It was total makeout fest! Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.

Exhibit C.

Exhibit Deez nuts!

It was just like prom for this adorable couple.

Though I wasn't really feeling his get-up.

The crowd was stoked, they had no idea a blogger

prowled among them.

This dude was throwing stars all over the place. I only

put up this photo because I thought it was funny how it

landed over the other guy's lip.

Socialista/installation artist Norm pulled through.

Ran outta juice!

Oh, nevermind. It's cool.

This creepy baby showed up.

The kind of girls your mom told you to stay away from in

high school were there.

Jim-toxicated was intoxicated.

Wizard #1 showed up...

...and called up his boy, wizard #2.

Then Wizard #1 started talking to Wizard #3, who had

the most balls-out wizard beard of the crew, expanding

over his eyes and everything.

This guy showed up.

This furry hat chick showed up, too.

Local ripper, Galice was in attendance.

If you saw this guy at a party, what would be your last

guess as to what he was doing...?

...Rapping? Yeah that would be mine as well.

Afterwards he resumed his waiter duties.

One West took the stage and ripped mics.

One West.

B Murph.

These total babes showed up.

DJ Street Justice caught me blogging.

That's what I like about Jersey City: you can have events

where hipster wizards, young parents, drunk kids, skate

rats, and old farts like these can all mingle together.

These dudes showed up sporting similar hats.

The smoky room.

Another cute couple.

How much does it suck to go through your

photos of last night to see one of you and

a cute mousy blonde chick that you could

have taken to the bone zone? A lot.

That dude showed up.

Evil Pippy Longstocking showed up.

Goth brothers showed up.

This lady just sat in the corner and enjoyed her orange

juice.

This dude was raking in chicks like they were...well...

leaves. Shit, what else do you even rake other than leaves?

The guy from Thomas Francis Takes His Chances was

sloshed.

My batteries died, even though I put in fresh ones before

the night began, so I had to run to the bodega to refuel.

This girl was super hyped to see me.

Soul sistaz!

I stopped in at the local wattering hole, Lucky 7s, just

to see what was going on. My roommate and homie,

"Growlin" John Rowley, was there with some honeys.

Look how happy they are to be around him!

I can always count on John to get into adventures.

Ex-roommate Corey Cavagnlo (right) was there.

DJ Ryan and Corey.

Corey always had a knack for getting babes.

Me and bartender, Julee. Thank you for serving me all

these years, Julee.

You too, Leena.

Someone commanded me to go check out the bathroom.

So close.

Zach bumming that he's gonna be the one to clean up the

mess. Sorry, Zach.

Since when do robot sunglasses-worn inside, mind you-

end up attracting the goth chicks and the party dress mice?

She stole my heart. Unfortunately, it would

not be the only thing that got stolen, but I'll

be getting there soon enough...

This 80 something year-old guy came

correct with the Alaska beanie, flower afgan,

and leather jacket, though the expression on

his face read "I just pooped my pants."

Snookie showed up with a friend...

She looked like she was fiending for another fist to the

grill.

Robocop showed up.

DJ Street Justice lookin' fooooiiiinnneee.

Even with all of the color going on in this photo, all she

wanted was to be held.

This tasty piece showed up.

This guy flashed me some gang signs. I later

hooked up with his mom (not kidding).

Here she is. She had a Brithish accent and

some huge...personality.

Momma and her boy.

Even though I was contained in a habitat of

loud music, alcohol and smoke, it was all

very self revealing and I learned this:

I live for weekends.

This dude showed up, probably looking for

his daughter.

This dude was dressed to ill.

I see this guy around from time to time. He's a charting

member of the JC Dangler committee, which consists of

him and myself.

Charles, AKA DJ Leonard Smalls showed

up...

...but then things got kinda gay.

Very gay. As I was going to split, I gathered my coat only to find that my iPod was missing. I went home in drunken fury, screamed my lungs out and, in true jock fashion, punched a hole in my wall.

If this is a sign of what's to come in 2010, then just put a bullet in my head right now.

Happy fucking New Year.

In the Stillness

2009-12-30T08:44:00.000-08:00

In the Stillness

It was always at this point, right after he made love to her, that Matthew felt he belonged to the world. He put his arm around Martha in the creaky twin-size bed. In the corner of the room, blood-red candles created heavy tears of wax that dripped onto the oak dresser. Serenity had soaked through Matthew's being. He rested his nose in the hollow of her collarbone. The absence of blinds allowed the bold moonlight to flow through the room. It refracted over her pale skin, which now appeared to be a shade of blue Matthew had never witnessed in the natural world.

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift to thoughts of the approaching winter. His computer, just next to the foot of the bed, gave a chime, bringing him back to his room and his bed and his Martha.

"Christ. I'm sorry, baby," he whispered as he gathered his stark-naked body and knelt by the laptop. An instant message read: "Yo Matt! Party at Jills. U in?"

He turned and looked into her eyes. They were fixed somewhere between the light switch and the door. He arched his back so their sights were locked.

"Sorry, man. Next time," he typed with machine-gun speed. "What do you want to listen to, love?" he asked Martha.

Silence reverberated around the walls.

"Really?" he said with a chuckle. "OK, you got it." He set his iTunes and shuffled back over to her, accidentally knocking over the lipstick and eyeshadow on his desk. He payed it no mind, and pulled the covers over the two of them. He closed his eyes again and began to brush her light-blonde hair from her forehead to behind her ear, and then back over her eye. Forehead, ear, eye. Again and again and again...

He listened to the music attentively:

The pains of love, and they keep growin'.

In my heart, there's flowers growin'

on the grave of our old love.

And after hearing those words, he turned onto his other side, placing his back to hers. It was cool like a glass pane. Serenity had left him now and put defeat in its place. He gazed out the window into the empty November night. How long would it be like this? How long could it be like this? All things, even love, must decay.

In life, and in death, all things must decay.

Little red flakes gathered at their feet: the red polish was chipping off of her toenails. He would reapply more paint in the morning.

A Day in Dirty Jersey

2009-12-28T14:28:00.000-08:00

This man brought me out of my in-bed reading stupor

and beckoned me to skateboard.

Why, it was none other than Jersey's best-kept secret,

"Dirty" Dermot Redding! He is also the reincarnation of

Charles Manson. We hopped on our teal Huffy bicycles

and headed out to the now infamous Junk Spot.

The land of milk and honey. Scope that buttery ledge...

Excellent wedge ledge.

Dermot got all Cheese and Crackers on this

beast.

He even motivated me to shralp a bluntslide.

Headed over to the mini ramp warehouse where Ronnie

Campone and Eric Mech were hard at work. You can thank

these two dudes for every skate project that has been

constructed in Jersey City for the past six years.

Carpentry skills: optional.

Beards and beanies: MANDATORY!

Eric was killing it.

An unstoppable force that could only be

compared to a leaner Steven Seagal or perhaps

a more-finessed Chuck Norris.

Charlie Manson says "See you next time!" which will

probably be tonight as he haunts your dreams.