Was Doctor Strange As “Trippy” As They Claim?

Was Doctor Strange As “Trippy” As They Claim?

The sun took its sweet time sinking into the horizon that summer day. July was coming to an end, but still the days seemed longer. Maybe they seemed that way because of my particular position on the globe at the time; the parabola of the Northeast region made it feel like the Earth was grabbing on to as much sunlight as it could, as if it was storing it up for the long, cold winters. Maybe they seemed that way because I might be looking back on my twenties with a fondness for my more rebellious and carefree days. The poetry in the long goodbye note of a late summer sunset is written in the color of black raspberry ice cream and pink lemonade. It’s close to dusk, and my toes grab wet sand as a guy we just met walks out into the waist deep surf to take a piss while holding on to a case of cheap beer. There was something surreal, beautiful and strangely silly about this scene, and we all pick up on it right away. My friends and I look at each other and grin like mad. Maybe they seemed that way because we knew that this moment would never come our way ever again.

Maybe they seemed that way because we realized that the blotter acid we just bought in the parking lot outside of a Jerry Garcia concert was the real deal as it dug its claws into our cerebellum. We knew we’d be up for a while.

The last rays of sunshine flickered into nothing. I meander back to the parking lot. I have lost track of my friends a while ago. I knew it was going to be an interesting night as I looked up to see the stars dance and warp as Rob Wasserman plucked the melody to The Rolling Stones “Satisfaction” on one of his many upright bass solos. The details of the rest of the night were murky. There was no sleep involved that night, however I do remember taking a much needed shower in the morning. Afterwards, I dried off, collapsed on the couch, and did my best to relax. But it was difficult because the cat kept trying to force her head into my mouth.

What I’m trying to say is, in terms of a Jimi Hendrix litmus test, I am experienced.

I have seen horizons and landscapes that shouldn’t exist. I’ve felt immeasurable joy, paralyzing fear, and pants-shitting danger. I have been places. They’re nice to visit, but you wouldn’t want to raise a family there (stay in school, kids!). I lived and breathed “trippy” for a brief moment in time.  I know what “trippy” means.

It is nothing like what they’re trying to sell you with the new Doctor Strange movie.

Now, before you think I’m hating, let me explain…

Comic books, historically, have never been taken seriously. I know, try telling that to a serious collector, and he might throw his bowl of Kraft Dinner at me. But from Golden Age to the Silver (translated: from the early 1930s to the late 1960s) pulp comics in general, Marvel in particular, have always fought tooth and nail to keep and expand its fan base. Which, in and of itself, is challenging. If it wasn’t the period where pulp comics were considered the folly, and ultimately the downfall of America’s children, then it was the Comics Code Authority making life miserable for everyone. If it wasn’t them, then it was the long process of trying to get back the disaffected youth that they were trying to get to read to begin with. If it wasn’t that, then it was trying to stay ahead of the curve and avoid being out of touch, to be reminded that you need to constantly evolve. If it wasn’t that, then it would be the endless one-upmanship with their closest competitor.

DC had been the standard bearer for what the modern heroes would be; square-jawed, two dimensional dudes in flashy costumes, swooping in to thwart a burglary in progress while simultaneously saving the equally two dimensional, anatomically impossible female from danger, and trying not to look gay while doing it.


Steve Ditko, Jack Kirby, and Stan Lee where busy wrangling their own creative bullpen over at Marvel. Most of the time it was hit and miss.

By the early 60s, the perfect storm of censorship and uninspired story lines nearly brought an end to the brand.

That all changed when Stan introduced”The Fantastic Four”.

On the surface, just another superhero comic. But dig a little deeper, you found four individuals with different abilities who argue and spat just like an actual family would. Just like people who knew each other would. Just like people.

Flawed characters were the thing that would save Marvel during the dark times of the early 70s. But at this time, they were still fighting to keep their head above water. One of the many offshoots of Marvel was an anthology series that went by the moniker, Strange Tales. The pages were mostly about monsters and ghouls and gore and blood and guts and zombies and vampires. It was presented as an alternative to superhero drama, but it wasn’t completely devoid of familiar characters. Cloak and Dagger first appeared there. The previously mentioned Fantastic Four found their origins there. Nick Fury and his agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. were first kicking Hydra’s ass in a few issues. And, a mystical character who was inspired by a radio era serial rounded out the entourage.

That character was called Doctor Strange.

Without giving too much away that you probably already know, Stephen Strange is a brain surgeon who travels to the Far East to be healed after his hands had become damaged in a car accident.  You know the rest.

The movie is a total blast to watch. But that’s not what concerns me. What concerns me is the advertising campaign billing this film as “psychedelic” or “trippy”.

There is a sequence in the film that may constitute a decent head trip, but that’s not the point. The point is that this character was made before the Psychedelic Era, although it has been noted that it might have had a hand at predicting it. Steve Ditko’s motivation when drawing for the Sorcerer Supreme wasn’t to recall the night when he baked magic mushrooms on his pizza. It was more about how would somebody draw something mystical; an idea that hasn’t been explored very much. Especially in comics. If someone came up to you and said, “Draw black magic”, how would you do that? Steve employed purples and reds, darker colors and free form shapes. He employed the use of Abstract Art, something else that hasn’t been tried before in comics. To bill this film as “trippy” does a great disservice to the essence of what was originally achieved.

Shorter: The film is nowhere near as hallucinogenic is one might think. It is abstract. Or more to the point, it is abstract as much as a mainstream movie could be. It is a family friendly Disney property, after all. Trippy is “2001: A Space Odyssey” or “Jacob’s Ladder” or “The Science of Sleep”. Any of these films do a much better job at portraying an interpretation of hallucinating. The effects of the movie seem to lean more towards playing with geometric shapes than anything else; brick patterns, mosaic tiles, window panes. Anything that has a unifying structure is manipulated in such a way that no longer follows an actual design. If it were trippy, the bricks would come alive and shape-shift into something else before changing back into its original form. This is was just fun with shapes. To be honest, it was fun, really fun to look at, but it’s hardly mind-bending.

Other than that, the only real complaint I have about this movie is that it moves almost too fast. I suppose that might be a good thing. Calling attention to every single dollar that you throw into a scene is considered gauche, and the MCU have been quite adept at not doing that. But still, enjoying a moment for a second or two longer wouldn’t damage the narrative. I took a YouTube refresher course on the backstory of the good doctor. It turns out that it wasn’t completely necessary, although it wouldn’t kill ya to do your research.

Personal gripes aside, the movie is a blast. It is so much fun packed into an hour and fifty-five minutes (it could have run longer, and it would have been fine). This movie is a perfect example of a comic book adaptation done right. It is a perfectly stitched together collage of right choices. The writing was snappy and alive. The casting choices were perfect (let’s leave the whole “whitewashing” controversy alone for another time, shall we?) And the soundtrack. The effing SOUNDTRACK! A perfect homage to the time from whence this came from; a full orchestra combined with harpsichord, sitar and a fuzzy guitar shoved through a Tube Screamer (go ask a guitarist) was just delicious to listen to. Still, the theme, if there was one, was as forgettable as the other Marvel franchises. It’s been a complaint amongst music and movie nerds. But at least this time, they put a little more effort into it.

Go see this movie.
Go see this movie with an open mind, and if you can afford it and have the ways and means, see this in an IMAX theater.

Bottom line, Doctor Strange is not “trippy”

…It’s…strange…in a good way.


Whatever I Want Wednesdays: Getting My Rant On Again

That moment…

That moment when you’re at a loss for words, and then everything gets thrown into the sharpest focus all at once. Then, the words start spilling out like too much alphabet soup from your commemorative Sesame Street bowl with Oscar the Grouch at the bottom.

…anybody else?

…just me?


I honestly don’t mean to pick Wednesday as my designated snark time, it just happens to work out that way. This week, I was planning on posting something in the vein of successfully making my own ice cream. But, well honestly, I don’t have enough pictures yet. Secondly…

As I get older, I can feel myself growing more curmudgeonly. I catch myself yelling at the news whether it be from the radio or on television. I hear myself muttering, “kids these days…” under my breath every time I see some Tweener walk around with sandals and black socks. I fear I’m just one more gray hair away from yelling, “Get off my lawn!” while shaking my fist to no one in particular. But then again, all I’m doing is cultivating an opinion. Nothing more. It’s something that I’m not used to doing, because I live in a world where nobody cares, and given that situation, I feel totally in the right to unload on people who just don’t get it.

Like this guy’s post I read the other day…

From the “I Want My 3 Minutes Back” File:

I made the mistake of reading a post that dealt with the old “Write Drunk, Edit Sober” chestnut. The blog author’s issue was less with the quote being misattributed to Ernest Hemingway, but it was more of the mindset that somehow this quote was responsible for glorifying addiction.

Glorifying addiction…

Right. I know whenever I’m lying in a pool of my own vomit because I might have “overdone it”, Hemingway is the first person I curse. “Damn you for being so eloquent! HUUURRRL!

His parading peccadilloes left my head all scratchy. While I can understand someone still yearning for the Nancy Regan years and having an overwhelming urge to start screaming “JUST SAY NO!” ad nausem as if it changed anything, blaming Hemingway for one’s own addiction is just ridiculous. It’s like saying “Listening to Elton John made me gay,” or “Daddy never took me fishing so that’s why I’m into cockfighting,” or “I had to shoot that kid because he was wearing a hoodie.

…where was I going with this?

Oh, right… While I agree (and can attest to) being under the delusion that being under the influence will somehow make you a better artist, I don’t agree that a quote, misattributed or otherwise, can drive someone to become an addict. I don’t need anybody’s approval, I can do drunk on my own.

Quick impression: Here’s me writing drunk…

so tghen ios like, “”‘hjesday mrhjco chffffuuuk ffhsosllsmnfgolijhsoliLOLLIJKBNJBKL skdju hhislls llitte bastard;;s oekthjs  josojMMMNAAAA OH LOOK A KITTY!!! ndbbddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd,

And, here’s me writing stoned…

so then i was like and then is I was allI here right I’m like here so then I’m like with and then I was  so then i was OH LOOK, NACHOS!!!

Yep, that settles it. I’m a frickin’ genius. Give me my damn Pulitzer.

“Glorifying addiction?” Hemingway? Why pick on that guy when there’s an entire rogue’s gallery of authors who pushed the envelope and can be equally blamed as enablers. There’s…

James Joyce: His drinking was legendary in Dublin. How do you know he loved his drink? Open up to any page in Finnegan’s Wake and successfully read a sentence from beginning to end.

Tennessee Williams: Every time I read any of his plays, I always catch a whiff of Mint Juleps and Kentucky Bourbon…I do declare

Dylan Thomas: He did not go gentle into that good night, he drank himself into a coma.

I could go on and on, but these artists were geniuses while under the influence. The other thing they have in common, other than coming from a world that was torn apart by war, famine and the rest of the horsemen…they’re all dead. The last of them clocking out in 2005. Dead. And with them, I think, the days that existed before modern therapy. Gone are the days of manly men who appreciated fine spirits and could operate heavy machinery while doing so. I mean, did they drink because they felt it made them better writers, or were they brilliant in the first place and they medicated to drown out something else in their lives?

Honestly, other than the occasional blogger who downs a bottle of Two Buck Chuck and spews out run-on sentences, who amongst us still think that drugs and alcohol are the magic potion to super stardom? Are there still people who sit in front of their keyboard with an ashtray full of roaches and are convinced their screenplay is going to burn up Hollywood? Are there still the disciples of Charles Bukowski who soak in cheap whiskey before they can start their first line of poetry? Are there still lead singers for bands that need to “medicate my vocal chords” with a shot of Jaeger and a Molson before they got on stage?

…sorry, I was miles away for a moment…

I am willing to bet that all the people that were born after the Gen X crowd are smarter and more self aware than anyone else that came before them. I am willing to bet that even the creatives in my generation and older who are still doing what they love do not owe any measure of success to chemicals. I am willing to bet that the majority of the writers, actors, musicians and artists save their drinking (if they drink at all) until after the work is done. And I am also willing to bet that some people just take things a little too literally.

It is our duty, as Creatives, to not take things too literally. Everything can be open to interpretation. It is our job to bend universes to our will. Regardless of exploits of Hemingway, Poe, Thompson, Capote, Chandler, Kerouac, I think the true meaning of “Write Drunk, Edit Sober” has a less evil intention. I think it’s just an easier way of saying, “Get it all out on the page. All of it. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense or not, if it’s factual or not, if it’s grammatically correct or not. Get it all out on the page. Then, walk away, go make a sandwich, go take a walk, spend time with children, and when you are ready, go ahead and edit.” I think Hemingway would agree with that.

Personally, I already went through that faze of writing in a haze. There were moments, brief moments of brilliance, but nothing to sustain any sort of longevity. After all these years, my biggest hero wasn’t from the Beat Generation. My hero is Tom Robbins. You want to talk about addiction? As soon as I read “Still Life With Woodpecker”, I was hooked. I needed every book this man wrote so I could shove every one of them into my brain. If there’s an influence at work with me, then it is to try and emulate his style, the way he gets surgical with metaphor, the way he breaks every rule of contemporary writing and still manages to shine like a newly minted quarter, the way he can take the most ridiculous of premises and make them symphonic in nature, those are the things that influence me. Those are the reasons that I keep writing. It’s been over a year since I had my last cigarette. My last bong hit is ancient history. I still drink. Rarely. My body isn’t able to tolerate the levels that it used to endure anymore, but I still indulge in a whiskey here and there. And through it all, what I’ve learned in reading “Still Life…” and “Jitterbug Perfume” lasted long after the smoke has cleared. Imagination is more powerful than anything in a bottle.

That’s my 2 Cents. Now, if you’ll excuse me…there’s a PBR in the fridge that’s calling my name.


The Strays of Hotel Pine St. Part 3


The rug is filthy, but it’s the last thing I’m thinking about as I try to will the walls of the living room to stop spinning.

Birch wood smoke has always been a favorite odor of mine. It’s particularly one of my favorites as I speed passed the smoke with the windows rolled down.

Even though I spent the entire day in Washington Square Park, I find that I can’t remove myself from the stone steps of the Synagogue on the corner to write the last verse of a song that I just hobbled together.


I focus on the silence, on the traffic passing outside, the breeze dancing with the window in the living room. I like these little moments of calm, it makes me appreciate the days of madness that much more.

“I am bulletproof,” I mutter to myself as I downshift to the bend in the road. I’m grinning like an idiot on a road that I traveled many times before, knowing in my heart of hearts that I may never do so again.

I knew it was her birthday. She knew that I knew it was her birthday. I could have done something normal like dinner or a movie. But no, I had to take the “homemade” approach and write her a song.


I’m twenty-two. It’s late summer, I have a day off from work and yet I find myself back at work. Not to work, but to donate blood. I thought it might be a good gesture to make an appearance and do my good deed for the day. I haven’t donated in a long time and it felt good knowing that I might have saved a couple of lives that day. I also wondered if the people I saved would appreciate the free ride I gave them because I indulged in my usual excessive behavior at a party a few nights ago. By the time they give you your “I Just Donated Blood!” sticker and offered you a second helping of chocolate chip cookies, they have already told you at least thrice to take it easy for at least 2 hours afterwards, do not smoke or drink alcohol for at least 6, and do not operate any machinery immediately after donating.

These apocryphal harbingers of doom are promptly ignored as I get behind the wheel and light up a Camel for the ride home. It was my day off. Although I was doing the nice guy thing, it did not mean that I wanted to spend the rest of the day recuperating at the place I work at. Besides, it was not, nor would it be the last time I drove home feeling….ohhh…let’s say, a little light headed as it were.

Cookies and juice are nice, but they do little to stave off the altered state of perception a little bloodletting can provide. What I really need is calm. Calm and silence. Food will come later, after all, I have all day. “Just let me feel the breeze,” I thought, “The breeze and the afternoon sun, and I’ll have my head on straight in a few minutes.”

Then, I heard the front door open.


I’m eighteen. It’s late summer, and I’m driving to no particular destination on a winding, hilly stretch of road on Mt. Desert Island. My car is a piece of shit 1986 Ford Escort GT that I spent the previous summer babying. It was my Millennium Falcon; it may not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts. It was my second car, and as a privilege of youth, it was my duty to get into as much trouble as I could with it. At least, that’s what I’d like to think at the time. I had a romantic vision of myself being a reckless speed demon, but in reality, the thing was a four cylinder, 5 speed, no options, and had a top speed of 50 mph, and even then it took gentle negotiation to get that needle to hoover around that number. Not much badassery going on there. Still, it was a blast to drive.

But regardless, high school career over, my summer with a troupe of struggling artists was winding to a close, and in a few weeks, I’ll be heading out to college. From every angle in the driver’s seat, all I can see is green. From where I sit, I have the world in my lap and nothing will get in my way.

Then I do the math.


I’m twenty-five. It’s late summer, and I’m going to enjoy this one single solitary day not being at work, or attached at my girlfriend’s hip. It was a postcard perfect day…in the park…where everyday’s the Fourth of July.

I needed room. Just enough. The walls of the crummy basement apartment were getting to me and the air was just a little too still. I wanted to catch New York on a good day, so I packed up my guitar, and headed to Manhattan to find the closest park I could walk to that was near the 3 Line. All around me is green. All around me is fresh grass, the bluest sky and a dancing laundry line of color playing all around me. I wasn’t sober, but I was more sober than I had been. I’m trying to put words on paper to a song that I had in my head. The words aren’t coming, and the melody is holding out for a better paying gig; a mutual disagreement for everyone involved. Negotiations broke down quickly and picket lines were bolstered in my mind. All around me is a wonderful distraction. The words in front of me are a pathetic few. I pack up. I walk. I search for some other inspiration.

Then I lose track of time.


Draw the shade and put my clothes on the shelf.
It’s hard to concentrate on anything else.
It’s been a while since I felt like myself.
My attention is turning west,
I need to get this off my chest,
You’ve made my life more complete,
When I call back to the days of Hotel Pine St.

Footsteps walk on creaking floorboards. No need to get up and see who it was, whoever it was would find me eventually. Besides, it could have only been one in a handful of people, and sure enough it was. Small, tentative, cautious mouse-like steps could only mean one person, and it was a slightly peculiar trait coming from such a big guy. [Author’s Note: I will not give his name, because I didn’t ask to use it. However, those who were around at the time, will know who I’m talking about almost immediately. For those that don’t, I’ll just use the term “my friend” when I need to refer to him.]

A familiar head poked around the corner and spied a familiar person sprawled out on a cheap, yard sale rug taking in the fresh air and what was left of a late afternoon sunset. My Friend smiles his goofy smile and waves, I smile and wave back. He turns around and without a word, inspects the rest of the apartment for other inhabitants; a gentle recon mission that reminds me of a child looking for Santa Claus on Christmas Morning. He’s restless. Bored. When he gets like this, which is on occasion, no good could ever come from it. That is to say, when he gets like this, me and perhaps everyone who might be in the room with me is at risk for going on a little ride with him. Not that we don’t encourage him. Not that we don’t avoid him when we see a change come. First and foremost, he is our friend. Second of all, it was the Nature of the Beast to do what thou wilt. Like we needed encouraging.

“Hey, man.” He finished his sweep of the apartment and has put his attention to the only biped left around.
“Hey,” I replied. “How’s it goin’?” Our dialogue being the very height and breadth of wit.
“Pretty good.” His attention is drawing him to other places, his fingers searching for something. His voice was the tenor of a man in his golden years on the front porch swing. He’s only half paying attention. “Why are you on the floor?”
“Well, I just got back from donating blood,” I say trying to not sound like I’m woozy, “and I’m just lying herrrrre relaxing.”
“That’s nice,” he said, half interested. What I needed was calm. Calm and silence. Food would come later, but with him in the picture, with that goofy look on his face, any personal pursuit of relaxation would have to be put on hold. “Hey,” he finally blurted out as the light bulb he was so eager to light in his head finally clicked. Here it comes, I thought. Here comes the whirlwind. Just stick to your guns and tell him you’re not in the mood right now. Time to take it easy. Whatever he has up his sleeve can just wait. “I was wondering,” he continued with that look, “would you like to smoke some hash and ride on the back of a motorcycle?”


Things just seemed clearer driving 15 miles over the speed limit. Savoring a mixture of sea spray and birch wood smoke while speeding through it at 15 miles over the speed limit helped me put things in perspective. This was my home turf, after all. This was my country that I would soon expatriate. As I write this, every zip code that I’ve ever lived in comes to mind, and I’ve yet to see anyplace that compares to the Coast of Maine in summertime.

I’ve been stuck in the bottleneck of the Miracle Mile in Ellsworth and now I’m making a bee line to Bar Harbor on the as-of-yet undeveloped area of Route 3. The act of sitting still in summer time traffic winds me up like a Mickey Mouse wristwatch and I’m driving faster than I should be. The wood smoke I smell is the byproduct of the lobster shantys that dot the side of the road; Little mom-and-pop shacks that boil the day’s catch outside in these huge metal pots built inside these ancient brick woodstoves. White smoke from wet birch logs billows for hours. It collects thick near the stove and then dissipates, painting the wind, and gives the tourists and townies alike a subtle reminder that summer is in full swing, and you won’t be leaving these parts without having at least one basket of steamers under your belt.

It’s not yet Labor Day, and you could already feel the hint of the sea change in the air. Morning dew is collecting thick on leaves, telling them to make arrangements on changing their decor. Out of State plates have become fewer as the herd of traffic from Bangor to the Sea Coast becomes thinner and thinner. You might see a straggler in from Iowa or Illinois, a minivan from New York bravely hanging around for Foliage Season, Cadillacs from Canada their trunks full of Outlet schwag on their way back across the border. For the most part, these last few days are ours. These days were saved for us to do with as we saw fit. For some it meant getting a jump start on gathering winter fuel, for the rest of us, it meant doing what comes naturally when the sun asks you to dance. Warm weather came at a premium price, and some of us indulged to the fullest extent so that we may survive the winter blues. These days were saved for me, and I was doing what came naturally.

Our last show was wrapping this weekend. I have already begun my mental rough draft of a good bye note that I will have to recite to my fellow artists, gypsies and vagabond friends in a few days. Summer Stock theater might be the last stop on the way down for some, but for people on the way up, it was nothing but good times, good connections and a highlight on a very meager resume. I knew most of these people, I’ve worked with them previously. In a few weeks I was to enter College as a theater major; a fact that to this day, I try and downplay. So this summer was work, play, get experience, maybe make connections, and most importantly, spend some quality time with my best girl. Ah yes, my last high school romance. She was the very essence of “naughty and nice”; a sweet veneer coating surrounding a soft, nougaty core of damaged goods served up on a plate of Catholic Guilt. She was a summertime daydream, still in high school, a lovely sight, and ohhh…who am I kidding……?


Things just seemed clearer driving 15 miles over the speed limit. It helped me put things into perspective. 15 miles over the speed limit isn’t reckless. Not yet, anyway. It’s just fast enough to let the world spin by on the hum of mosquito wings. It’s just fast enough to get some alone time with you and your conscience. The air rushing threw the open windows, the Van Halen mix tape you have sputtering through your pathetic set of Radio Shack speakers, the smell of smoke wafting through, crystal clear blue skies and the sun on your face all help in aiding your denial, but sooner or later…..
Oh, not now. Not now, not now…I’m having a good day.
I know, I am too, so I’ll make this brief. You do realize you are going into a field that has a low success rate for employment, your car’s a piece of shit, and there is absolutely no way in hell that your girlfriend is going to wait around for you when you come back for summer break, you do realize that, right?” I don’t answer. I rewind the tape back to the beginning. “C’mon, I know you can hear me.
I don’t want to talk about this now.
Good, at least you’ve thought about it. Tell you what, just admit that this paradise you’ve concocted is going to disappear the moment this summer ends, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the week. Deal? Good. Now, just say ‘yes’ and we can get back to admiring the view.

The view, by the way, is spectacular. From the drivers’ seat, all I can see is green. It rushes up one side of a mountain, and slides down to the ocean. It’s the green that makes jealousy even greener. “Yes,” I say out loud to no one in particular. “Good,” comes the reply from no one in particular. The tape deck clicks to the beginning of tape.


“Shit, it’s getting dark.” In my search for words and a decent place to write said words, I have come up with a head full of caffeine, a few miles put on to cheap shoe leather, a head full of wonderful images that might come in handy later, and half a song. Not even a good half at that. I’m using a melody that I tinker with when I run out of things to play; a warm up piece. Something I strum to keep my mind tethered so that it won’t wonder too far. It was unfinished then, it remains unfinished to this day. The words I’m using are gently and lovingly placed in such a manner that if you listen carefully, it sounds like brain surgery performed by Silverback Gorillas with an ice cream scoop, a length of fire-hose, and an old, scratched up copy of Air Supply’s “Lost in Love” on vinyl done to the tune of a couple of frat boys taking turns vomiting up keg beer in an alley outside of your bedroom at 4 in the morning. Did I mention that I’m not much of a poet? This song was not supposed to happen, but I’m trying to make it work.

A few years ago, I stole her and ran blind and mad to New York. I was nowhere near thinking clearly back then, but I had to try. I needed to make my own mistakes. I needed to fuck up royally. I needed to do something foolish. Anything to keep from drowning in complacency. If I was to start my acting carrer, I needed to be where the action is. I needed to know. I needed to experience. I was in my mid-twenties, and I was trying to avoid the inevitable intersection of ambition and reality where starving artists meets in a head on collision with full time, dead-end job. Now its present day, and my vision of a better future wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The brochure lied again. But, I’m trying to make it work.

Nightfall came on so suddenly. It’s a good indication of how long I spent on a subway. She is home now after working all day in Staten Island. I’m almost home after a day of wandering around Manhattan. I pause on the stone steps of a Synagogue on the corner to write the last hackneyed line for some half baked song. A birthday present for my girlfriend.

But, I’m trying to make it work.


When I had the cash, nothing came close to a veggie sub that came from the pizza shop across the street. It was run by this little Italian guy and his wife. They where in there from open to close, 7 days a week. How long can one man and his wife keep up such an operation, you might ask? Approximately 8 months, when he sold his shop and everything in it to some old guy with a failing liver and two slacker sons. Still though, my sandwich is satisfying, healthy and cheap and as of this moment, it’s the first thing that comes to mind. The second thing that goes through my mind is that my hair is definitely the most frightening feature about me. Even more so as it gets the blow back of it’s life while I speed through affluent suburbia on the back of a motorcycle, slightly toasted on a decent little nub of hash. The third thing was….well, it’s anybody’s guess at this stage. Cognitive and logical thought left a long time ago, and it’s all I can do to hang on to my ass as the landscape shifts around me. Still though, I like these moments of madness. They make me appreciate those moments of calm that much more. As we whiz pass another old Victorian on a vintage 500 cc Honda motorcycle, and letting the slow burn of a sticky brown substance become our co-pilot, I could not help but think…

The view is stunning, and all at once, this overwhelming feeling of being alive flows over me like the smokey ocean wind that’s blowing through my windows. Go ahead, laugh like madman, crank up Little Guitars on your stereo as loud as your little speakers can hold it, take a deep breath, and most importantly, remember this feeling for the rest of your life. You may never come back here. Not to this moment, not to this feeling, ever again. Enjoy it while it lasts, it’ll all be over soon. As you gaze at the chaotic perfection of mountain ranges that have carved their initials on this island, remember this one thing….

“It’ll have to do,” I say to myself as I clench the crumpled up wad of paper in my mouth, stick the pencil behind my ear and pack up my guitar for that 36 step walk back home. I can’t shake this feeling of dread, and I couldn’t quite explain it. I couldn’t explain it because I couldn’t see it for what it was: I was too busy being the good boyfriend to notice that I was being disingenuous in my gesture to someone who could not abide by disingenuous people. Still though, it’s the thought that counts, especially when I didn’t have two nickles to rub together. Just go inside and get it over with. Get it over with and try not to think about…

…I don’t want to leave.

…I can never really leave.

…I have to leave. And, I can’t help thinking that I’ve been here before.