8/18/04:  My return:  Dreams, sharks, hillbillies and Angelina.

Not one to hone on the details of my personal life and such, I took the vast majority of today off from work, deciding to spend the afternoon at the ocean.  How glorious it was to feel the sand under my feet once again and swim in the shark infested waters.  With each stroke, I think it's my last, as I fully expect a rogue Bull shark to surface from the depths and launch a full fledged attack on me.  Absolutely terrifying at times.  I've heard the local stories, seen the local pictures.  Often times this afternoon, I would anticipate an attack and try to predict my reactions.  The first reaction had me freezing in mid ocean, hoping the savage bastard would go away as my fears held me captive.  The next scenario had me putting the beast in a chokehold, punching him rapidly in the face and dragging him ashore, all to the avail of the media as I was hailed a local hero by the community.  I would do Letterman on Thursday and fly to LA the next evening for a spot on Leno.  American Choppers would contact me for a theme bike and I'd be on my way to stardom.  I'd ride off into the Hollywood sunset as Angelina Jolie anxiously awaited my arrival.  We'd exchange vials of blood and wear them around our necks as a ritual of loyalty. I'd go to swanky night clubs and fight with other celebrities in parking lots as they tried to make eyes with my baby. It was all going to be so perfect but that fucking shark never came around.  Next time, I may twist a few bluefish to my shorts.  I'll have my fame yet. 

As I emerged from the murky waters, defeated that my dreams would take yet another day, I made my way to my towel and lied in the sun.  After spending thirty minutes or so daydreaming and trying to be certain that I was tanning evenly, I opened my eyes to sheer terror.  As I was drifting amongst dreams of grandeur, a pack of locals had arrived in alarming numbers and set up what looked like a mini circus.  Tents, beach umbrellas, chairs, igloo coolers (which I'm certain were filled with pork chops, cold chicken and wonder bread), elastic waist band Bermuda shorts, 7-11 sunglasses, straw fishing hats, visors, NASCAR shirts and much bloating.  I cursed them to death.  "Do these people have any idea what they're doing to me," I angrily reflected.  How dare they ruin an otherwise peaceful afternoon.  I actively wished a plague on all of them.  I envisioned them all going on a group swim, as an enormous riptide pulled them to certain doom.  I would have waved to them happily as they were swept to the Indian Ocean.  Drunken sailors would hopefully poke sticks at them as they floated by...  I continued staring at them as the annoyance welled.  One fella kept standing in the middle of the circle with his hands on his fat hips, as he continued blabbing about some nonsensical shit.  The ring leader, I presumed.  His voice carried to my blanket and I had no radio to drown him out.  Something was gonna give, I feared.  I tried to communicate with them via telepathic messages, but it was all in vain. They carried on as if it were a day at the track and it was much too late for me to recover.  The damage was done and there was no return.  I tried to continue lying in the sun, but could not refrain from staring at the village they had created.  It was ninety feet in circumference and a complete contrast to the beauty of the surrounding environment.  Precisely why I refused to set foot on NY beaches.  In my most agitated manner, I returned to the waters and was willing to let the shark take me unchallenged.  Not even Angelina Jolie could help me now.  I was damaged goods.  My eyes were poisoned.  I bid her a painful farewell and splashed about.  No takers.

I dried off and went back to work.  We all need a place to hide.  Workaholics, perennial students?  Hiders.  Why should I be any different?

6/27/04: Absolutely Pointless

I think it's nigh time to be honest about my true feelings regarding topless bars... I'm not comfortable in them.  Although I'm usually one of the first people to recommend going to one, and I won't deny the excitement associated with the trip to them, I never know how to conduct myself once inside.  Should I act "aloof," should I give it the ol' "freshman try" and make a play for one of them, should I ignore them, be polite, tip them heavily, tip them lightly?  This is my dilemma.  I suppose my "issues" with topless bars has to do with the fact that I feel completely disappointed if I don't take a stripper home with me at the end of the night (a one time occurrence at the age of 22).  The fascination with strip clubs is fading as the mental gymnastics are proving to be too much.  All suggestions welcome.

Almost daily, as I get in my car and put the radio on, I hear "The Warrior," by Scandal.  I've had a verse from that song in my head now for months and it won't go away, but I really don't seem to mind all too much.  I went way too long without hearing that song... "Shootin' at the walls of heartache, BANG BANG!  I am the Warrior..."  I sometimes sing this out the blue for no particular reason.  It really is a cool tune.  They sure don't write 'em like that anymore...  I just did a google search to confirm the accuracy of the lyrics I was just quoting and I have to be honest with da' House when I admit that I was slightly off.  I had been singing, "Sittin' at the walls of heartache," when in fact I should have been "shooting."  My bad.  Some good came out of the google search, however, when I came upon another great Scandal song that I have not heard in some time now, entitled "Good-bye to you."  I'm sensing the purchase of a Scandal CD. 
      
It's getting funny and just ever-so-slightly 'unnerving' at the pier, where I often go shark fishing.  All of the teenagers have "taken" to me, and I'm typically surrounded by a young gang of eighth graders who are either asking me questions, breaking my balls, messing with my radio or stealing cigarettes.  I've actually employed one of them to build me a new fishing rod for sharks.  I've learned details of their lives such as: when they are getting their driving permits, who smokes pot, who's dating who, who got suspended from school, etc.  I actually know who they are referring to when they drop names.  It has reached the point whereas I would have to intervene on their behalf if they encountered foreseeable trouble. It's good that my neighbors have accepted me, but I sure do miss the adult world at times.  Without further ado, I bring you Scandal.
 

6/24/04: Scattered thoughts + Bonus Footage

Is it illegal, immoral or otherwise inherently "wrong," for a drunken 33 year old man to "make out" with a drunken 18 year old girl? If so, it wasn't me.

Just when I think I'm getting used to driving alongside 40 ton semi-trucks on I-95, one of them swerves within 4 inches of my car and I inch ever closer to a heart attack.

I'd finally like to comment on the Busch Beer advertisements. For years I have felt that they are very sexually overt in nature. Whenever the guy in his deep baritone, soothing, whispery seductive voice says, "Buschhhhhhh," over and over again, I instantly think of women. I don't know, but it strangely makes me want to drink more beer.

Saw the Kenny Loggins video of "Dangerzone" the other day on VH1 Classics, and could not believe how bad it was. The clips from "Top Gun" were naturally terrific, but Kenny Loggins performed for the video from a bedroom, sprawled out across a mattress at times. It was sad. He really should have opted to perform from the seat of a Ninja or a classic Corvette. I wonder if he's embarrassed when that video is replayed. I still think my favorite all-time video is "Gin-n-Juice," by Snoop Dogg. Gangsta rappers sure know how to put a quality video together.

Why do people like the band, Creed? Their music is so utterly unacceptable, in my opinion, that I automatically discredit anyone who feels otherwise. Why must only the great bands/performers die in tragic plane crashes? I hope they are a thing of the past.

I still think that RATT was the best glam-metal band of the 80's, and "Round and Round," the best song. I will accept arguments, but I will be tough to sway.

I asked my friend from Hoboken, to provide me with an itinerary of his daily life in unemployment. As a response to this request, he submitted the attached photo with no additional information. I thought it was brilliant and worthy of the front cover of Time Magazine. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

6/22/04: Dinner in Hoboken, New Jersey

I was talking with my friend from Hoboken yesterday, and during the course of the conversation, he relayed to me the details of his lunch, which was terribly gruesome in nature. I was stunned at his lunch selection and instantly knew it was most abnormal. If he was currently dating a woman, she would have dumped him on the spot. His lunch was as follows:

- spaghetti w/ Paul Newman sauce
- a bowl of peas
- (2) granola bars
- (2) crab cakes
- a cinnamon raisin english muffin w/ cream cheese.

He informed me that he was not hungry enough to finish the crab cakes, but gorged on them anyway, adding additional pounds to the thirty he has already put on during the last five months of unemployment. I told him that this was by far the most insane lunch I had ever had the misfortune of hearing about. I also told him to take photos of all future meals. He has obliged me, and last night's dinner selection stood out to me as being all too "bachelor-ish." A cheeseburger with Mott's apple sauce on a paper plate qualifies, in my opinion. I was also informed that the nearby pack of cigarettes was dessert. Anyway, there is no doubt as to why he is still single, nor I for that matter, as we typically speak by phone upwards of twelve times a day, relaying useless information to each other. I'm going to ask him to send me the typical itinerary of his daily unemployed life which should serve as a good read for everyone. It usually includes a nap or two before the clock has struck noon. The horrors of his life serve as a great motivational tool for me. We all need to get our inspiration from somewhere.

6/17/04: "Not in your lifetime, kid."

This is my message to singer/songwriter John Mayer, after watching him perform last evening alongside the great Paul Simon. As they alternated song selections (one from Mayer, one from Simon), I could not refrain from feeling angry towards John Mayer, for even being next to Paul Simon. I could not control the feeling that he had not earned his dues yet. His happy, Berklee-educated songs were in a staunch contrast to the streetwise, pain-stricken songs performed and written by Simon. Whereas Paul Simon reaches listeners on a primal level, Mayer simply appeals to adolescent innocence. His songs are "catchy," I'll give him that, but he is no voice of a generation. Simon is not only a voice of a generation, but is the voice of those hidden, dark instincts inside of us that are always seeking something. He provides hope and optimism in a world in which he sees as often light-less. A brilliant observer with songs such as "Homeward Bound," "The Boxer," "I am a Rock." I would have preferred to see him share the stage with Bon Jovi, as this would have avoided the comparisons. Mayer should have really taken a closer look at his own songs before allowing himself to pair up with a legend. But then again, with the shit that passes as "art" these days, what's the difference? Mayer has left me little choice but to completely ignore his existence as an artist. He has betrayed my trust, respect and better judgment. Anyway, patience for essay writing is no longer a trait that I possess, so that's all I have to say about John Mayer... May his next song be a giant top-ten waste of my time. After all, there must be '50 ways to write a hit song.'
 

6/11/04: "Don't hassle me, I'm local"

Yes, "don't hassle me, I'm local," as I'm now in possession of an official State of Florida driver's license. After four months in the Sunshine State, I decided it was time to surrender my last remaining paper identity from New York and commit to my area. It was a very painful experience as I sat in the motor vehicle office of Daytona Beach, amongst tobacco chewing ex-cons attempting to reinstate their licenses. It's amazing how utterly "ugly" rednecks are. Yes, I know that I'm originally from Long Island, and am therefore possibly under-qualified to pass such judgments on others, but I would like to apply my life experiences towards the necessary degree requirements, if applicable. Anyway, back to the locals. As I sat there amongst the savages, degenerates and brown teethed landscapers, I realized why it was that I delayed relinquishing my New York State license in exchange for a Florida license. It was an admission of acceptance on my part. These are my neighbors. As long as I held my New York license in my hands, I could claim affiliation with another set of neighbors. A cleaner, more sanitary set of neighbors. Neighbors with high school diplomas. Neighbors who have worked in environments that require just the smallest amount of 'acceptable social behavior.'... As my license was cut in half with a pair of scissors before my very "opened" eyes, the "sting" was very real. An official act of severance had occurred. That ultra hip, rat infested urban cesspool was now part of a previous chapter, only to be replaced by palm trees and race car driving. Dale Earnhardt Jr. appears to be the "favorite" amongst the numerous local Nascar fans, as his #8 appears across the fronts and backs of many-a-tee shirt and/or hat. Many tattoos have indicated undying allegiance to his late father as well. I'm in Earnhardt country. Fortunately, the "classic rock" stations in town are quite good. I might dare to say that they're better than those in New York. The same bands are played with regularity, but the song choices from the Florida DJ's are far superior. For instance, a New York station playing a track from Van Halen's "Diver Down," CD, will nine times out of ten play, "Dance the night away," whereas the Florida DJ will spin, "Where have all the good times gone?" Van Halen II? New York DJ will play "Beautiful Girls," Florida DJ will spin "Somebody get me a doctor!" It should all be much clearer now. So, this is what I've exchanged it all far. Better music in my car. Sometimes I think it's all worth it. Simple pleasures are very important. Why subject myself to all those New York distractions, when all I really wanted was to hear a good tune.

6/10/04: Television Theme Songs: The Prologue

They are bothering me. Almost without exception, I hate every single one of them. The exceptions to this rule are truly "exceptional." For instance, the "theme song/intro," to shows like Cheers, Mash, Hawaii 5-0, Magnum P.I., Miami Vice and Little House on the Prairie, are truly masterpieces and deserve my attention. Such fine detail was given to their creation, and they lead "us" into the episode by a great song and/or images. These "intro's" become a show unto their own... Now, take that silly, little show "Friends," for instance. I would like to systematically smash every member of the band that wrote that theme song in the face with a whiffle bat. It's an affront to my already heightened senses. It's almost as if the producers are begging me to take the law into my own hands and get "vigilante" on folk. (The above mentioned "exceptions" deserve an article of their own, but perhaps that will be reserved for another discussion when I feel like writing and/or feel more creative.)

Now let's have a "look" at shows like, "Seinfeld," or "Curb Your Enthusiasm." Great shows, no intro/theme song. Right to the show. Instant access. No pep-rally, no jingles, just show... "The Soprano's," which is supposedly the greatest show in television history, has a very long, drawn out ride in an SUV, giving great details to that cesspool known as Jersey, while pumping out some cheap basement lyrics. I always miss the first few minutes of "The Soprano's," because I cannot bring myself to give attention to such a dulling experience... And that's all I have to say about television theme songs.

Additional exceptions: Barney Miller, Good Times.

6/4/04
Being new to Florida and having no established friends or associates, I decided to give Internet dating a whirl. So, I placed an ad on one of the many sites available indicating that I had just moved down to the area from New York City. This was my first lie, as I had been living in Queens for the past 3.5 years. I also stated that I was a former "director" for major television networks in New York City. The second part of that statement was true. Then I got really "ballsy" and went on to state that I had done previous acting work in the city as well and had appeared in numerous commercials. (I did indicate that they were non-speaking roles.) Everything was now in place. Anyway, my profile took off like a rocket and I was soon getting responses from women that I really wanted to nail. Not prone to wasting time in these matters, I got to work on that immediately. Although I came down here with plenty in savings to hold me over, it's the unemployment checks that really make life here simple as I go to school, fish and suntan at the beach. Anyway, I fail to mention that I'm being financed by the state of New York to prospects, and I conduct myself as if I'm a well-to-do New Yorker, unburdened by financial stress. I forget the point of this story, but some very nice, young lady fell pretty hard for this self image projection and we've been on two dates. I "closed" on both meetings and abruptly decided that I didn't want to see her again. So, I stopped answering my phone without prescreening the call first, I no longer responded to emails, and I blocked my screen name from being visible while online. This represents my maturity in how I deal honestly with people... Anyway, she soon figured out what was happening and the efforts to contact me ended shortly thereafter. About two weeks go by and I think I'm in the clear and have ended the relationship. Then, on May 16, I get a phone call in the late afternoon and it's her on the line, wishing me a Happy Birthday. Two dates and she remembered this information. Anyway, I was squirming through the entire phone call and had a near panic attack on my couch. I extended numerous "thank you's," to her and made my promises. (I'll call, etc...) Never kept my promises. The point of the story is that I feel bad about what I've done and have removed my profile since then. From now on, I'll do my lying, deceit, and continue along my course of disappointing women the old fashioned way. Namely, encounters in bars. I guess I really have grown through the experience.