There’s a new-ish bar in the neighborhood that I hadn’t been to yet and I heard that it was pretty cool, so we decided to check it out last night. We ordered drinks, saw that they had a backyard, so we took our drinks and were walking towards the back when a drunken, swaying, dreadlocked white boy stumbled into my path. His back was turned to me, so I said, polite as can be

“Excuse me”

nothing.

“Excuse me, bro”

nothing. No acknowledgment of my presence at all.

Now I gotta do the tap on the shoulder thing. I hate that shit. My second, loud enough,  EXCUSE ME should be enough for you to GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY. So I do the gentle little shoulder touch to say “hey guy! comin through!” and one more verbal “‘scuse me!”, which finally elicits a response. Not the polite response you would expect, like the one you should give when you are temporarily unaware of the fact that you’ve invaded someone’s personal space or impeded their path to getting somewhere that they want to be in a tight space. It happens. “Oh, sorry man!”. Maybe give a quick smile and an apologetic nod.

Not this hero. I got a raise of the arms and a “what the fuck” look. Like HOW DARE you tap me on the shoulder.

I’m with my girlfriend and I let it go. Even when I’m not with my girlfriend, that’s my thing now. I try to let shit like that go. I’ve been through it already. I’m 40 and the last thing I need is to get in a beef with a 22 year old drunken “skater guy” in a flannel in a shitty little bar over something so foolish. There are too many people who get hurt over trivial shit in this world.

A little while later, in the backyard of this bar, a really huge and really drunk guy began a very animated cell phone conversation with his baby mama, and it made everyone in the yard a little uneasy. It made me happy! I don’t like encountering “problem” people in a public place anymore than I enjoy encountering rude, entitled jerkoffs, but sometimes, I take a little bit of comfort in watching people in a bar around here who think they are in Disneyland become a little uneasy. I miss that about New York City. The presence of potential danger at all times at the hands of some bad drinker/lunatic who is having a shitty day and may decide to take it out on “every motherfucker in here!”.

A few weeks ago, I was in a different pub and there were a group of “rowdy” dudes in there whooping it up on their big night out in the Brooklyn playground for adult babies. Yelling at each other, playing grab ass, bumping into people, eyeballing and saying shitty things to every girl that walked by, and all that other crap that annoying alpha male dickweeds who can’t handle their alcohol do at a bar. I recognized a guy sitting by himself quietly at the end of the bar, sipping a pint and reading a newspaper. An old neighborhood acquaintance, someone I’ve known for around 15 years, and  I couldn’t help but think…

Bump into that guy. Be a smartass to him. Ya see, a few years ago, I saw that guy get disrespected at a bar not far from here, and I watched that guy bring the person who disrespected him to the brink of death with his bare hands, right in the middle of the street.
Well, that didn’t happen, and they remained oblivious, which is fine I guess. I don’t enjoy violence or seeing anyone get hurt or get into shit. But, one can dream.
Meanwhile, back at the bar, while I’m listening in on drunk looney guy’s baby mama drama and scanning the room to gauge everyone’s reaction, I spot rude dreadlock boy. He has since been joined by a group of friends.They are all…

SIGNING. Communicating in sign language. He’s deaf. I’m a dick. Lets keep this little talk between us, mkay? The end.

I’m going to Connecticut. This year, not only will we have the usual blue beams of light, reading of the names, and rehashing of the events of that day over and over again on every TV channel, but we also have the controversy over the mosque and the ensuing madness with burning or not burning Korans, Imams, bigoted, wackjob Florida pastors and Donald fucking Trump (go away dude, really) added to the mix. Who needs it. 

As far as this mosque thing is concerned, I’m still trying to figure out how we can justify telling (or asking) anyone how or where they can practice their religion in this country. We’ve become a nation of pussies, not because we aren’t “patriotic” enough as most of the right is screaming, but because we are worried about defending the “delicate sensibilities” of certain people. The right goes on and on about how political correctness is killing the fabric of this country, yet expects us to tread lightly where the 911 victims’ families are concerned, in the name of religious intolerance.

I’m a “New Yorker”, I lived here when it happened, saw tower 2 fall with my own eyes, and I’ll “never forget” it. It was probably the worst day of my life for a number of reasons, but I’ll tell ya what…I’m fucking sick of rehashing it and I’m concerned that we haven’t moved on from it. We haven’t. Its 9 years later, we aren’t any safer from terrorism, thousands upon thousands of young Americans (and countless others) have died in the name of 9/11, there’s still a huge hole where the towers stood, and Osama Bin Laden walks this earth as a free man. This is what we should not be FORGETting. Let’s throw up these ugly new towers, let the Islamic evildoers have their shrine to Osama, and lets get on with our fucking lives. That would be “winning”. This isn’t.

So, I don’t need to hear the names or pray or bow my head to the blue beams of light visible from my front steps. I don’t need to watch the towers fall again on continuous loop on CNN and listen to people recount their stories from that day.  I’m just gonna point the car north and move forward.

Tria and I went out to Jersey this weekend to celebrate the marriage of one of my oldest and dearest friends, the second of four weddings that we will be attending this year. Gary and his fiance had planned a traditional wedding, but instead, had a baby this year, then went down to city hall one day a few weeks ago, did the deed, then threw a party at an Italian restaurant in our hometown for family and friends. His wife is Dominican, so the mix of people and the music (Sinatra-merengue-Elvis-bachata-Dean Martin-salsa-old school hip hop) was a lot of fun. You haven’t had fun at a wedding until you’ve watched a 65 year old Italian man from Newark in a sharkskin suit buggin’ out to Kurtis Blow on the dance floor. Tria seems to get a kick out of my Jersey people. They all still call me “Ace”, they eat a lot, drink a lot, talk a lot of shit, and do funny things. (My friend Sean missed the cutting of the cake because he left the wedding to go get lottery tickets.)

I became friends with Gary one day after our 6th grade class got out and we went to the store together to steal candy (he was successful, I was not). We were 12. So, after 28 years of friendship, and all we’ve been through together, and seeing his mom, who was always like a second mom to me (and who will be at my wedding if/when that happens), smiling and dancing and toting her newborn grandson around like the happiest grandma in the world, I’m really glad that we got to participate in the celebration of the next chapter of their lives. When he pulled me aside while we were saying our goodbyes at the end of the night and said to me It means the world to me that you came out for this, more than anyone here, it meant the world to me.

I spent most of the day out in Jersey today, there was a memorial service for Lisa at a funeral home. When I say “memorial service at a funeral home”, I mean….just that. There was no body, no casket, no wake, no “funeral”.  She apparently wished to be cremated, so in the chapel was a small box with her ashes, and a really beautiful picture of her from her graduation from nursing school. On each side of that were two huge poster boards filled with pictures, some really great ones. My favorite part of the collage was a note, handwritten on parchment paper that she kept on her refrigerator under a magnet that said If I only liked normal people, I’d have no friends.  This is a slight insight as to who she was.

So who was she? Lisa was my neighbor on Kenneth Avenue from the time I was 12 years old. She was 4 years older than me, and her and her brother Ricky were part of our whole little crew that used to hang out at each others’ houses and at Alpine Park. She was tall, smart, and very pretty.  She wanted to model. She liked Black Sabbath way more than the average person. She told me when I was 13 and going through a real goofy and awkward stage that I was going to be a “ladykiller” some day and that if I wasn’t 13, she’d make me her “boyfriend”.  She taught me how to drive a car when I was 14.  She took me to see Slayer when I was 15. She moved away from Kenneth Avenue a couple of years later, and I did as well. When I came back from Florida and got an apartment in Elizabeth, she started dating my friend and roommate Eric, and our friendship became full time again. We stayed in touch throughout the years, you know how it is with old friends. You see them, you don’t, you see them again, but its all good. Its always there. Lisa was never afraid to offer advice, or take advice, or offer encouragement, or tell me when I was “being a dick”, right up until not very long ago. She was brutally honest and real. Real. She said what was on her mind and you had to just deal with it. Not in that obnoxious way though, like those people you know who pride themselves on being “brash and outspoken”, but who are really just self serving, obnoxious assholes who enjoy hearing themselves talk. You know. Those people. Lisa wasn’t that at all. She cared, and she was kind, she just told you the truth. Real. 

The last plans we made were to meet up for Faith No More in July. I remember when the tickets went on sale, she was pretty psyched and we planned a whole thing to meet up that night. She didn’t make it. She was “sick” that night.

So what happened? Lets just say that she made a couple of mistakes that contributed to what must have felt like the most helpless of downward spirals, and the end result was her having to leave us. I can’t really explain it any better right now. I am angry, heartbroken, confused, and sad all at the same time.

I was discussing with Ryan last night the Facebook thing. People are posting things like “You’re in a better place now” and “I hope you have found the peace you were searching for”. Now, I’m not dumb enough to not realize that this is part of the grieving process for some people (and yes, the whole religion/heaven thing). But, my initial reaction to that has been no, fuck that. The place she should be is here, amongst her friends, and the “peace” she should have is also here, caring for people and animals (a nurse and also a dogsitting business on the side), living life and trying new things with that exuberance and energy of few I’ve ever known, amongst all of us that she left behind. And its going to take a long time for me to not see it that way. Maybe never.

If I only liked normal people, I’d have no friends.

I’m not even sure why or what I’m doing, but I have a lot on my fucking mind and I feel like writing again. Maybe its because my friend who died this week really enjoyed my web site from ten years ago and always said that I should write more. I’m not a “writer”, nor will I ever claim to be, but as we all know it feels good sometimes.

Lisa’s memorial service is tomorrow. I’ll do another entry about all that another time, I don’t feel like thinking about it today.  Apparently, she will be or was cremated so its a “memorial service” instead of a wake or funeral. I shaved my face. Not for the memorial service necessarily, but because I was tired of looking at ol’ scruffy face. Whenever I grow a beard (or my shitty attempt at a half-assed beard), the initial shave always feels good. Feels like a new start.  Reclaiming my face. Taking off the mask. Nothing to hide behind.
First thing I did after my shower/shave was to hit C-town for some BBQ items, and I got ID’ed for the beer, something that hasn’t happened for a while. By the very pregnant and very teen-aged cashier. 
As I was leaving, this Spanish dude was in a huff about the fact that the manager told him that he needed to check his backpack before entering the store. He started screaming at him in Spanish, and while my understanding of Spanish isn’t great, I recognized the words he used, and after putting the word jumble together in my head, I concluded that he said If I was white, you wouldn’t make me do it. Take it from whitey, dude, not true.  Though I could be perceived as somewhat of a derelict upon first glance sometimes, this sucio blanco has to check his bags at the door like everyone else. Chill, dude, its gorgeous out.

not the shitty metal band from San Diego. Well, actually, I always thought their songs were sort of catchy. Just kidding. Sort of.

Anyway, I have a “photo of the day” blog, it’s called Keep Walking, and here’s the link…

http://keepwalkingbrooklyn.tumblr.com

I take one pic per day with my cell phone, and the goal initially was to capture a moment that truly represented my day. Since I started doing this in late August, I have accomplished that sometimes. Other days, well, there just wasn’t one moment that was a true representation of my day, so I took a nice pic of something that was either visually appealing or amusing to me, uploaded it, and got the fuck on with my life.

I haven’t cheated yet, though. I haven’t used a stock pic of the New York skyline or my dog looking silly from a few months ago and put it up when I didn’t have anything. Even those days when I didn’t leave the house (or my bed, for that matter) other than to walk Bernice, I managed to muster something up.  I’m sure it will happen though.

I already have more than enough pics of the Williamsburg Bridge from every fucking angle, for example, and on some of those days I may have tanked it and taken a shortcut, but there are those days where I come home from a fucking shitty day at work, or come home in the morning from a shitty night of boozing, and my only solace for that hour or so is taking my dog for a nice long walk and looking up at that bridge. It reminds me of all the shitty, rotten, wonderful and great things that have happened to me in my 8 years of living in Brooklyn, the friends I’ve made (and lost), and sometimes, it just makes me feel better and reminds me that after a few hours of sleep, I get to start over. It’s no Brooklyn Bridge (WINK WINK), but it’s always been there for me and it can be fucking beautiful when it wants to be.

Why “Keep Walking”? It was between that and “Oh, Snap!” (which I still think is brilliant, if any of my friends who talk about doing something like this wanna use that, have at it). I went through a really rough breakup a few years ago, and when something is bothering me, I can’t sit still, I tend to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. However, my apartment is kind of small. So what do you do under those circumstances? Go take a fucking walk. Walk it out. Walk it off. It’s always been therapeutic for me. And that’s what I did during my break up six years ago. I didn’t call her, I didn’t write, I just fucking walked. And walked. These streets reminded me of her, they were “ours”, but I took them back for myself and before I knew it, they were mine. (The walk usually ended with a stop at the bar and a four hour drinking session, but you get my point) .

It’s not walking away from your problems, it’s getting to know yourself again by spending some quality time, and moving forward. Be thankful for your experiences, whether they be blissful or painful, because life is a constant learning process. And after another shitty breakup a few years later, I was left with a dog. And what’s better than anything for a dog? Walking. So we walk. It’s what the fuck we do. Keep walking.

Some of em will be interesting, some of em will end up being more important to me than I could imagine right now, and some of em will be straight up fucking boring. But I hope  my friends enjoy it. Thanks.

12/20/96   1AM
42nd and 7th

The most amusing part about it was your nose. I’ll get to why later. It was obvious that you had a bit too much to drink tonight. You obviously didn’t have your wits about you. But, that’s not my fucking problem. It’s yours. It came dangerously close to being both of ours, though. I kind of got the hint that you were talking shit, although you didn’t do it directly towards me. You were making drunken comments that I wasn’t sure were directed towards me at first, but after intentionally listening a bit closer,  I realized that they were directed towards me. The big, tall guy in the trucker cap that you were with, your boy,  was pretty drunk himself, but, he obviously handles his liquor a little better than you do. He was telling you to shut the fuck up, and chill out. But I didn’t even really hear what you were saying. i could just feel that you had some crazy idea in your head that I was someone that you thought that you could fuck with, on your drunken night out in “the city”. Did I really look like that much of a punk to you? What’s funny is that, right before your boy dragged you off to the other side of the platform, I started to get angry that here i was, just taking the train home after a long and exhausting rehearsal that has completely drained me physically and emotionally, and here you are, in my fucking life. I’m waiting for my train to take me home, and because you had too much to drink, I’m investing emotions that have to do with you, you fucking inbred piece of shit. And right about that time, was when my right fist clenched, and I had the most glorious of fantasies about that fist connecting with your big, ugly, brown nose. Fuck the burner in my right pocket when there is a certain nose that breaks when it is hit with such force…a nose like your big, bony nose. I imagined the sound, and the vision of you falling to the ground, stunned. And the blood gushing uncontrollably from those huge nostrils. And you will never know how close it came to actually happening. Just one more word. And then your boy dragged you away.