Yesterday's News

I love my life of cupboards;
to place the perfumes in plain view
on the dresser,
to hide the poisons in the highest cabinets,
out of reach of the children.

Nothing touches, and there is no mess.
My anger, dripping sweat,
diffused by your permeability,
the flashing back and forth of our
bodies together, interchangable,
the recognition of a bonded beauty;
the wanting of that forever.
Even this I can store apart
in a disinfected, bloodless
corner of the mind.

I love my life of cupboards;
the here and thereness,
the definability and
distillation of the once towering
essence of the Mysteries
in which I used to abide,
but now comfortably
fit in my drawers.
I try them on,
wear them out,
and throw them away,
like yesterday's news.

The Passenger

I am the passenger and I ride and I ride
I ride through the city's backsides
I see the stars come out of the sky
Yeah, the bright and hollow sky
You know it looks so good tonight

I am the passenger
I stay under glass
I look through my window so bright
I see the stars come out tonight
I see the bright and hollow sky
Over the city's ripped backsides
And everything looks good tonight
Singing la la la...

Get into the car
We'll be the passenger
We'll ride through the city tonight
We'll see the city's ripped backsides
We'll see the bright and hollow sky
We'll see the stars that shine so bright
Stars made for us tonight

Oh, the passenger
How, how he rides
Oh, the passenger
He rides and he rides
He looks through his window
What does he see?
He sees the sign and hollow sky
He sees the stars come out tonight
He sees the city's ripped backsides
He sees the winding ocean drive
And everything was made for you and me
All of it was made for you and me
'Cause it just belongs to you and me
So let's take a ride and see what's mine
Singing la la la la...

Oh the passenger
He rides and he rides
He sees things from under glass
He looks through his window side
He sees the things that he knows are his
He sees the bright and hollow sky
He sees the city sleep at night
He sees the stars are out tonight
And all of it is yours and mine
And all of it is yours and mine
So let's ride and ride and ride and ride
Oh, oh, Singing la la la...

-Iggy Pop

Sandbox

Here
is my sandbox;
here
I laugh and play
until the mosaic grit of the
salt and pepper grains
coat my body like
animalskin.

If only
I could so wear my joy,
if only
I wasn't such a snake;
in a state of constant
reinvention
as I attempt to navigate
the moody dunes.

And so you'll forgive me, because
I want at once
for you to lie with me and
to nip venemously at your heels.

A Collection of Characters, Pt. 1

So this post has been much longer than I anticipated, but it's pretty much entirely for my own benefit, so whatever. There are a lot of funny stories in there, so if you get bored ignore my commentary and read the bulleted sections. I'm breaking this into two parts, for the outbound and inbound journeys.

Here's the summary of our hitchhiking travels this past week. I'm not the most reliable storyteller, mostly because my memory for details is poor, and so I end up embellishing and making up half the facts. Fortunately for me, we met enough characters this past week that no added color on my part is needed, and so I will record these tales for future reference when my recollection dims.

• The first guy that picked us up was this old Jewish dude with three dogs and a '61 Cadillac. The Jews love me. Seriously. I have a long list of credentials and references. So it's not a big surprise to me that this guy was the only one to even look at us after standing on the side of the road for an hour out in Harriman, in the whitewashed suburbs of New York City. This guy was this old tropical plants salesman, he had to be about 70 something and he had just spent his whole life selling rich people these rare exotic plants. What a strange life! People fascinate me, particularly the nature of their life's work, because I strongly believe that this is what reveals the character of a man, his work, his action. Anyway, he was this very jolly sort of fellow, we sang along to Sinatra the whole way and Dave and I played with his labradors in the spacious backseat. I don't know much about cars but this one was beautiful and old, and it drove like a boat. I've always wanted a car with fins, silver-green, just like this one, and he told us about how he collects these things. Again, fascinating, people and their collections of old treasures. You could tell this guy was getting very nostalgic about youth seeing us out here, and kept imploring us, like so many elderly people do, to make the most of our youth, and I think it made him happy to see us doing just that. I also love old people who don't shy away from coarse humor, there's just something funny about our expectations of the dignity of old people and then hearing them talk about the girls they took out like half a century ago and realizing that not much changes. He dropped us off about an hour up, in Saugerties (sounds like Socrates).

Sidebar: Here, I encountered my first Stewart's ice cream stop/fuel station and bought a coffee milkshake, not realizing that Stewart's is like the Starbucks of upstate New York. Like honestly we were in towns with a population of 15, with 3 Stewart's. Like in some places the entire population of the town was honestly either employed at, eating in, or loitering outside of a Stewart's. Weird. More on this later.

• The next guy who picked us up was ex-NYPD with a thick yous-guys accent, so I was a little surprised, considering what we were doing, or at least where we were doing it, (thumbing on an interstate on-ramp) is illegal in New York State. I commented on this, and he said he didn't usually pick up hitchhikers, but that we looked like "nice boys". I'm not really sure what that means, especially considering our (polite) aggressiveness in soliciting rides and Dave's greasy mop-o-hair, but I guess it's a good thing, as we would be told this many times on the trip. Hopefully at least we are changing people's attitude towards hitchhiking in a small way. Anyway, this man could curiously, considering his former occupation, be described as a "lefty pinko nutjob," to borrow a phrase. He kept asserting that if we voted for McCain we'd be drafted the minute he was sworn in, as if McCain's secret agenda was to convert all the young men of America into cannon-fodder for the War on OPEC. Anyway, he did make some legitimate points, and I kept my politics out of the discussion for the most part because I'm still sitting on the fence and it seemed impolite and frankly pointless to disagree with this guy. I asked him for his favorite cop story, and somehow he turned the discussion back to the war by telling some story about policing the mobs who gathered to protest Nam. All in all, an interesting ride.

We were dropped off at a shopping mall in Albany/Schenectady, where we awaited pickup from our friend Susannah Krewson. In the meantime, Dave and I figured out how to climb the columns supporting the outside of the building. This would become a theme on the trip, ending in tragedy. Again, more on this later.

Susie dropped us off outside of S'tedy, where we hitched a short ride to the nearest rest stop. I offered the guy some of my premium mocha M & M's. He thought they were "OK". What an asshole. They were delicious, actually.

In David's experience hitching south, the rest stop circuit was the way to travel. It seemed promising, as we were able to personally address/charm all the traffic that went in and out. Unfortunately, northeners generally suck a lot more, and so we ended up waiting three hours for a ride. (I have to interject here that I am very appreciative of the fact that both of us, but especially Dave, are mostly very positive people. If I had been forced to endure these waiting periods with a pessimist, I probably would have thrown myself under a bus.) As it were, we had a very fun time regaling travelers and goofing around, but we were both tired and the sun was going down. You think it's hard to convince a total stranger to trust you in their car in the daytime, try doing it after nightfall. Graciously, we were given a ride to Pottersville, some boonie village in the Adirondacks. This part of the journey is one of my favorites.

• A kindly woman in her forties (but quite good-looking for her age) and her son took pity on us as dusk was fast approaching. Dave and I, being the wholesome All-American Cherry Pie Loving boys that we are, quickly worked our down-home charm and within 1o minutes were proferred an invitation to spend the night at her residence.
  

I'm going to take another sidebar here, so I don't have to say this again at every point where the account features an act of unsolicited human kindness. I had multifold reasons for taking this trip. First off, I'm an explorer and an adventurer at heart. I also like to prove people wrong. (I was told repeatedly "You're gonna die out there, you jackass.) Beyond that though, this is a discipline for me. Despite what inferences might be drawn about many situations in which I've found myself in the past, I don't like being stuck out in the open, with no shower, no food, and no place to stay. I don't like not having control over my environment. I'm typically independent and self-sufficient. I'm walled off, and I don't ask for things I can't return. I hate, above all, to be anyone's charity case. So, far from naivete on my part, this trip was a very conscious decision to throw myself at the mercy of humankind at large, to give up my "island-unto-myself" delusions and test my own character and that of a bevy of complete strangers. In America, land of the "self-made man", independence and self-sufficiency are two rarely questioned ideals, and yet they can just as often be weaknesses as they are strengths. So it may sound strange to say, "I have set out lately to consciously attempt to make myself more dependent on others." I was watching a show called "Dexter" on Showtime about a (rather endearing) pyschopath who murders only those who have committed heinous crimes. I shuddered first to realize how many similarities I had with this man in terms of my own lack of emotional vivacity, and, perhaps more frighteningly, how similar this man's value system is to my own, and to the American ideal of utilitarian justice. Eliminate those who pose a threat to society, answer only to yourself in terms of judgment.

Anyway, I digress. Dave and I had an unspoken agreement (we discussed this afterwards) that we wouldn't offer anyone money, because we were attempting to foster a community of free giving, and not one of exchange. A transaction would have cheapened the situation, and the joy I felt over that one guy or gal who stopped after a thousand passed by, being taken in by complete strangers when our presence offered no practical advantage and could only have caused them harm, was immense. These acts moved me, intensely, as nothing really has in a similar way in the past few months. I took a leap of faith by going on the road without a backup plan, albeit a small one, and time and again, my faith was nurtured and rewarded. Consequently, my relationship to God has never felt stronger. Love is only understood when experienced from both ends. I'm beginning to realize that although for the most part I am able to give love freely, I'm largely unable to accept it, for fear of becoming vulnerable to it. By placing myself in a position where I had no other choice, I got to know some truly wonderful people in a small way.

Alright, you can go vomit now, or stage a love-in, whatever you want, that's my touchy-feely rant for the day.

Back to the strayt dope.

• So this segment takes some curious turns. The car, a very shiny and newish seeming Aztek, is driven by her son. Both this woman and her son have iPhones, and so I guess between the car and the technology Dave and I both sort of subconsciously formed this perception of affluence. Anyway, they drop us off at a gas station right off the exit, which conveniently has this like boondocks WaWa in it, and we procure some mad tasty burgers. We solicit rides for another hour untill it gets really dark and we can see people backing away and reaching for the pepper spray, so we give us and hike up this mountain to where this lady lives. So this place, safe to say, not what we expected. It's this double wide trailer with various rooms and levels just spouting up from it at random intervals, like some crazy redneck castle. Her boyfriend is just chillin' on the couch, sporting a well-coiffed mullet, drinking Milwaukee's Best, and watching America's Funniest Home Videos. I'm overjoyed, as my love for mullets is also well-documented. Hell even Dave, to his credit, once sported one of the most beautiful mullets I've ever seen. But that's a different story. This lady lets us use her computer and just knocks herself out makin sure we're comfortable. It was so awesome, I don't think I've thanked anyone more in my life. Anyway, we sleep, wake up early to hit the road, and as we leave Dave notices her playing online slots (you apparantly can't keep people from inventing new and creative ways to throw away their money) and on the porch, sitting there, are two Molotov Cocktails. Weirded out. Why they couldn't buy shotguns for defense, like a normal hick family, I will never know. Anyway, Dave and I puzzled for days over the curious mishmash of expensive toys and boondocks living. I think they robbed a bank or something, and are building a Fortress of Solitude in the hills to protect themselves. Or they are superheroes, living among us as Cledis Kent and LouEllen Lane. Just a theory.

We hike to the freeway and catch a short ride to the next rest stop. Again, a few hours till we're picked up. We get tired and badger this lady into picking us up and driving us to Lake Placid, which is way the fuck out of our way, but we're moving again.

• Our driver is another middle aged woman, which becomes a trend. I think these ladies are out of their minds, picking up two strange men, but I guess overall we're two pretty nice looking fellers and old chicks get lonely too. This one was lively. The road to Lake Placid was narrow, two lanes, but she put the pedal to the metal and passed people up like Steve McQueen. We barely had time to dig the spectacular view and relics from past Olympics that littered the side of the highway. I'm not really a jittery dude, but I was definately hanging onto the "Oh Shit!" bar most of the way. We talked eastern philosophy, debunked postmodernism, defended Christ and ate some wicked roast beef sandwiches. (Dave's was better than mine, but that's just because he refused to think outside the box and went with the house special, while I tried to be a renegade and make the sandwich my canvas. So, Dave, I stick to my guns. Asshole.)

We chilled for an hour at Lake Placid. It was a beautiful day. Breathtaking. We hitched a ride from a family of four in a Windstar (again, I appreciate the ride, but they have small children in the car...what the heck are they thinking??) and got dropped off about ten miles from the northway (I-87, this is what the yokels call it).

• Not two minutes later, we get picked up by this very jolly man. We soon learn the source of his jollihood, as he reaches into the glove compartment and cracks a Natty Light while he steers with his knees. I'm in the backseat and can't see Dave's face but I'm grinning like a motherfucker, half out of, "Oh, snap..." and half out of, "Just when I thought this place couldn't get any hicker..." and half out of "This is going to make a good story." It was a backcountry road, no traffic, and we didn't think homeboy could do much damage anyway. So this guy is a chatty Cathy, and tells us his life story, about how he was kicked out of his hometown (Keeseville) over to the next down 15 miles down the road (Ausable Forks) because his ex-wife left him and took everything he had. This ride is starting to feel like a bad country song. He also makes the hilarious assertion that every woman in the area has double D's because "there's something in the water". Dunno, about that, but there's definately something in his "water". This best part, though, is when it becomes painfully obvious that this guy has never been more than 30 miles from his hometown. He asks where we're going and we tell him, Montreal. The exchange goes something like this:

"Well I don't know anything about Montreal" he says, "but if you guys are going North, you gotta go to PLATTSBURG."

*Exchange of blank stares*

"You mean you never heard of PLATTSBURG? They got everything up there! They got women, a monument, the BATTTLE OF PLATTSBURG! Ya gotta go to PLATTSBURG."

Dave is sitting in th frontseat looking dumbfounded as I'm cracking up in the backseat. He takes us to a gas station by the northway and we go our merry way and he, his.

Now, the way I see it there are two rides that constitute the Holy Grail of hitchhiking. The first is a topless woman with a Ferrari and a fresh sack of bud. Shockingly, we didn't find any of those. What we did find though, was almost as good: a motorcycle gang. I got excited and sent Dave over to beg a ride while I thumbed by the on ramp. Unfortunately, they insisted that we have helmets, which stupidly we lacked to foresight to pack, but in a brilliant stroke of luck, the man fueling up at the adjacent pump was going all the way to Montreal. Dave crackled me the good news on the walkie-talkie, I gave a fist pump of triumph, and away we were whisked to Canadia.

• This guy, as it turns out, was either really boring or I was just to exhausted to listen anymore. I think he was an engineer of some sort, going up to visit his girlfriend. What was cool though, was that this guy (like most of the people who picked us up) was a former hitchhiker and was also a member of CouchSurfing.com, the website that Dave and I are members of, and that we used to find a place to stay up in Montreal. Basically, it's a community of people who, like us, believe in cultural exchange and hospitality. People send us messages and stay with us when they come through Philly, and we in turn have a place to crash almost anywhere in the world, giving and receiving freely, learning from others. The kind of world I'd like to live in. So we exchanged information, he offered us a place to stay out in Keane, which is apparantly some artsy outpost in upstate New York. Cool Stuff.

And we arrive! The tricky part was convincing the border agents that we weren't homeless vagrants (we certainly looked it) planning to cross the border and camp out for good. We showed them that we were carrying plenty of money and told them about our trip, and about couchsurfing. The french Canadian border patrol guard who interrogated was incredulous that something like this existed, but she ran background checks and everything graded out, and Jack dropped us off at the Metro stop.

I'm tired of writing and just want to get this up, so I'll include our adventures in Montreal in my next installment. Hope you enjoyed reading thus far!

SW

All Signs Point to WEST

Lady Liberty may have her back turned on Jersey, but for a few thousand concertgoers this August 8th at the All Points West music and arts festival, the freedom to light some “torches” of their own and dance like idiots (err…maybe that was just me) was to be found across the bay in Liberty State Park. Indie favorites Radiohead, Girl Talk, Andrew Bird and the New Pornographers carried the bill on the first night of the three day festival, which, unfortunately was the only date I could afford. The City ain’t cheap and here at First Call…well, I’m still waiting on that first paycheck.

Like most in attendance I was there primarily to see the Greatest Band in the Universe at what may very well be the peak of their career. If you’ve read my column in the past or heard me speak consecutive sentences, you’ll know who I’m talking about. I was born with two ears and a soul, so scraping enough cash together to see Radiohead has been one of my more pressing desires for a long time. This summer’s North American tour in support of their latest and (in this writer’s opinion) greatest effort, In Rainbows, was not something I was prepared to miss, and I wasn’t going to let a minor inconvenience like living in New Mexico, the forgotten outhouse of America, stop me.

Radiohead has become a brand name and starry-eyed, flannel-garbed gushing over their greatness is an unquestioned hipster cliché, but I could really give a shit. Anyway, I’m no hipster, clichés are generally established for a reason, and (surprise surprise) I’m actually devoting most of this issue’s column to the slightly lesser known acts who stole the show earlier on in the afternoon (not least of which was the Venezuelan lady selling Arepas at the far end of the park.)

After braving the half mile line to board the ferry, managed by a toolish, haggard-looking attendant with a bad facial hair problem and an attitude to match, we arrived at the side stage in time to see husband/wife duo Mates of State. I had heard lots of good things about them, and I was looking forward to hearing some of their material. They definitely didn’t disappoint. Jason Hammel banged away at the drums like Meg White with chops, and Kori Gardner (wo)manned the synth/keys with gusto. I really enjoyed the energy they brought to the stage. I could tell they genuinely loved to be up there together, and that translated to a very tight synergy, especially in their vocal harmonies that contrasted pleasingly with the frantic pace and meandering structures of their music.

Afterwards we ventured across the park to see Canadian “supergroup” The New Pornographers, fronted by alt-country artist Neko Case and A.C. Newman, formerly of Zumpano and Superconductor. Sandwiched around a bevy of Canadian in-jokes, the Pornographers performed a very passable Cars pastiche, highlighted by the hook laden “Use It” and “Sing Me Spanish Techno”, two favorites that I could listen to over and over without feeling punished, unlike Newman’s lament in “Techno”. They closed off the set with a sing-along rendition of ELO’s “Don’t Let Me Down.”

Brazilian dance-pop band CSS could appropriately be described as “all flash and no cash”, with functionally danceable but all-too-predictable beats and a stage show highlighted by two instrument free girls hopping around in neon jazzercise unitards. Fun, but definitely my least favorite act of the day.

I left their set early to go see Andrew Bird, one of my personal favorite artists. Although my friend Margaret accurately pegged him as “pretentious”, pretention has never sounded so sweet. I’ve been enamored with Bird’s music since I saw him last September at the Austin City Limits festival, his performance there being one of the most awesome solo performances I’ve ever seen. His classical training shines through in his sweeping violin-driven sound, but he really sets himself apart in the distinctive looping and layering effects he employs live in his attempt to recreate his lush studio sound. Whistling like his namesake in one moments, furiously attacking a guitar or a violin in the next, it is truly a delight to watch and listen to. Any lover of words can also appreciate his clever turns of phrase, punctuated by his soaring baritone.

By far the most entertaining all-around performance was given by mash-up artist Girl Talk. Sporting a red jersey, hot pants, and a wall of matted, greasy hair, Greg Gillis looked every bit the sort of dude who spends a lot of time in his basement dissecting Top 40 hits, but he managed to enlist the help of some friends to put on one hell of a show. He invited a large portion of the audience up on stage with him to augment his sparse set up, and scantily-clad breakdancing, ball tossing, and toilet paper pitching ensued, all set to the tune of Gillis’ frenetic and unabashed pilfering of pop favorites.

To close the night, Radiohead was sublime, although I was too short to see much of the stage in the packed crowd, and I can’t say much about them that you don’t already know and I haven’t already stated in this column, but I can definitely say that I got to see them at the top of their game. Overall, the trip was worth every penny, and I encourage whatever readership I have to go out and support these artists by going to their shows and purchasing their music. But you don’t have to take my word for it; after all, if it’s good enough for America’s favorite statue to raise a light to, it’s good enough for you.

Fanmail

This is my beautiful black enticement: each friend is a spotlight into a slow unravelling spindle that I cannot reverse. If Hope was the last bird rentained, then perhaps Innocence was the first to escape. These timeless moments pull me in seven directions, as the contest between my divine self (tired) and my animal self (ravenous) drags me outside to howl (quite literally) at the moon (my final tightrope between the physical and the ambrosial). I am profoundly moved and deeply scathed. Who will endure my face as I kiss you and shove you to your death, eighteen stories? I cannot love, and I will die before my time. ____ you are nothing to me, and I need everything from you...this is an open letter, and I am sorry for the burden of expectation, you didn't ask for it. Damn you for everything, damn you for being so gorgeous that I lose my language in front of you. Thank God that I am not a Judge, I am a simple charon, collecting, collecting, listening to stories and pilfering coins. When you see a bridge in the fog, remember me, straddling a line I would have never drawn.

SW

In the Village

Newyorksunday and after
spending the afternoon with Dali
I can think of nothing
but the slow sweet oildrip of time.

Later, I remember
what you said about that exit sign,
and I think I understand it,
as outside,
language sheds the artless yoke of meaning
and dissolves into shakerleg city music:
The stuttering trills of the Dominican parade
hum like a pack of mayflies,
joyful in their ephemerality.
On the subway, an old man
is rasping and his words
are flattened beneath
the rushing wheels of the traincar,
just as my clumsy whisperings
must have slid right off your ear
and thudded on the floor, unnoticed.

I feel like the man in that film, Un Chien Andalou:
I am struggling so hard
to shed all of this absurd baggage;
dragging a baby grand,
some strange dead animal,
and these two hilariously nonplussed clergymen,
all while this crazy ant colony
is inexplicably trying to escape from my palm,
and all I wanna do is just
try to cross the room
to where the girl is standing.

I tried to explain some guy thing
to you at the baseball game,
and you're right:
I suck at explaining everything.
So here's another thing
only I will ever understand,
because it comes from my
rectangular perspective:
I have gladly given up sleep
to follow the roller coaster curve
of your moonwhite skin as it falls
down from your shoulders and
rises up to your hips as the weight
of your legs are draped over mine,
a line that can never be painted or filmed
but only watched and touched
at a certain moment,
in a certain light.

Another thing I wish I wrote:

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

-e.e. cummings