hey man

phil michael and i were smoking cigarettes and listening to old boston punk records last night. around 11 we left to go to the country club because at midnight it would be my birthday. we were a block away when we got the call that sully was at my house. he had just arrived in new york. becka hopped in a cab from hell's kitchen and was there to meet us in ten minutes. i wanted to do a carbomb so we all did them and they tasted so good.

the flu is a real sonofabitch. the sidewalks of brooklyn are covered with snow outside, but my head is a tropical 100 degrees and i'm stuck inside dreaming of high tides and six packs of budweiser while the egg yolk is dipping slowly in a summer sky. the television is slowing my brain, but it's a trusty friend that never stops keeping me company. anyways, put some charcoal on the grill, let it get white hot and i'll be around in a few with some good jokes and a few cold ones to ease us into the summer night. Are those the neighbors who are lighting off firecrackers?

doomed and cool

i was eating dinner with some friends last night and the conversation of fashion versus style came up. my point of view is that you can have no sense for fashion but still have great style. I dont care who designs my clothes, i just want to look good when i wear them. willie and eddie in the film "stranger than paradise" are the perfect example of this. not only is this film perfect visually, but the look and feel of the characters make me wish i dressed like that.

i was eating breakfast in my dining room yesterday morning watching the snow fall lazily out of the double window when an unexplainable feeling came over me. i was listening to an old tom waits album that i had purchased the day after christmas in a basement level record shop in harvard square and i heard this line, "he dreams of a watiress with maxwell house eyes, marmalade thighs, and scrambled yellow hair." I'm not sure why, but into my mind crept visions of neon signs, hollywood diners, and a forgotten american era and i suddenly started to feel strangely emotional. How have we let the golden era's slip away so easily? why does no one care that we're losing our identity? I'm in desperate need to take a trip through the heart of the country to find an america that still exists in my head, because right now new york isn't quite doing the trick.

R.I.P.

Ron Asheton from the stooges is dead.
1948-2009
rest in peace