I Heart Huckabees is terrible.

Zack, Laura - Pirates!

Stumbled upon a new collection of pirate ballads, sea songs and chanteys called Rogues Gallery. Track list looks good.

Listen here and here.

"My Bad"

llello, not yayo.

Interested in colabrative writing thingy? First lines here. Enter your email in the comments if you'd like to add anything.

NY Writing, Pt 2

Just passed Fahrenheit 451 Swimwear and The Animal Farm Petting Zoo. 2 legs bad, 4 legs cute?

Sitting in a little jazz club between sets. Subway burrows 20 feet behind us along 9th Avenue. Avenue... revenuers.. talking about pine barrens, fires in the Hamptons, continents - that long ride back from the beach house.

Anyway, the nice thing about watching a good band is the smile which ends up tattooed to your face. These people are in the Olympics of musicianship. Interesting enough, the crowd treats it as a sport. A yelp of glee coincides with certain crescendo's. the players are all male (as is the audience), and we're all stored in our secret basement clubhouse.

An exercise in listening, different conversations:

"This guy was... a bit lousy" (pronounced as the insect)

"...he actually... uh... sells his own drums"

Another exercise, free write:

cigar box underarm holds reserve laughter smiles mouth pinned teef polished shadow over eyes we accept it real grin back. A girl speaks of duality two-allity. As if the know was the end. Obviously the know is the beginning - of bullshit most probably.

It's unfortunate that I have so many objectives in being here. The club I mean. The narrator's version of me never has more than 5 reasons to do something, and they all relate to, lead to understanding of his character, novel's theme, life.

Back home watching the cousin draw. He wears his just fashionable enough clothes in the way another man might wear a suit. It is possible that we feel a similar satisfaction in the tying of belt buckles, straightening of jackets, and placement of wallets in back right pockets. He has taken the habit of using 15 words to say what a young and excitable person says in 5. It seems to frustrate him. And he sighs habitually. Alltogether a lesson and promise of myself in 6-8 years.

I haven't described the rest of my family, or gotten back to my brother, or the weekend in South Hampton. (You might as well cross that Hampton bit off your list). Still no sight of my final thoughts.

Either the Daily Show or a bar and concert tomorrow night. The Cousin backpeddles slightly on concert offer, not sure if he tries to save himself or your author.

Running out of ink. Seriously.

Seen above the body of water on New York's West Side: A plane tugging a sign advertising Snakes on a Plane's 8/18/06 release. Still doesn't seem real.

Part 1,000,000 of Things I Like About NY: Arranging to meet people. A complicated process, requiring detailed knowledge of streets, buses, and trains. If you're lucky, rendevous will be changed in transit. Envious passerbys will gawp as you bark instructions into your cellphone. Traffic will be too loud. It will be a crisis situation. Don't worry. You will weather the storm. You are a secret pretend New Yorker.

Realized, as I wrote those last sentences, that the preceding paragraph resembles and encrypted communication. Signal to Noise Ratio indeed.

The same man is interviewed once a day by CNN, but in different cities and under different names. He is caucasion, balding, middle aged, and works in insurance. The interviews are a hobby. He has not informed CNN.

Maggie has suspected her father since christmas, when she learned his model train set has had no electrical power since 1978.

1978 is the year Maggie's sister was born.

A description of the clouds below me and our plane, before the sun was burried by horizon:

"Clouds furrowed like goose bumped albino skin".

Slightly goolish, but necessary to avoid comparison with lamb's coat or the blond girl from last night. The best part was the beginning, faces kiss close to rage into each other's ear. The music was very loud.

I'm on my way back to meet the brother. I expect things will be much the same. He did a line on Sunday, the end of his three week vacation from cocain. I can't imagine it as coincidental - his vacation ends half-way through my own vacation.

I had made the decision not to blame myself. People can generally be treated as independent, a practice with interesting and catastrophic results.

Business Card, side A:

This Is Not A Pipe

-

est 2003

Business Card, Side B:

We povide: writings brilliance solutions

Ben Grad (404) 754 9569 fifth@333.org

[picture of fish]

I'd draw you a picture if that was my profession.

Touchdown. If Newton was right, we have probably moved our planet a tiny amount closer to the sun.

The suburban lights of Atlanta spelled something below us, and I missed it, damnit.

More Books

Just picked up a good handful of books from this roadside used bookstore:

Bill Faulkner's "The Sound and the Fury" - American authors are next on my list, after South American. I just read the first few sentences of this thingy. Badass.

Graham Greene's "21 Stories" - looks like short story collection. I've heard good things about Greene, especially "Brighton Rock", which I still haven't been able to find.

Robert Shea and Robert Wilson's "Illuminatus! Trilogy" - Sort of a cult classic sci-fi/conspiracy book. Highly recommended for any kids named Jeremy.

Jean Genet's "The Thief's Journal" - More of an impulse buy. From back cover description, "The Thief's Journal is Jean Genet's autobiography. It covers the period when he was a prostitute to sailors, and a thief. He lived in the Barcelona slums and then wandered over Central Europe, slipping across borders and in and out of innumerable jails. He was one of a brotherhood of beggars and his friends and lovers were thieves and pimps. This shocking book is the story of his life in the lowest depths of humanity." Seems cool. The copy's falling apart, but I have a feeling I'll be passing it around to all my word loving friends.

Why does this cafe smell like a cat's litter box?

NYC Writings

"...Alert level orange."

That's Hartsfield's public address system, channelling the voice of our Homeland Security Admninistration. It's been following me since I left home, first as reports of a new terrorist plot foiled in Brittain and calmly reported by MARTA's new televisions, then watching from the eyes of sldiers and security as we check our bags, the underwhelming voice of panic broadcast every 4 minutes through hidden airport speakers, and finally in the murmur of my fellow concerned passendgers aboard slowly groaning flight 364.

It's comforting to wake on the plane later, remember the armeggedon trumpets which gathered and sang us airborn. I've always enjoyed the idea of endings, and I find the other passengers in complete agreement. We share bits of information from CNN and the BBC, murmer and coo as the plane rocks suddenly halfway through the flight.

I'm in the park now, sitting on a rock with a good view of New York and the resevoir. The branches around me stream against a steady wind North from the water; occassional joggers are propelld by that same wind and I feel my thoughts similarly tumbled. This may be a story about myself.

I had meant to continue discussing endings - my notes from that paragraph read "more, mistakes, eternity".

"How long have you smoked?"
"...Since a long time ago."
"Since college?"
"Highschool."
"Oh."
Jake glances at the light. We've been dancing in place waiting for the walk signal since his third puff.
"Does it bother you?"
"No. It's like... you know the smell of coffee?"
"Yeah."
"It's like that."

I feel sometimes as if each sentence, paragraph, word is a new scene. You may shuffle or distort or gramatize them, but the author's intent is the same between incomprehensible original and incomprehensible end.

A pause to watch the cat chase a fly. My cousin Jake enters with gifts, and we discuss writing. He's written and illustrated a children's book - I read as he drinks the gift. We're listening to Chicago spoken word jazz as I write. The jazzist sets words like sticks between a bicycle's spokes.

Everyone starts smoking in college. I feel the pull stronger in this city, which reeks of smoke long after the real smokers have died. Walking over a subway grate today at 58th and 5th, I saw a Golgatha of butts beneath my feet.

Already started planning it, smoking. Give in around finals of my Junior year. Some good nights on the porch, anxious pacing outside the library, drunken fumblings after some concert, and finally the girl I started seeing in grad school convinces me to quit with her. End of smoking phase.

Waking now and I can still feel the pull of that umbilical cord, strange attachment to dream. I'll be spending the weekend with my rich cousins in the Hamptons. Expect a few paragraphs of scathing social criticism after that adventure.

The guy who sings the song about the horse with no name is on the radio. We've been swimming and sunning all day. A New York West Hampton Summer sun - surprisingly cold. Could use some coffee. Moving, thinking snow - I'm sorry, slow. You see how it still grips me, especially the craggy ridges of my fingertips. Don't worry, I'm still thinking of endings. Got a sort of tip in that direction last night from the brother, who is tall, handsome, and crippled in the same way as the man at 14,000 feet who doesn't remember packing his parachute. In this case, the man's jumped out of his plane.

Again, my apologies. Didn't really think that analogy through ahead of time.

Books and Complaints

Dear Heat and Rain,

Please quit that shit.

Sincerely,
Ben

-

Just picked up:

Cronopios and Famas, by Julio Cortazar (more on this later)
The Dispossessed, by Ursula K LeGuin
At Swim-Two-Birds, by Flann O'Brien (The cover blurb, written by Dylan Thomas, reads "This is just the book to give your sister if she's a loud, dirty, boozy girl")

On Sex

Oh QuestionableContent. You are like Nervana for whiny people.

Gay guys: Quit hitting on me. Yes, I live in midtown. No, I'm not gay. Sur-fucking-prise. I need a sign or something - "Ben: for the ladies". Anyway, you motherfuckers make me blush. Do you realize how much guys hate blushing? It's like, something we can't control, plus a sign of emotion. These are two things guys don't work well with, emotion and lack of control.

Anyway, I really don't know what to say when you use your Omega-Gay-Flirtation-Technique. I'm flattered, of course, 'cause I'm just a random guy who hasn't washed the shorts and shirt he's wearing for the past week. Is it the mohawk?

Anyway part two: So everyone tips very well, and I have to deal with one or two random non-regulars flirting with me each day. Not that bad, I guess. The regulars seem to have gotten a handle on my way conservative sexuality - they tip because I'm fucking awesome at making foods, plus I remember most of their drinks. Feels like being a bartender without the natural self-esteem boost of wearing a black shirt.

I Wish

Garfield is Dead.

Browsing Upcoming.org, looking for stuff to do in NYC. So far I have...

Free stuff:

Deerhoof and Beirut: Some Williamsburg public pool
Prefuse 73, DJ Spooky, Talvin Singh, Asha Puthli, Guru: Central Park

Cheap stuff:

Cool jazz place.
Dada.

I assume a good bit of wandering will take care of the rest of my time.

I'm taking a break from ongoing festivities to write an account of tonight so I may peruse it tomorrow. Also, because I'm a party pooper.

Tonight:

- Pick up brother from work. Brother is already omega high. (But yay free! Hooray!)
- Go to Greens, drink booze while walking from Ponce to Masquerade. Operation: Keep Adam Relatively Sober is successful so far.
- Intriguing girl at ticket counter fails to immediately fall in love with full mohawk Ben. Sad face.
- Lawrence Arms is setting up as we get in. Band before Lawrence Arms apparently sucked.
- Lawrence Arms starts their set, response is better than expected for most opening acts, but surprisingly subdued. Mosh pit has only 5 guys involved, plus one 10 year old.
- Round of PBR's aquired twice during set. Adam starts to feel buzz, Ben assumes everyone loves him, girl gets clingy.
- Lawrence Arms finishes with a song described as, "this is about getting completely trashed and waking up the next morning totally fucked up". This seems to be the theme of most of their songs.
- Ben swims towards bar, attempts to acquire real booze (aka bourbon and coke). Brings booze back to peoples as the headlining act starts playing.
- We finish drinks, and Ben drags peoples towards mosh pit, headbutts Adam for strength.
- Various "moshing". Random drunk girl uses octopus kung fu on Ben.
- Those guys are fucking awesome. Everyone, including tipsy girl currently attached to party, gets some moshing in. Ben's hand is stepped on, Adam gets elbowed in the teef.
- To the car. Uncoordinated groping and associated activities against wall. Adam, avoiding said perversions, flashes an unmarked police car.
- Drinks to bouy failing drunkenness at apartment.
- Negotiations of sexual activity with girl. Ben's bed loses all sheets. Outside, Adam communes with raspberry flavored blunt, associated filler.
- Girl recovers, is taught how to smoke.
- Walking! Party reaches playground and begins swinging.
- Piggy back rides back to the apartment. Girl, than brother.
- Currently writing.