SIN AULD LANG SYNE

NEW YEARS 2012

The kind of party I would love to be at; sans the suicide attempt.

Happy New Year.

CRYPTOZOOLOGY

Once you've been exposed, is it possible to claim elusiveness?

The Yeti, Nessie, and the Jersey Devil seem to have more in common than priding themselves as fugitive:

They just don't want to be bothered.

I admire that.

MAGNIFICENT MALVERN

WEST HOLLYWOOD XMAS 2.0

Dear Angelicas,

Thank you for your gracious Christmas cheer, great conversation and clam sauce linguini.

And many thanks for the world on top of my wine bottle.

ORANGE COUNTY CHRISTMAS

First stop, Robert Lane to visit the Troemels.

Virginia got a red bathrobe. Buzz had several large glasses of egg nog. Merlin ate all the fruitcake I couldn't finish. Then we decorated the tree.

Virginia's advice for the night was to stay young as long as possible. I told her I would try my best.

Next stop, West Malvern Ave to visit The Fierros and Henigmans.

The Misfit Toys joined us for post-brunch Mimosas on the dining room table.

MISTLETOE

From me to you:

WOOD BE NICE

Time to catch up.

Normally I would do this over a cup of coffee, but there’s a distance too great that makes a quick rendezvous impossible.

That’s the trouble with LA.

I am constantly reaching back into my mind; two, three, fours years into the vault. I recently thought about what it would feel like to be a hardwood floor.

There are things to consider:

I could creak,

Maybe I’d leak.

I could be varnished,

More than likely tarnished.

Would I be scratched,

Or bi-annually waxed.

Lindenwood or Basswood.

Walnut or Fir

Things to think about…

* * *

There is an apartment in Little Italy with beautiful birch floors. When the bells of the Most Precious Blood rang the toll would reverberate off the floors and red brick. They would travel into my ear canal and wake me.

One morning I slipped on the wood. I slid out of the bedroom, right through the kitchen, down three flights of stairs and out onto Mulberry Street. Luckily my physical injuries were minor.

Socks are a hardwood floor’s worst enemy.

BACK(ON)TRACK

Indeed it's been some time since I have taken this blog for a walk.

But now since my new site has launched, and I'm fairly settled here, it's time to get back on track.

Yesterday was Disneyland. For the Christmas season, please enjoy the slippery stylings of Jack.

Happy Holidays.

AVENUES ARE FOR APPARITIONS

Life has a peculiar way materializing in front of you.

Then sometimes, it taps you on your right shoulder with it's left hand, and sniggers as you turn your head to find nothing there.

New York, despite it's multitude of private locations, still belongs to many millions of people. How can I look back after six years and think---"That spot is mine."?

Tonight I walked down Fifth Avenue somewhere south of Flatiron. It's already dark early because it's mid-October. Without sunglasses I am forced to stare at people I pass without the protection of ambiguity. I lock eyes with a hurried girl who has a half-masticated deli sandwich hanging from her mouth. I know her from home. I had a crush on her.

We stop, and force the small talk from somewhere inside. As I'm about to tell her I'm leaving for Los Angeles in a week, a handsome guy in a black leather jacket catches my eye from over her shoulder. I know him from college. We dated.

He kisses me on the cheek. A botched introduction follows. The girl awkwardly holds her limp sandwich. A sidewalk threesome.

There I have it; in 5 square feet of concrete I have everything. A previous life stands to my left and a part of the present life I lead stands to my right. I'm frozen in the middle.

I notice as I walk home all these intersections of memory.

There's the corner where I slipped and fell into that massively deep puddle. Over there is that diner where we stopped to use the restroom. In front of this hideous building you kissed me goodnight. There's the window of your old apartment (who occupies it now?) Theres the stretch of sidewalk we waited on to get into that club. There's the window of my favorite restaurant(it's gone now) There is the lamppost I chained my bike to everyday. That is the stoop you waited for me on.

Each block I walk I am witness to these apparitions.

I fear with time they will escape limbo and pass on to their next lives, more than likely if I am not living here anymore. Then they will exist in my faulty memory. Repetition proves accuracy. If I'm not reminded, it will dissolve. Soon pinpoint locations will become approximate. Then uncertain. Then probable. Then unconscious.

Somewhere there exist moments I have yet to create. The kind I can't plan.

After I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I snapped this photo. For the record, this was how my front door looked on October 20th, 2011. I'll pat myself on the back for my attempt at preservation.

And when I leave later tonight, I will remember to lock the door behind me.

JACK MISSES HIS TRAIN

I think we've all made this face before.

PIER 45

I will miss the adventures Phillip and I have careening up the westside highway. Here was tonight's, distilled into a waltz.

EARLY MORNING FRIGHT

My iPhone starts ringing. It's 8AM. My dream melts away like butter in a hot pan, leaving brown residue, and my inner peace rudely jolted. It's Thursday, I think.

Then upon standing in the shower, I have an epiphany. It's Friday.

The stinging shampoo in my eye won't take the smile off my face now.

And look, is that a spot of sunlight I can see from my apartment view?

MY APARTMENT KEY

I figured since it only will be dangling on my keychain for another month, I may as well immortalize it. And by the way, you should go see this show when it opens.

WATERCOLOR LIPS

The decision has been made. Kiss it all goodbye. Celebrate the future.

REPURPOSED

BANKSY VS FASHION WEEK

These have been popping up all over NYC over the last week.

Apparently Banksy his it out for Fashion Week...and Kim Kardashian's posterior.

This was taken on Prince St. last night. The text was scrawled across the window of Swatch.

SUMMER IS LIKE A FRISBEE

It spins fast under the sun, but sometimes it escapes you.

SOMETHING NEW ON THE HORIZON

My life in boxes

KENNYWOOD & CORNDOGS

Had an enchanting weekend in Pittsburgh with Ms. Rudoy.

Kennywood was certainly a highlight.

Here's a bite-sized video of the experience.

Ain't she sweet?

THE END OF BUTTON COPY

I wrote this when I returned to NY after visiting a friend in LA. My inspiration---sitting in traffic.

THE END OF BUTTON COPY

A Story from the End of Interstate 9

By William J Hopper

Far out along one of those expansive stretches of highway between somewhere between Massachusetts and the west coast, there existed a lonesome interstate sign. His shielded shape was not dissimilar from any other interstate markers along the road, but his design was certainly the oldest. His face was blue, and bore a large reflective ʻ9ʼ, giving him the formal name of Blue Nine.

Blue Nine was unashamedly a loner. His body jut out crookedly from a muddy ditch along the north side of the road. His shiny face was slicked with a layer of slate colored grime, which only washed away in the heaviest of summer rainstorms. He was the first marker some 25 miles since the last gas station, and the last marker until the state line, some 52 miles ahead. Needless to say he was a lone ranger, and it was imperative to do his job, and do it well, for there were not many others to do it for him.

As solemn as Blue Nine appeared, he was quite content. The most unique feature of his design were the small reflective circles that ran over the ʻ9ʼ in the center of his body. Each circle, or button, was evenly spaced, convex, and bold.

Sometimes on a humid July morning, the sky would open up and ten thousand water droplets would wash across his face, rinsing the smut off each button. As evening set in, the western sun would project streaks of sorbet tinted light across the dotted 9, and he would proudly bounce it back with all his strength. The reflection would sprint across the interstate, gliding parallel over the dashed yellow lines between the two lanes. His light traveled with sheer intensity, and if Blue Nine really concentrated, he thought it might reach the coast of California.

In this purest fundamental function, Blue Nine found the most comfort. He lived for the ephemeral moments when a car or truck would whoosh by, and he could stand confident to reassure the traveler that their destination lay somewhere ahead.

At night, each of his buttons reflected the black sky and all itʼs pinhole stars. On any given evening, just one of his buttons had the capacity to reflect 360 degrees of the sky. Itʼs amazing, really. If you consider having six thousand stars replicated over and over across your face. The wrinkles you and I bare are concave, and are too dull to reflect anything but the years weʼve spent on earth. But Blue Nineʼs buttons, each like an iris, would allow his cheeks to blaze with a hundred thousand stars. So you see, as bachelor of the interstate, he did quite well for himself. Without question he fulfilled his life-task with passion and fervor, even if he was at best, a lop-sided piece of steel sinking into the mud.

Over time he collected fast food bags, cigarette butts, beer bottles and the occasional Toyota hubcap around the base of his neck. This ruff collar was far less glamorous than any bed of wild daisies, but he owned it, even though his body listed dangerously towards the embankment.

One drowsy evening after a passing summer storm left the sky squeaky clean, a pair of headlights approached along the interstate where it dipped below the horizon. The car jerked back and forth as it came closer; itʼs driver intoxicated. Blue Nineʼs white trim washed out in the headlamps. In his last moment, the interstate sign stayed fixed to his spot, doing only what he knew. His reflections penetrated the darkness, in a vain final gesture to be noticed by the car.

Before his neck was bent and his face thrown into the ditch, a last thought flashed through his mind. He was grateful that the mud didnʼt get him.

****

Some weeks went by. Passing cars on the road did not miss Blue Nine, for there was no proof of his existence, save a few tire tracks burned into the asphalt that disappeared off the road into the ditch Then early one morning, a maroon pick up truck pulled over alongside the embankment. A man with an orange hardhat and calloused palms pulled the interstate sign from the brush and tossed the twisted metal body into the back of the truck.

The next morning, a new signpost was erected. They buried it in the ground, making sure it was nowhere near the muddy sinkhole of its forerunner. The new fixture was sharp-edged, pristine and radiant. It was so glaring in fact, that travelers had to drop their visors down or lower their sunglasses when they passed.

The most distinguishing feature of the New Nine however, was his flat face. He was entirely 2 dimensional. He was cheap. His 9 was plain, entirely buttonless. His lack of personality was the reason why many off course travelers passed him without taking notice, while they bickered over upside-down glove compartment maps.

As the maroon pick up bumped along the interstate, and the man in the orange hat wiped away corn muffin crumbs from his lap, Blue Nine laid in the back and experienced for the first time what it felt like to be moving. He knew the final stop of this drive would be the scrap yard, but he chose not to dwell on such a thought. In the meanwhile he cast his buttons to the sky and watched everything that passed him. He saw clouds float by, trees, telephone wires, birds, buildings, planes, other road signs, and even a kite. Somehow these were familiar destinations to him, though heʼd never seen them before. These were sites that he promised to many on their journey, and he could only trust the suit that he wore that these sites did in fact exist beyond him. It was the direction he provided to so many travelers that gave him the contentment of living. Now he was traveling his own route, and was in every way, satisfied.