Taking In

     Our contact fell through on our way to Chicago. We drove betwixt the sky scrapers, the sheen from the sunset lancing our windows as it bounced amongst them. Still coming down from my New York success, I hadn't any worry of failure in Chicago. Driving to a bar seemed like the natural thing to do in a cooling metropolis. We found ourselves in a heavy metal themed bar chosen because loud music spilling from a single open door and lines of grungy adults are good indicators of a good time. To add to our glass clinking jubilance were fat, messy burgers named after heavy metal artists. Things couldn't be better. Until we left the bar and realized we had no where to go.
     Choosing a direction, we walked in search of another bar, a questionable goal since we had just left a well stocked house of beer. We found nothing, no cold brew, no couch to crash on. The car was our best option for overnight passage. At least it seemed better than paying $80 each on a hotel room. I half slept in front of the bar we started at.
     Sleeping in isn't an issue when sleeping in a cramped, upright position. We were the first people in the coffee shop that morning. We made calls and answered emails and found a place to stay the next night which is always a victory.
     We rode our bikes into a small city park. City parks are places that cars aren't allowed. Cyclists have the most power because they control the next fastest mode of transportation. Stepping onto the green of a park changes how time functions. Things slow down. Breathing is easier and fuller. People smile at each other. I can turn around and see the hard edges and hear the strident howls of the city where I had just been.
     In the center of a concrete refuge was a mirrored world shaped as a bean. I stared at myself. That self wondered how the other self felt about being in the real world. An alien bean, unnaturally smooth, splits my perception of the sky, doubles sky scrapers, and mimics the sun. I felt akin to the bulbous reflector except instead of projecting an image of Chicago I sponged it up. I gathered the sky scrapers and sun and park and commotion and pigeons and hot dog stands and ball caps and assimilated them into my growing reservoir of love. Almost bursting now.

Interim

     Between two major cities - New York and Chicago - we stayed with two families. The first was in New York State. I still had New York City all over my skin. I felt like an overly highlighted text. The words have the same meaning but they take on a new importance under those neon colors.
     Our break from city lights was a cult town called Chautauqua. Within the town exists a massive gated grounds called The Institute. During the summer months people, mainly older, come from all around to live in The Institute. The town is run by The Institute. It is a faceless machine that is fueled on and by the residents of the small town. The family we stayed with was not exempt.
     Like gonzo spies, Dave and I infiltrated the guarded entrance to The Institute with the help of the kind family. The place resembled the port towns I had visited in Cape Cod. The houses stood out like snaggleteeth from different periods of time, giving the sense of a relaxed and lengthy development. Everything required for a self serving existence was present. The enclosed city was the closest I've seen to a working utopia. Single digit aged children rode bicycles on the dimming streets without peer or parental guidance. Adults were scarce like desert wildlife. We came upon an outdoor auditorium and an oasis of gray hairs formed around a speaker on the subject of race in our governmental system.
     Chautauqua had a church for all the big religions and seemed more like a prestigious retirement home than anything else. I still don't fully grasp what goes on at The Institute with its themed weeks and grand monetary circulation, but I was ready to start forgetting it.
     The second family we stayed with lived in Cleveland, Ohio. They were the wealthy parents of Dave's cousin and soon to be Los Angeles roommate. Mrs. Whitaker opened her house and refrigerator with the courtesy of the patron of a hard up five star hotel. Dave and I concocted sandwiches that could paint with all the colors of the wind due to the degree of condiments that were applied. I managed to read a small book on the drinking culture of the late preppy generation. They sure knew their liquor. Mr. Whitaker took us to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The architecture was the most interesting part. It was like learning about American history. Somewhat enlightening, mostly dull.
     Our hearts were ready for Chicago. It was time for us to discover what all the hubbub was about.

New York Chronicles: Never the End

     I was in New York City for seven days. I could write about the daily scandal but I'm not going to. I want to preserve some of the mystery of New York. I'm going to keep up the oral tradition of story telling and I've reserved the best. Maybe these stories will be written someday. You'll just have to stay tuned and find out. Before New York is over I must pay homage to two more people.
     Dave and I rode our bikes to a farmer's market. There we met an old friend who helped manage the market. Sarah Leonard raged with us two nights earlier and ate one of the most amazing dinners with us the night before. We each had some kind of hang over. Her friend Jack, who we had also met earlier, showed up at the farmer's market. Having to work, Sarah couldn't have lunch with us. Dave, Jack, and I went to a legendary Japanese restaurant. Momofuku works behind a couple different store fronts and each one sells different types of food. Because I'm always searching for ramen, we went to the noodle house. My ramen cost $16 dollars which is almost not okay. It was good but $16. Jack's girlfriend, a dancer, met us. The more faces the higher the chance of smiles.
     Curiosity mounting we searched out another in the Momofuku strand. This time it was the cereal milk bar. There were strange ice cream flavors such as cereal milk, which is exactly what it tastes like, creamed corn, also tastes just like creamed corn, purple drank, grape kool-aid, and BBQ. All of our faces thizzed on BBQ. The gems happened to be the Momofuku cookies. I had a blueberry milk cookie and Dave had a compost cookie. We bought extras for later they were so good.
     Before leaving for lunch, we left Sarah fifteen dollars to pick up supplies from the farmer's market. When we returned she had a bag full of locally grown plants and homemade bread and honey and had only spent a third of the cash. She's a saint.
We all converged again that night but that dips into the aforementioned mystery.

New York Chronicles: Old Friends

     Central Park wasn't as weighty as I had imagined. It resembled just about every city park. Dave's incessant mistake of calling it Golden Gate Park added to the normalcy. There is a horse track-esque one way loop that allows for overly fast bicycling. I often went the wrong way.
     There is a small Japan, smaller than actual Japan, under Central Park. Time Square is America's highest point of advertising and technological distraction. Instead of walls, buildings are constructed of screens with provocative pants models and snack food mascots. Turning slowly in the center I try to take in the brutal coupling of boisterous retail and the throbbing hum of the subway.
     Night is when New York shines. The clouds are bleached with 1930's detective mystery. Darkness exists only when you black out. Though I'm just beginning. To recall an earlier adventure in spirits, I started with margaritas. Dave and I were being guided by New York natives and Sarah, the daughter of a friend of my mom's. Next, I'm in a living room. The Living Room where bands croon and jerk because it just can't be helped. The soul in the room is maxed out. There is a one drink minimum per set. I'm too lulled by the Western infused shoegaze to buzz off the hanging waitress. These people are really living in this room.
     I feel the wetness of the never-night long enough only to rouse me back to sensing. Somehow my beer snobbism is exposed and Corey has "just the place." Arrogant Bastard.
     Saved by all night subways again. After walking with little direction, Dave and I found all night udon. I'm awake but I was dreaming about ramen. Udon will do. Giddy with my love for Japanese noodles and by drink I slurp up my bowl of just cooked udon with unimpaired determination. My mouth, I'd discover in less than twelve hours, had suffered nth degree burns. I pretended to taste the next day.

New York Chronicles: Making Friends

The darkly clothed blob didn't make it as a broadway sensation and didn't want to go to jail. Not for that. Time and weather have avoided my face, it's not my fault I look young. Air expelled, he skulks heavy with sulking back to servile reality. I'm back in control. I remember I'm always in control. Before I'm yet fifty percent quenched another engages me. This time for my voice. An opening. I feel like a kid again, unable to deny. It's blown slightly out of proportion, a hand grenade detonates, a focus shrapnel shower. And everyone has friends. Sometimes friends are taken advantage of. It feels like a pussy wants attention near my feet. Better to ignore it. If you give them an inch it's not gay. Containers graduate on a muggy New York stoop. Martini glass to forty ounces to growler. To ensure the presence of guilt at dawn, I eat famous carbohydrates and I taste a little blood.

New York Chronicles: Daedelus

     On the first day of New York my true love gave to me hot rain so people couldn't tell I was sweating. Laurence, Dave's old boss in a way, arrived in New York city about the same time we did. We walked with bikes and backpacks, shook Laurence's hand, and synced strides to his fifth story apartment. I never saw her with my own eyes but I was asked to dampen my sense of sound around Laurence's landlord's rooms. Much like a limited god, she occupied the first two floors and was always present, never seen. I prayed to never meet her. It came true.
     Television and other reputable sources told me New York was a safe haven for Italian chefs to hole up and devote their lives to the perfection of pizza. After the usual host-traveler initiation we acquired a half and half pizza. The pie, although not exactly the Brooklyn style, was a taste celebration. Again I exceeded my preconceived limit of two slices. I wouldn't have survived Prohibition.
     After over-eating Dave and I took to the streets we so recently came from. Our feet glowed with new movie-star-chomper-white shoes. Dancing shoes. New York City is go big or go home and home is very far away. I would have liked for my honeymoon with my Reebox to not be on a rainy night but this is how life enduring memories are created.
     New York subways are the 21st century version of the river Phlegethon. There are rats. Many of them. Exiting the subway I am baptized in cool air. The marquee on the club would have read 'Daedelus' if it had been a classy joint. Classy places don't have five dollar beer and well shot specials. For this I am glad Santo's Party House was not a high end club.
     Dave and I throw as many drinks back as our feet would allow before stomping off to the dance floor. No one dances for at least the first hour or two at dance shows unless, of course, Dave and I show up, a little bit late and a little too excited to be in New York at an underground break-through show. We invent the party. Like a shallow idea that squirms around and eats until it grows into an action, we affect people with the notion to dance. Dave talks to a girl, they are fond of him. I don't let love get in the way of my work. My business is gettin' down with myself.
     The black light loves my shoes. If moths had been admitted there would have been two more parties at my feet. My legs had elongated brains of their own and I could do nothing but lean back with arms crossed and marvel at their Burlesque performance.
     The late 19th century follows Daedelus around like pox. He is dressed for the Victorian age, sweating with dedication. He looks like a wealthy man on his death bed. Before him sits some kind of religious antique filled with square lights like an apartment building full of insomniacs. He puts them to bed and ushers them awake. The misery induced moans ring out in a speaker pounding chorus. "I've developed a sweet tooth for tempo" is all he says before the musical onslaught is unleashed. We scramble to keep up with this cherished maniac. He plays decapitated pieces of his well known songs. No time for full-lengths.
     I lost track of time. My world was reduced to sound and movement. If Daedelus hadn't walked away from his Pandora's box I may have been enslaved in that world for eternity. With this kind of afterlife I could have a religion up and converting in no time. Daedelus returned for an encore. I had appointed myself the first prophet of musique concrete. Daedelus asked with his hands to go faster or slower and, leading my people, I pointed toward the sky. My offering was received.
     Trains in New York City run all night. I have too much power. To conserve energy we ride that dirty combustion chamber to Laurence's fifth story apartment and sleep in his massive bed.

Preps, Ports, and Pots

     I violated nature in Massachusetts. I have family living on Cape Cod, famous for summering, the birthplace of a beverage, and an out of control mechanical shark. Cape Cod is built on two layers of complaint. In the summer, residents whine about tourists and the traffic and naivete they bring. The winter brings piles of snow and sour faces.
     It being summer, my only nutritional sources are seafood and ice cream. Thank god I love both. There are approximately three creameries per port town and approximately everyone visits them.
     Like when Jesus walked on water or when everyone stopped listening to Fall Out Boy or like the after taste of chocolate above 70% cocoa, my mom arrived, without collective plan, on the East Coast. She is the day bringer. The Aztecs would have loved her. She is like that group of stretched and smiling people that double fist cups of water smack in the middle of the race. This long sojourn. My path. Rendre hommage a Twain.
     We stayed with a friend of my mother's who lives in a spiral staircase. Robin, like my mom, enjoys life and doesn't consider inhibition a balk. She graced my ears with one of the only accents I've heard on my trip. It is in her house that my transgression was to take place.
     In her sink, acting like a cell before the gallows, four brown and blue lobsters sit. The South Western corn bread is cooling. The clams have been consumed. The linguica and potatoes are soft. Judgment day is upon us. I am suddenly thrust into the eternal moral dilemma of Christian thought. I harbor infinite omnipotence but my glowing hands are slow with apprehension, for with power comes the deep and basic caring of a shepherd. In a moment I feel like the Sistine chapel is painted in my skull. A silent "fuck it" escapes my lips as I force the head of a crustacean into boiling water. I suppress kicks and squirms and, becoming misty eyed from a friendship only war could cultivate, I end the misery of a fallen comrade. He was motherfucking delicious.