My New York part deux

It’s not even six in the mo-ning and my roommate-slash-landlord-slash-infentile-brethren has tasked me with setting rat traps. In the manner that events tend to transpire at my humble abode, I enter the apartment only to be accosted by this man-boy—lovable perhaps, though it’d be a stretch to say so—recruiting me to deal with something that he understandably fears. He demands an hour of operation and a firm commitment, neither of which I’m willing to concede as it’s not even six in the mo-ning, as previously stated, and I’m coming off my drunken stupor from the night prior. My behavior only serves to reinforce his belief that “I just don’t give a shit” and that my generation is nothing but a mob of entitled nincompoops. Perhaps he’s right, but it’s early, I drank too much, thought too little, and have to go to work in a couple hours. Setting rat traps and negotiating work duties are the last things on my mind.

My New York

Ain’t nothing more motherfucking precious than Astoria at the asscrack of dawn. Ain’t nobody on the streets, ain’t nobody giving me shit, nobody getting in my motherfucking way or breathing my motherfucking air or clogging my motherfucking airwaves. Truly ain’t nothing more motherfucking precious than Astoria at the asscrack of dawn. The only reason I’m experiencing it is because of my carousing, my inebriated buffoonery that left me riding the Q train for a good three hours, an uneaten burger in tow. The only complaint I have, despite my unintended blacked-out sojourn, is that I neither got to enjoy my burger as dinner nor enjoy my bed as sleep. But this is New York, and ain’t nothing more motherfucking precious than Astoria at the asscrack of dawn.

February 3, 2014

I have been drinking, and it has been far too long.
I miss you all, sweet nobodies,
People I imagine return to this blog,
Fascinated by the writing that I so desperately hope is revolutionary.
But let me tell you a secret,
The more I write,
The more I listen,
The more I believe that writing is shit.
That it’s all a pile of bile, hah!
That it’s nothing but self-indulgence,
Mindless pandering
A vain attempt to justify, or rectify, or overcome
One’s own sense of inadequacy.
To feel secure is to be blind,
I assure you.
But to feel secure also is
It’s blindness, yes?
Yes, I do believe so.
So we write and write because we think we are intelligent,
Or inspired,
Or ahead of our time,
But in the end it’s nothing but a rehashing,
A regurgitation of what has been,
What will always be,
What will never cease to be.
I’m full of shit.
No doubt.
But the more I write, the more I think of it,
The more I come to believe that it’s all worthless,
And that the only true recourse is to live,
To move,
To not do anything but tear apart
And to indulge,
To take arms and fuck it all.
I’m done for now, good night.

I shouldn’t be posting this because I am incapable of intelligent conversation

I’m at a bar in Atlanta. To anyone who lives here little else needs to be said, as most bars are identical no matter the location and who frequents them. But the circumstances surrounding a visit are always different and that ultimately vindicates visiting them on a regular basis. As for myself I am splayed across a booth saving the table for my friends. They are off in the mess of people jostling to order drinks, hoping for the best. One of my friends, Andrew, has graciously offered to buy my beer in return for saving the table. I of course offer to return the favor but opt to buy chicken fingers instead. I’ll return the favor one day, but not soon.

This place is my usual tromping grounds, a place where I come to seek the comforts of a woman’s touch (always unsuccessful) and to while away my weekends in a drunken fog (always successful). The only reason I return is because my good friend has a home here, making it easy to get to the bars without the risk of going to jail. Assuming, of course, I don’t pull one of my usual stunts and start some form of confrontation.

I have a couple stories that I could tell, none too outlandish but worth telling none the less. I am one of those totally confused individuals, at least socially, who for a time thought that acting against propriety was profound. Perhaps there is some form of deep, social criticism in behaving in ways that go against the norm, but when the norm involves plaid and polo wearing dudes accompanied by girls wearing those onesie dresses, there isn’t much profundity available. Despite the homogeneity of my immediate surroundings there is a much more varied world around me. But this generation of ours is so varied that all “unique” inspiration is immediately absorbed into the culture of personal branding. So no matter what you do it’s all old news.

With that in mind it becomes apparent how difficult it is to really define who you are, if you are about defining yourself independently of the rest of society. I say this in light of the great minds of the counter cultural movement, those who lived during the grand decades of the 60’s and 70’s and helped define who we are today. They were the pathfinders, the trailblazers, the conquistadors of the absurd and the unknown. But they set us up for who we are today. I see our generation as being what the 50’s were to the Beats; stiff, complacent, and uninspired. That is a harsh view and admittedly unwarranted considering the creative minds behind social media and the silicon revolution. But if you think of it the vast majority of us are cruising on the achievements of a grand few. We are simply taking advantage of their innovations and trying to make them our own through our own meager and domestic endeavors.

But I wonder if each cultural phase is not defined by the masses but rather by the individuals, the ones who choose to challenge all that we hold as truth, as unquestionable. If that is the case, what does it say about us, the many living day to day on the customs established by the innovators from before? Are we just automatons grinding away with our petty ideals of independence? Are we just slaves to the establishment?


For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

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