Wednesday, July 16, 2008


I have never touted this foul blog as anything literary.

Not once have I figured it to be enlightening or deep or meaningful to anyone other than the drunk that sits behind the keyboard and rat-a-tat-tats out the words that fill this void in the middle of the night.

But when those few and far moments of inspiration do happen, I feel it is only right to offer some kind of thoughtful diatribe about my experience and share it with you; offer you a glimpse into the inner workings and demented mind that pens this atrocity each week.

Well, dear slackers, that is not happening this week. I tried, I really did. But New York and one Johnson (comma) L have thrown me for a complete loop and dumped a heaping Hamburger Helping of writers block at my feet.

I wanted to tell you about the five hours of rock where I saw aging hipsters and goofy bands play their hearts out until 2 a.m. on the same state Springsteen got his start. As the opening band ended its set, the front man — after screaming and writhing on stage — thanked his Mom and cousins and uncles who were all in the audience bopping along to lyrics that sounds more like "fuck authority" than "I love you, Mom."

This filing was supposed to be a phantasmagorical look into a Met's game where an entire section, so wrapped up in rivalry and pride, chanted loudly and booed a 5-year-old kid for wearing a Philly's hat.

"He deserved it. Where was his mother in all this. She should know better," I was told.

If I learned nothing from these insane souls it's that nobody is safe if they hail from Philadelphia. But when you win eight in a row, I suppose that is cause for celebration — and vociferous yelling at toddlers.

I had hoped to offer here some deep comparison to life and adventure as I told you about eating goat meat, draining frilly cocktails and watching the bartender set fruit oils on fire. It seems only natural as my companion and I discussed exes, life, death, popularity, The Rolling Stones, Bourbon and everything that matters in between for hours that night.

The morning would come too soon. I wanted to write as I attempted to begin a story about a vast conspiracy brewing among Jellyfish worldwide to keep me out of the Atlantic Ocean. One got close to taking me down, but my fight/flight instincts took over and I found myself clinging to the beach until someone suggested we hit the pool instead.

Only the Starfish are my allies now. Why couldn't I write like that in the beginning?

I have always had a strong wonder lust for adventure. Travel, movement and new experiences have, for the most part, defined why most of my family thinks I am strange and reckless. They glance with sideways eyes and wonder, "Will he ever stop?"

But as I drove home from the airport, drunk on exhaustion and barreling down the highway at 90 mph, I watched one more time as my own city peaked over the final bluff before I descended into the valley going home from the latest adventure. On this deep summer Sunday, the buildings light up the other valley wall.

There is no comparing the two cities or its people — and lord knows I could never try. They are different and great in their own wonderful ways.

But it does not take much to recognize the adventure gnawing at me. How could I ignore it? Each time i get deeper into this, the question becomes less about If I will do it and is stepping closer and closer to When.

Now, If only I knew how to write about it.

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