dear elizabeth/liz/beth.

I don’t know if that’s your name, but it was the song that was playing on my iPod when I saw you and, well… once you read below, you’ll know why I needed to give you a name.

it’s a long story, so I thought I’d throw it [the song] in here while you read. if you read. it’s a good song.

[Bon Iver - 'Beth']

anyway.

I just wanted to say…

[text deleted]

[text deleted]

[text deleted]

damn it.

I’m no good at this…

you can probably tell by my ill-advised posting of your photo that this is not my area of expertise. I didn’t show your face ’cause I wanted this to be a confession of sorts. me to you. for quite a few things…

I suppose I should start for apologize for being anything but subtle this afternoon.

I’m sorry for staring.

I’m sorry for taking pictures of you without your consent.

and I’m really sorry about the note.

trust that I meant well… even though I told myself that if I couldn’t find a way of passing it to you – without him seeing – that I was fully prepared to go back to the office of the boat company and bribe the guys there for the passenger manifesto.

oh my god, that’s even creepy to write.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

uuuuugggghhhhh…. look:

I’m glad it started to rain this morning. I’m glad because otherwise, I would have stayed up top, instead of coming down. I didn’t expect to see you, but then again, I don’t know anyone who wakes up and says ‘I’m going to sit across from a girl so stunning that she makes me embarrass myself’. you were there, with the guy and with a girl. you have no idea how much I hoped he would have a lisp or looked just like you, but you were really nice to him the whole way – sharing your iPod, smiling when he talked – and that should have been reason enough for me to just go back to pensively looking at the water, but I couldn’t help it. there were 2 Swedish girls on the boat with us – do you remember? I tried to force myself to look at them [I mean - they're Swedish, after all, it shouldn't be too hard], but it didn’t stick. you had your hair up and a slightly crooked smile with your Chuck T’s laced up differently and I was so thankful when you pulled out the English version of the South American guide book – for no other reason than it was one step closer to me being able to talk to you…

but I didn’t.

I can’t.

for many, many reasons – one being I don’t know how to approach someone like you. the second being that you may or may not have been with your boyfriend, and the third factor of you being one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.

so, no – there was no way.

I’m sorry for staring.

we got to the island and I really hoped that when I stood up, my penis wasn’t showing through my shorts [I don't wear underwear], that my white shirt wasn’t accentuating my man-boobs [for some reason, I still insist on wearing white shirts] and that I hadn’t accidentally sat in water and it have looked like I might have pooped myself…

thankfully, none of those things happend.

you 3 walked ahead and I was able to not freak out about walking ahead of you. my knees were already heavy.

we passed a few times in the little harbor town – I don’t know if you saw me or not. I quickly got some water for my tea, an egg sandwich, and started up the only trail I saw. after about 10 minutes, I was all by myself and realized that things like this – like you – don’t happen that often, so I veered off the path, headed up the mountain [which is hard, by the way - the altitude almost killed me], found a road, and then started walking back.

this might seem a bit strange to you, as we were all on the full-day tour, meaning you start hiking at one end of the island and then get picked up on the other… but while I was walking, I realized that you 3 might have chosen the half-day option, which meant that you would be leaving from the same place we arrived at, and, if I was even 20 minutes late from the full-day hike, I wouldn’t have been on the same boat as you…

and that was something I needed to do, Liz – be on the same boat back. even though I had no fucking clue what I was going to do…

probably stare some more.

ew.

anyway.

I went backwards down the path – you might know this, as I passed your big group. maybe you didn’t see me, but I saw you [shocking, I know]. the smart thing to do would have been just to follow your group, but I was already bordering on creepy and making an 180 after seeing you would put me into immediate stalker status.

so I walked back to the town and got on the boat. it was me and a bunch of old people who couldn’t hike. even the boat driver made fun of me and I didn’t have enough Spanish to explain you to him… although he must have seen you, and I’m sure would have understood.

the boat got there about an hour before your all’s trek was done. I was freezing sitting up top, but I forced myself to keep my jacket off, since it didn’t match and I wanted my outfit to coordinate for you. but you all weren’t there, so I went up to one of the restaurants on the cliffs and had some fish and some beers.

as you can tell from the above, my mind already is a bit off to begin with, but when you throw booze into the muddle, it gets even worse.

…

I wondered if you were headed to La Paz, or Chile, or Argentina.

I wondered if I would find a way to talk to you.

I wondered if you’d be open to buying an old car with me and driving it until it broke.

I wondered if you’d look at me like you looked at that guy someday.

I wondered what your real name was, Beth. I’m sure it was something pretty.

I wondered a whole lot of stuff.

…

the whistle blew, so I headed back to the boat, hoping you hadn’t sprained an ankle in those Chuck Taylors.

I sat up top again, this time because it was actually warm.

you all weren’t there, so I decided to look for you that evening – walking around town that night, poking my head in every bar until I saw you again.

the Swedish girls sat by me.

the captain began chewing his coca leaves – which, as we know – meant he’s about to start up the boat.

and then I saw you - the 3 of you, actually. but I only saw you.

you came walking down the dock and you looked at the boat and whispered something to your friend.

I know you didn’t see me, but I couldn’t help but wish you were saying ‘there’s that in-no-way-creepy-and-kind-of-cute guy’, but you were probably talking about the captain chewing his coca leaves.

and then you sat right across from me.

that would have been much more dramatic to write had there been any other seats, but whatever…

I started staring again.

I’m sorry.

the trip back was long, everyone was tired.

you went down below after an hour, probably because that 6’4” guy slept on all of our shoes.

after you went, I pulled out my little notepad and wrote you a note:

as you can tell, this one stayed with me - I gave you the second one.

see, this one only had my first name and I thought ‘well, Queen – if she is, even the slightest bit interested, she wouldn’t be able to just find an ‘Aric’, so I wrote the same thing, but with my last name.

[btw - I am painfully aware that the first note was a stretch, but for it to have been revised and re-written is reason enough for a court order. sorry.]

the next 30 minutes were spent figuring out how to get it to you. I almost asked your friend quietly to ‘give this to her if/when the appropriate time comes’, but that would have required a whole lot of talking, which would have been hard, as my throat wasn’t completely working.

I could just walk up to you, but that could’ve been awkward if you freaked out…

as we were on a small boat in the middle of one of the world’s largest lakes.

there was really no way to do it, I told myself, and I was beginning to worry I might miss my chance.

it began to get cold up top, so I came back down. you were asleep on the little bench, which meant my hopes of even attempting some eye contact were screwed. so I sat there and listened to Otis Redding… which, if you know anything about Otis Redding, was a mistake.

the boat docked and I saw you wake up, Elizabeth. everyone else began standing – as people do when boats stop – but I hung back, which was weird, seeing how I was the first in line to go. but I took a chance and stayed back and almost everyone else left the boat [including your friends/friend and boyfriend], leaving only about 5 of us left.

the rest you know – I waited until you were behind me, turned around, refused to look at you, handed you note v2 and said ‘I’m really sorry if this comes across inappropriate’. the worst part of that was that I was trembling when I said it and was hoping to impress you with my great voice.

you took the note – as people tend to do when handed notes – and I turned around [hoping my bottom wasn't wet] and tried so very hard to calmly walk away. it didn’t go so well, as I slipped a little when walking down the jetty. I tried to picture the scene behind me – if you read it, if you hid it, if you laughed at it… but I never turned around. I walked to my hotel and chain-smoked for half-an-hour, trying to calm down.

I forced myself to stay online until the battery on my computer died, hoping you all would have taken a bus out of town or had eaten early.

when I walked into town, I kept my head down. I ate my fish, I drank my wine, and I prayed you 3 didn’t walk into the same restaurant. you didn’t, for which I am thankful - so I don’t know if you’re still here or not…

nor do I know what I would do with that information if I had it.

so… I guess what I’m trying to say is:

I’m sorry about the note.

I’m super sorry about the photo.

and I’m really sorry about this – one of the longest blog entries I’ve ever written.

I just…

well…

I just thought you were beautiful.

“We were wild, for awhile. A burning wildfire.”

Take away everything else. Leave just one thing. This thing, this facet of you, was what drew me towards your burning essence.

There were red flags from the very get go. I didn’t go into it naive, not in the least. I may not have anticipated you, but once you arrived, I not only perked up, I made sure that I got in the head of the line. Whatever it was that you were sending out into the universe, I wanted to be in its path. I wanted it to run down my chin like honey; sticky and gloriously sweet.

You covered me with it. You did not disappoint. I was breathless. On a regular basis.

Tearing down the highway in the middle of the night, we were giddy with the summer breeze. We made our way to the reservoir. We stripped down and jumped off the rocks into the icy water below, a full moon illuminating our mad passion for the moment. It was the way we always did things: jumping right in and ripping the meat off the bone, stripping it down until there was nothing more and collapsing in a puddle of delirious exhaustion when we were through.

It was a difficult way to live life all the time, to be sure. I started to run low on fuel. Our exploits began to test my limits.

I remember a night; a night when I began to truly see.

We were sitting on a veranda, overlooking the water, the sky full of stars, and our spirits were filled to the brim. I raised my glass, made a toast, and pitched my glass over the wall and into the sea. That moment was meant to exhibit a deep sense of joy and instead, upon seeing your face, gazing detachedly in another direction, I felt chills run up my spine. You had become a drug to me. You were everything that an addiction could be: destructive, blinding, and all-encompassing. I had become addicted to the exhilaration that I felt as a result of your burning. I began to lose sight of my own values. I was replacing them with placebo emotion cloaked in adventure.

Why did it never occur to me that I wouldn’t be enough for you? Was it an ego issue? Was it misplaced trust? It may have been a lethal combination. Whatever the case may have been, I was buying it, whatever you were selling, for the longest time, because I wanted the goods. Your excuses were immediately received with faithful ears, apologies accepted with expedience. I needed to believe that you needed nothing more than me because I was giving you all that I had and reaching beyond that to give you more. I was betraying myself, time and time again in order to submit to you. I knew better. I didn’t care. I wanted more and I was going to get it.

And there is a price to be paid for such arrogance. The price is steep. Experiencing such dismal disappointment in yourself, seeing it laid out in front of you, trying to sleep at night; all of these have price tags.

Once I passed through my anger at you, at your insatiable appetite and all of your lies, I had to deal with myself.

Because you see, I knew better. I saw you coming. I bit anyway.

Play Today The Moon, Tomorrow The Sun’s ‘We Were Wild’

-

Tara – not Aric – has written forty-five others like this. forty-five. that’s a lot. you should read them.

girls, you’ve not been kind. in fact, you’ve been downright unfair.

god knows how long we’ve taken flack – and how equally long you’ve hidden behind it.

I don’t even know how this conversation began – or what got me thinking about it. it might have been Jules posting the [many] common mistakes us boys make in bed. or it might have been Paul and I giggling the other night when LeBaron said ‘it is our duty.’ [hint for the girls here – it sounds like ‘doody’]. or maybe, just maybe, these Occupy _______ Street’s have gotten me rethinking about the misbalanced justice scale being used on us.

we are the 51.3%.

girls, you’ve not been allowing us to do the same thing you tell us you need to be able to do.

we are men. and we are boys. and we are both.

[help me prove my point here by silently exhaling a ‘that is such a guy thing to say.’]

[thanks.]

you take a long time to get ready to go out.

you sometimes need extra cuddles.

you like shiny things.

you like eating out.

you need to talk on the phone.

you need to spend ungodly amounts of money on things for your face and hair.

you need to cry.

you need to be with your BFF.

[etc]

now – are any of those bad things? do any of these make you a horrible person?

no. they do not. they make you a girl.

a pretty princess who grew up making cakes with mom, whose daddy and brother would beat up anyone who tried to kiss you. you dreamed of Ken and ponies and castles made of peppermint, built on the mist of fancy perfume and clouds bought at the carnival.

we are not these things. we are boys.

tough and tumblers who grew up swinging wood at fast pitches, stomping ants and making forts. our makeup was that of camouflage, just in case that shit from Red Dawn ever happened. we chewed gum loudly and pulled your hair ‘cause we liked you. our knees were covered with proud battleground reminders and if we could eat everything with our hands, we’d be that much happier.

so why, pray tell, has it come down to these two statements:

you need to let me be a girl sometimes.

[and]

god, you’re such a boy.

yours – a defense. a rational explanation for when we don’t understand. said in a way that makes us feel even worse for not realizing it. you need time to be exactly what you are and shame on us for looking at you funny when that happens.

ours – a passive-aggressive insult. reminding us that we never grew out of our GI Joe posters. we revert back to the simpler times of laughs – when humor hurt no one, unless someone tried to hold a lighter up to it; but we need to grow out of this, so insinuates your tone.

your need to be heard sounds to us as a need for something to be solved.

what Michael Buble is to you, Michael Jordan was to us.

high-fives do mean – despite your worry of being a ‘bro’ – as much as a hug sometimes.

you look good naked, but choose to wear clothes. the exact opposite goes for us.

poker nights that end in tequila warrant the same annoyance that your Mother visiting does.

we. are. boys.

and you. are. girls.

therein lies the magic, the mystery – the wonderful adventure of betting a lifetime that the two can mesh.

but there is a difference. in anatomy, in thought process, in comedy, in sharing, in loving and in hurt. and it’s time you all stop referring to our childlike times as a lack of maturity, while using yours as a shield to insensitivity.

we are men.

but first we were boys.

the two make us up in equal parts.

we argue loudly with the umpire… at our son’s baseball games.

we worry about our parent’s declining health… while still worried that we’ll be grounded.

we make a mess of the kitchen… when trying to impress you with our chili.

we drink too much beer… when celebrating with friends.

all we’re asking here, is that you see both.

…

and meet us in the middle with this Poop Discussion, admitting – in the very least – that it’s a funny word.

a.s.q.

man, I’m in a good mood – and that might have to do with a whole lotta stuff. the new cover of the book came in this afternoon and we’re almost done and up for public consumption. it randomly got colder in NYC and the golden bath of a clear sunset lit up Lady Liberty on my drive back over the Manhattan Bridge on the way home from work – sometimes I wait on the corner until a tour bus goes over so I have an excuse not to drive 45mph and I can take it all in along with those paying. maybe it’s because I caved and started dieting – a bit. trading my bagel for fruit and eating smaller portions more times a day than my usual treat, which has sadly resulted in me feeling fantastic. maybe it’s because of stuff happening that you can kind of see here, maybe it’s cause I got pals like Johnny B – tattooed as a muthafucka and who’s good in a pinch – but still thanks me for bein’ his pal. maybe it’s because this horribly cheesy pop song that I’d never admit to you soberly that I like, but how often am I writing when I’m not? I’ll tell you now in case you ever look at my iPod and I stutter – it’s this… except I don’t know how to hyperlink [blessing] in this new format, so just know it’s bad. I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. it came along on a really good fuckin’ day so I won’t apologize… much. I’m mostly sorry. or maybe it’s because twice a day, I cross a bride to/from Gotham – a cousin of mine wrote on my FB wall today that he’d always wanted to visit and here-I-fucking-am. or because I got to see Brother Cohn last weekend and an hour with him lasts my insides for a year. I don’t know. maybe it’s because of a few of the forms in front of me, or what was in the cardboard box that now lies on my bed in the basement that I live where I can sing along badly to this track and [hopefully] no one hears. there’s a grate, so maybe, but it’s Brooklyn and no one cares. or because Sister Jenni is in town and unknowingly reminds me of a not-so-innocence lost? it could be a lot of things – or maybe not. maybe it’s the wine.

or maybe it’s cause sometimes, a good mood just comes along and I like celebrating it.

the spell check suggests it’s the wine.

fuck it – I’m happy.

[and even more so you can't hear this song - sheesh]

-

the little basement was basically done – one weekend’s hangover overtaking and me gutting the entire section, a few trips to Ikea and a lot of sweeping. my own little cave, with a desk and a couch and a chair and an end table. but it was missing something. I didn’t know what at first, but it lacked soul – somewhere in my new lounge was a spot for one more thing and thank fuck it didn’t feel like it needed to be Swedish. and then it hit me – a turntable. a real record player! for those rainy mornings or times needing to hide from daylight. I had no idea what to buy. growing up on my parent’s one, sure – with Perry Como, The Beatles White Album and a lot of Otis Redding, but since the invention of the compact disc, mini disc and then iPod, my travels had never allowed me a time and place to have one. oh sure, most nights at Scott’s or P’s were huddled around one, but they also had records from years – if not decades – of collecting. and vinyl was considered illegal when I lived in Shanghai. true story. so I never had one and now I wanted one. but again – what to buy? I didn’t know which was which, so I emailed Scott. ‘Scott’ I wrote – only I didn’t write ‘Scott’, I wrote ‘neighbor’, cause that’s what we do – ‘neighbor, am in need of some turntable consulting – what do you suggest I buy?’. and wouldn’t you know it, he wrote write back saying ‘dude!’ [only he didn't say 'dude', he said 'neighbor', but I'm trying to mix it up for you] – ‘neighbor! how fucking weird – I was just about to move to [removed] and had P’s old player and didn’t know what to do with it, seeing how I couldn’t take it!’. well, now, if you know anything about the 3 of us, or you’ve read the book, or both, you’ll know how big this was. in Scott’s possession was an heirloom, an oscillating machine of friendship fuel, owned by one, inherited by another and now possibly passed-down to the last. but we had a problem – it was in Shanghai. and you can’t just pack up a turntable in Shanghai – one that’s priceless – and send to the US. so Scott wrote some more ‘might be tricky, though – unless you know anyone coming from Shanghai to the States’ – and even then they would have to take it to the Post Office and send to me in NYC. poop, right? yes – poop. we were so close and I didn’t understand why we would have been allowed to be so close and it not happen. so we left it.

a few days later, another dear friend of mine named Riaad emailed me out of the blue saying he was going to be flying from [you can see where this is going] – flying from Shanghai to Portland, OR and didn’t know if I was in the area or what, but did I need anything from the ‘Hai? I did, actually, and asked him a Godfather’s Daughter’s Wedding Favor, to haul this bad boy over with him, and I’d sort out a way to get FedEx to pick it up and then to me. problem with this is that I didn’t even want to think about how much that might cost, so I didn’t. if I had to eat water and raw toast for breakfast for a month, then I would. fuck it, right? yes – fuck it. the next day, work gave me my dates I was to be in Seattle and [you can see where this is going] – wouldn’t you know it? I was to be 3 hours North of where Riaad was going to be. at the same time. so, I hired a car one weekend, went to see him, got the turntable, took him on a tour of [removed - to be used in the new project launching in Nov], and then brought the turntable back to Seattle with me, through customs on the way back and down the stairs to its new home in Brooklyn.

and what did I see lying on my bed? a large package from editor-at-large, Sunny. it was about 12” x 12” and [you can see where this is going] it was a record by Otis Redding. keep in mind, neither Sunny, nor anyone else – save for Riaad and Scott – knew nothing about my Turntable Adventure 3000, but just so happened to pass a store with this in it, think of me, mail it and somehow time it so that it was waiting there for me on my return.

ri-fucking-diculous.

I plugged it in – got some technical help from Scott and Otis on. the needle is old and it needs some doctoring per the counterweight, but whatever…

see, I’m a big believer in surrounding yourself with things that make you happy on a daily basis. my little Vespa, for example. it’s noisy and smokey and getting a license for it turned into a major pain in the ass, but every morning, when I cross over the Manhattan Bridge, with downtown New York fuckin’ City waking up in front me – a quick look to the left to see Lady Liberty keeping watch – I smile. and I’m not a huge smiler. but I smile. sometimes I shake my head, but most of the time, that’s not a good idea on the bridge on a Vespa. but it’s a daily reminder of my fortune.

and now – when I come home – and walk by this music playing device that has had the hands of the brotherhood on it, I smile as well. I smile because the world works in bizarre and wonderful ways and I have friends who act on instinct and schlep large electronics around the world and make it all work out.

I mentioned it doesn’t sound perfect – and it doesn’t.

who knows why – definitely not me.

but I also don’t want it to be fixed.

cause, brother, I got to be honest…

it sounds perfect.

-

“You got the drunken letter home. I can hear him on the telephone.”

Somehow, it was inevitable, our friendship, like two shoals of ice, drifting helplessly on a certain collision course. I was young, dislocated and sad. You were half-cocked and clinically divided. We were both thirsty and so you took me to your bar.

I was impressionable and you poured your words into me. Three drinks in, teetering on my bar stool, Portishead on the jukebox, a cigarette dangling from my dry lower lip, I received your gospel, hung on your every postulation.

We held on to one another on those late night walks home. We couldn’t have made it any other way. Like two characters from a Bukowski short story; singing show tunes in a pizza parlor, soaked in booze and goodwill, turning out our pockets in hopes of finding enough left for a slice.

But you disappeared. Often. You weren’t just quirky, no. You were schizophrenic. For this, you needed medication. But there were months when the money ran dry. And there were months when your mind wandered elsewhere just long enough that you fell off the page. Your lights were all blazing, but you wouldn’t pick up the phone. I watched you from the street, pacing like a furious animal, holding your cat to your chest, smoking on the fire escape. I called to you. You finally looked down at me, but you could make no connection with my face. I felt that you were not there. I knew no one could bring you back in that state. So, I waited. There was nothing else for it.

You fell for a girl in your building. I say girl because she was just shy of twenty and yet she seemed to me to be pushing sixty. She was brash and bawdy, mouthy and coarse. Her language and mannerisms were aggressive to the point of being abusive. She immediately took a dislike to me, being the only other female with whom she felt she must share the stage. When I made the others laugh, she glared at me with heated malice, wishing me away, wishing me harm. It bothered me that you wanted her. It bothered me she knew it; took advantage of it. I wanted to protect you from the world and people like her were a big part of that. But you did what you wanted. You went your own way. It was something that I deeply understood.

And in much the same way that you blew into my world, you blew your way out. Without much of a warning, you were gone. Looking back, I probably could have seen traces of a goodbye in your hug, your wave at the door. It’s not anything I would have wanted to admit to myself which is why it would only register many years later.

The worst part of it for me has been the not knowing. The suspicion that you may have gone far away and taken your own life; that you may have just given up the constant wearying battle. That you did what you wanted. That you went your own way one last time.

Joel Nicholson – ‘Bobby’

-

for many, many, many more tuesdays with tara, visit her archives.

-

well, thanks, little nephew of mine.

it’s been a helluva year, since my last birthday…

let’s see:

- Josie and I spent my 34th cruising on Absurdity in the South of England, if you learn to sail, you can have her [boat].

- after that, I went to go see Nico [he'll be a quasi-uncle to you] in Paris and had the time in Paris that everyone wants.

- but I got into a little bit of trouble with the U.K. government, and had 30 days to leave.

- so, naturally, I dragged Josie to Vietnam. to live.

- we stayed there for a few months, but ended up going our separate ways. she to Australia to work. me to Oregon to finish a book.

- a few months into my stay in Bend, I finally got to meet you. and that very day, I started writing another book.

- a month of so after that, I flew to Perth to see Josie for her birthday. we took a campervan around wine country. it was fun.

- a few months later, I left Bend for a month in Oklahoma and the promotional run of the book would be released. it sold out.

- a few weeks after that, I got the call that I never thought I’d get – I was about to take a job in New York fuckin City! I’ve now been here a little more than 4 months and it’s been amazing. I’ve been sending you little postcards and stuff, hopefully one day you’ll be able to check them out.

- my birthday was spent with a lot of friends. which, considering how short I’ve been here, should tell you how lucky I am.

… so there you go, nephew – it’s been a fun 34th year. you just started walking and by the time my 36th [ugh] rolls around, you might even be able to talk with me on the phone a little bit. a lot of your and my birthdays will be spent on the phone, but I’ll try and make that up to you.

so, thanks for the card and the cheeky little grin. I showed this to a lot of people here and they all thought you were amazing.

and I think so too.

love,

Uncle Aric

fuck me, I’m drunk. most nights, it’s a nice drunk – a controlled drunk. I know how much I can drink by now, but I wasn’t expecting a late night call from yesterday. I was happily having my cigarette in the backyard of my Brooklyn residence and I get a call. it was a call, but all I remember was a laugh, a laugh that immediately brought back the nostalgia of a decade ago. were we really such assholes? so sure we were meant to make a difference that we would take too many percocet and cry – embraced – over the fact that we had done nothing for the kids? I have no idea what we were meant to do for the kids, seeing how we were them, but we were heartbroken nonetheless. it was so long ago, but not too long ago that we had big dreams – of being pilots and weathermen and whatever the fuck I thought I was going to be… we had big dreams and we were inseparable because of them. I just had to spell check ‘inseparable’ because I’ve had too much wine. I don’t usually have too much wine, because I know my limit, but tonight, after talks of airport legalities and Mexican moped rules, I had to pour another drink. I had to because too much happened during those 3 or 4 years we were inseparable [fuck me, that's a hard word to spell]. we fought, too – once, funnily enough, because I didn’t know the meaning of a word one of them called me. I had to fight because I didn’t understand the word. we fought outside of the apartment I would be kicked out of because I spent all of my money on drugs and then, we’d Delta Force into the apartment building to try and get my golf clubs. fuck me, we were going to be big. I suppose we ended up that way, one flying planes, the other on television and me writing some book, but that laugh said it all, didn’t it? that laugh told me that we still remembered each other with big dreams. maybe that’s why we got along. there were too many pills and too many nights in the hottub to remember exactly, but we know there were nights. fuck! what was that word you called me? it pissed me off so much, I had to shove you up against the wall… you walked away and 30 seconds later, I had to run after you because I was sorry. borrowed phones, ruined ice cream sandwiches, shaved legs and arm wallets. can we get the band back together once more to remember the innocence? probably not, because there wasn’t a lot of innocence. but I heard the laugh and it was a laugh of someone who knew me before the bullshit, and I knew him. and somewhere, probably asleep, was someone else who could testify. if I wasn’t drunk, I could find a photo, but fuck… I am. and I won’t say ‘I’m sorry’ because I opened up that bottle of wine for innocent’s sake. I opened it up because I remembered someone who remembered me before it all became so serious. we did it, we did something, between the three of us, we did something. we’re still assholes, but at least we did something.  I needed that phone call today, I wrote, it was good for my soul. at this age, when memories are more of a conversation piece than something to make, I needed it. I needed it because I needed to be reminded of being a punk kid, with two punk kid pals. we were ready to set the world on fire, and we accidentally did. I forgot about my 22-year old laugh.

-

as you may, or may not have seen, this humble little website was down over the past few days. I’d like to think that it bothered you and suddenly the realization of what a fucking amazing blog this is resonated and you now appreciate it even more.

just let me think that, ok?

anyway, it was just the start of some major things to come. in a few short months, this will stop being only a blog and turn into something much bigger. there is currently a team of people working on it and very, very soon, it’s going to be a full-fledged living site, with more stuff than you can even imagine.

I can tell you that all of your dreams will soon come true.

here’s a few of the things you’ll be seeing:

- a photo gallery of my shots, with a very easy way of buying prints. my flickr is all over the place with screenshots and ripped images, etc, so this will make it easier to buy whatever prints you might want.

- a podcast area. I have all of the old OMKOS and rough sundays shows and will be putting them up, plus launching a new one here in the next 2-3 months. and it is, to date, the most wonderful show I’ve ever put together. it’ll be a bi-weekly show.

- videos. these are things that I’ve never been able to devote enough time to, but once a month or so, I’ll be releasing 2-3 minute shorts.

- a shopping area. the amount of things I’ve accrued over the years from different parts of the globe is insane. I always said that ‘someday, I’d put ‘em up on ebay’, but why do that when I can just sell them on my own site? stuff from all over the world.

- a forum. maybe. we’re kicking around this idea. am open for suggestions on it.

… those are the things that aren’t a secret.

trust that there’s going to be some other big stuff on the way.

I’m kind of excited, except that I’m really excited.

fun.

a

every time I go to write something, I usually don’t write something because writing takes effort. and I’m trying to enjoy the downtime between this book being officially released [read: on Amazon in the next few weeks, ebooks, etc.] and the next one starting. it’s a collection of short stories between Dec ’08-present. I’m looking forward to starting it, and I’m looking even more forward to being done with the first one. did you know I’ve never even read it? it’s sitting right next to me, as I had to reference it for a slight design change, but I’ve never picked it up. I should though, it’s a good book. but I digress…

this shall be the most random of catch-ups. I’m doing it more for me than you, but that shouldn’t come as a shock:

- it’s a shame we lost in the final minutes of the Women’s World Cup. it’s a shame we don’t give a shit. but well-played [for the first 108 minutes, at least], girls. you actually made female professional sports exciting. weird.

- the Vespa Saga continues. that actually deserves its own post and I will – as soon as I’m official – post the entire headache. if I do it now, I’ll just be annoyed.

- speaking of annoyed. I can no longer hide my insane jealousy for Mel and Nick’s choice to put their stuff in storage, quit their [very successful] careers and took off sailing the world for a few years. the only thing that outdoes my envy is my intrigue. and respect.

- this has been a favorite summer song for some time, and it is again this summer. hey, you should make it one of yours.

- oh! the second day in Philly I wanted to tell you about? the crazy castle [yes, castle. see below] we went to, built by the eccentric tile-maker James Mercer? one of the coolest places in the States, I kid you not. the website doesn’t do it justice. well worth a day trip from Philly. no photos allowed inside, but I got a few of the exterior.

- the hair stylist convinced me to get something called a ‘keratin blowout’ done to my locks. I’m still confused to what happened.

- the ’101 best sandwich’ attempt died out [shocking!], as they were all a] more than $10 and b] beginning to not be within walking distance from my office.

- my office is in the exact area the term ’23 skidoo’ was coined. good band as well.

- I haven’t picked up my Leica once since moving to NYC. this hipstamatic stuff is brilliant.

- ah. yes. photos and NYC – that reminds me. took a shot of this the other week and made a point of going back when it was open. one of the coolest shops I’ve ever been in. worth a trip to Park Slope. am pretty sure it’s a Dave Eggers project.

- speaking of iStuff. if you have an iPad, download this. Brother Scott did the music for it and it’s been charting for weeks now on Apple.

- while I’ve always been mildly interested in the occult, reading ‘The Serpent and The Rainbow’ has elevated my curiousity in voodoo and black magic to a point of virtual hopelessness. I’m obsessed. have never seen the film, but have it downloaded for when I’m done.

- speaking of things to watch, I get about 40 minutes a week of time to do it, but Californication is one of the smartest shows ever to come out of the States. season 5 especially.

- this also looks amazing.

- NYC is a fucking fun town. has anyone ever said that before?

- Brother Ben [remember Brother Ben?] has a new project he’s working on and needs help. am hoping to interview him before the deadline, but if not, try and wrap your head around this.

- I rarely drink beer these days. if you email me, I’ll let you in on the best kept secret in the wine world. I’m buying it by the case and would love to say ‘and I’m even dropping some weight in the process’, but no. it is good, though. and cheap.

- please stop using photos of your child for your profile picture on Facebook. Brother Cohn wrote last year that ‘I’m friends with you, not your child’ and it caused a shitstorm. why? I don’t know. photos of your kids on Facebook? of course! photos of you + your kids in your Facebook profile? sure! photos of your kids as your profile photo? no. stop it. it’s weird.

- this little blog is about to have some major changes happen to it. I’m kind of excited. I hope you like it. it’s cool. and exciting… thus, the excitement.

- a copy of my book was handed to Annie Clark [St. Vincent]. I’m totally keeping an eye out for her next album to see if I’m mentioned.

- I’m turning 35 in a few weeks and change. please don’t forget.

- this is a fun town.

- see ya later.

I’m writing this from a cab. It’s past 2am and I’m writing this on my phone from a cab… I’m tired, but maybe I should write. I’m always in cabs and it’s always late. do I bitch about stuff? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t. with walls and bullshit, sometimes I forget. it’s easy to forget, maybe you have someone in the other room who you havent paid a compliment to in a while. that’s okay… wait, it’s not okay. that’s something you say. you haven’t reminded the missus she’s pretty and I haven’t held out an embrace for this city. I guess I’m tired. I know I’m tired. I’m always tired. but I’m not the only one. I think that’s what new york city does best – remind you that you’re not the only one. there’s a lot of me here, tall dark-haired kids. in my office, there’s not only another Aric, but someone with a tattoo that says ‘absurd’. mine says ‘absurdity’. there might be snow, but there are no snowflakes. this cab is making me sick. too many people pass through and not enough people come and pass through. i just passed where they filmed Ghostbusters. maybe I should ask him to go back and have a cigarette outside. maybe not. they might not like smokers. Bill Murray’s dance by the fountain when he was waiting on Sigourney Weaver was classic. you can get away with shit like that here. you can get away with a lot, but please don’t think it’s original. we’re all pretty tired. yesterday, a girl who works for us, but a floor above, said she goes to bed around 4a – back up at 8a. ‘how long?’ I asked, ‘since forever’ from under her Ray Bans. and so it goes in the big city. and so we go in the big city. tomorrow’s going to hurt – not from drinkin’ though; haven’t had one of those in a while. just sleep. or lack thereof. the city hurts. no – not hurts. the city makes me a good tired. this Manhattan gives me a constant hangover. but that’s okay. but this cab is making me sick.

-

“And the hardest thing about this love is that it’s never gonna’ last. And the hardest thing about this love is that you’re never coming back.”

-

I have things that I want to say to you. It doesn’t matter to me that you will never read this. It doesn’t concern me that these words will never reach you. You know all of this already. You know because you did this. You did all of it. You did it to me. You did it to us. You are the one who will have to live with it, as well. It did its work with me, to be sure. But if there’s one thing about me that you vastly under-estimated (and let’s face it; it wasn’t just one thing), it’s my raw strength; my ability to take one on the chin, dust myself off and keep moving forward. You did not break me, though there were nights where I wondered if it were the case, nights when I laid in a pile on the floor in a pool of my own hot tears, feeling as though I had finally been broken beyond compare.

You got scared. It got real. It got real and you freaked. It’s really as simple as that in the end. You don’t like yourself very much. You think you are full of dirt and shameful ways. You didn’t understand why I would even want to be with you; why I would want to know your heart. You feel it is a dark unknowable place that you must never truly reveal. It is your right, after all, to go through life hiding behind a shield. But you betrayed my love in the process. You hung me out to dry and you did it in the most cowardly way possible.

I can’t blame you for being afraid of bearing yourself to someone else. It’s damned frightening. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate the full weight of such an action is probably not going deep enough in the first place. But you threw your words into the wind. You made promises and swore oaths and then you went back on all of them. I found myself standing in the hallway at five in the morning, my eyes swollen from crying for hours, not knowing where you were, and all I could do, all I could muster at the sight of you, was to bring my hand across your face. You were breaking me even then, but you were doing it so slowly that even I didn’t realize what was happening. It was the beginning of the end, that morning. It was the first stage of your cowardly departure.

And when you chased me like a dog down a highway median, I still wondered how my life had gotten to that point. And when you tore the arm off of my wool coat, I asked myself who it was happening to. And when you dragged me through the bushes, and I tore at your face with every ounce of strength I had in me, I was sure that none of it could be really happening. You loved me. So why was any of it happening?

In the end, I decided that maybe you were right to want to hide your heart from me. Perhaps there is within your heart some darkness with which you cannot ever possibly reconcile. This is no longer anything that I concern myself with. You are no longer anyone who can hurt me.

I want you to know one thing and one thing only, in the event that you do not know it: what you did to me was wrong. What you did to us was sad, but what you did to me was wrong.

-

Click here to view the embedded video.

-

like Tara? shame on you. love Tara? welcome to the fold. there’s 37 more of her offerings here. you’ll thank us

for someone who’s not good at keeping secrets, I’ve done a good job of keeping a secret. the 2nd week I moved to Brooklyn, I found this gorgeous little thing on Craigslist. it’d been posted a few days prior and, with Vespas being the absolute cupcakes here in NYC, I was sure it had gone [I won't tell you the price, but trust me that this was a steal]. I went ahead and emailed the poor fella who had to let her go and went ahead and asked if he had sold her yet and, as it turned out, he had received loads of inquiries, but had been out of town for a few days and mine just happened to be the first [read: most recent] email on top. so I had first dibs. problem was that while I had plenty of dibs, I did not [nor do I ever have] the money for it. so I tried a second Hail Mary and asked if he’d be willing to accept 6 weeks of partial payments. cheeky, sure, but it was either that or quickly sell 341 books.

and he went for it.

it’s amazing what happens when you take the chance and just ask. try it for a week.

so…

the night before I go to pick it up, I happen to get a call from my buddy Chris – who lives here in town, but I never get to see [read: common occurrence in the city] and we decided on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon to meet up at my 2nd home/favorite joint in NYC, Salt.

did I mention it was gorgeous? and that I hadn’t seen Chris in a while? and that we were at my favorite place in the city?

okay, good.

6 hours [unconfirmed] and 7 [confirmed] bottles of cava later, we came to the conclusion that we had done a good job of catching up.

the next morning, our heads/legs/shoulders/soul/toe would question our reasoning.

I was woken up by a message from the Vespa owner saying that he had to leave town early, so could I get there within the hour?

no.

but I had to.

so, yes.

now, I don’t know what you know about New York City, but I live in the gorgeous Brooklyn area of Park Slope. previously-nice-now-turned-mean-spirited Vespa owner lives on the Upper West Side. it’s basically from Prospect Park to Central Park. a long way. and it’s a very long way on a train when you’ve got the shakes and a vicious headache.

I think I said ‘hello’ to him and I’m pretty sure I told him ‘I understand’ when he gave me instructions that I didn’t understand. somehow, in the months leading up to the acquisition, I had not realized that this was a manual Vespa, as opposed to the normal automatic. and it’s not the manual like a motorcycle, which you might have read about my experience with. it’s different. a lot different.

anyway.

I couldn’t tell you the number of times I stalled in front of buses or cabs, or even the more dangerous bike messengers. I can tell you I did about 25mph the entire time. I missed turns, almost ended up in a tunnel to New Jersey and then almost hit a large group of tourists crossing over to the World Trade grounds. what was supposed to be a 30-minute drive from the west of the city to the Brooklyn Bridge took more than an hour.

and then there was the bridge The Bridge. it’s a big ole bridge. and people go really fast on it. there’s no shoulder to go the aforementioned mph preference, and, despite the gorgeous weather, I was still suffering. greatly. lots of suffering. and my wrist hurt from the weird shifting motion. and I was holding in a nervous poo.

and oh yeah! it wasn’t until I was halfway onto the monstrous steel and going 45mph that I realized something I had somehow missed during the Manhattan part of the ride…

the steering column wasn’t aligned.

meaning in order to keep the front wheel straight, my hands were not at the 10-and-2 position, but – in fact – 10.15-and-3.07 marker. now, that might not seem like much to you, but it’s fucklot when you’re on a Vespa going fast over a bridge with angry cabbies behind you [one less customer]. and your mind does a funny thing when realizing the danger you’re in. it doesn’t agree with your hands not being straight. it wants to be straight. aligned. the weirdest thing. my mind actually was telling my body to straighten itself out.

but I couldn’t.

so I freaked.

my hands started shaking more than they were previously. I slowed down and was screamed at by a yellow gang of 4. it started raining [not really][but it might as well have]. I finally made it off and pulled over to calm down.

it took about 20 minutes. both hands – on the area between you thumbs and index finger – were blistered. my bottom had sweated a streak in my shorts. my jaw hurt.

but I had made it over. I was in Brooklyn.

the rest of the day, I rode all over – stopping only to get gas and stopping only once more to ask people how to open up the seat to put gas in it. I enjoyed myself and people told me through unrolled windows at stoplights that they liked my bike. I was a cool guy to them and thus, I was a cool guy to me.

it was a good day.

until David came home and scolded me. ‘you could have been in a lot of trouble – driving around with no license or insurance.’ I pah’d him away with a wave. it was worth the possible $100 fine [or whatever] to be free on the streets of New York City. he told me ‘it would be much worse than a few hundred dollars’ and I pah’d him away again.

but then my curiosity got the best of me and I decided to join a scooter forum and ask.

turns out I would have been in a lot of trouble.

no problem though, right? get a license, get insurance and away I go!

absolutely!

all I have to do is:

- order a new birth certificate [mine was taken in the China raid]

- order a new social security card [same]

- take both in and surrender my OK driver’s license for a NY one

- go back and take the written test for a motorcycle learner’s permit

- enroll in a driving school

- pass the test

- get my NY motorcycle license

… didn’t really think that one through.

but I got one great photo!

so there’s that.

“People say that old road is haunted. If you travel on it long enough, you won’t get off it.”

-

Stories. We all love to hear them. We may even love to tell them. But what of the stories we tell ourselves? What of the stories that become such an entrenched part of our inner fabric that we begin to assume them as fact; the way things are, or were, or will be.

Internal dialogue. We’re all entitled to our very own. We sometimes make the leap of faith to allow another person into that sacred space where such thinking is contained. This is not an easy gesture to make. If I choose to open that place and usher you inside, I lose some of my power. Whatever it is you choose to see, to perceive, to come away with, may be entirely apart from what it is I assumed was tucked inside there. And what are we to do, then? Are we at an impasse? We are. It is a stand-off of epic proportion. I stand before you and I say that what it is you have seen deep inside of me is one way. You stand before me and tell me that what it is that you have seen deep inside of me is something else.

And who is right?

Naturally, you assume that you are correct. It is, after all, your mind, your conscience that has been peered into. It is your very soul that you have bared and so, does it not then follow that the power of its contents should rightly belong to you? That any and every interpretation of what has been revealed ought only to appear as it has been presented? And yet, is this not an impossibility? Is it not the case that once the leap of faith has been made, and once the space has been opened; in fact, once you have opened that door, are you not then subjective to what it is that might walk through?

Is it not the case that you cannot tell me how it is that I feel? Is it not the case that this very fact, may actually, chill you to your very bones? And yet, this is where we stand. This is where we find ourselves. You empty the contents of your emotions. I absorb it and decide what it is I can do with it. I cannot promise you that I will always make the wisest choice. I also cannot promise you that how I feel will be something that will leave you with a sense of well-being or peace. It may, in fact, be the very opposite. This may happen again, as it happened today; as it happened a month ago. It is where we are. It where we might find ourselves tomorrow. What, then, are we to do about this? Well, for one, we can let go. We can forget all about the need for power. We can forget all about the need for control. We can remember love. We can remember that. It’s what we’ve got.

More than anything, in times like these, I want to say this to you: please come back to us.

Grieves ‘Bloody Poetry’

-

written, as it always is, by Miss Tara Noble. visit 36 more here. this girl’s the jam. when she’s not living in a campervan.

‘I have an idea’ said my friend David, a few weeks ago on the phone, ‘it’s kind of weird, you might get wet and probably can’t stand up in it, but it’s something…’

sold.

David, who I hope will let me write about him more in the coming months, was someone who I’d always wanted to be like… but more on that later. what I did know is that he had a very quirky/artsy side to him and I knew that if he was suggesting it, then there had to be a major draw.

so I said ‘yes’. right there on the phone. before even seeing it. he wanted me to come by and check it out, but I already knew that I would like it.

I live in a basement, in case you weren’t following. and I can’t stand straight up when walking under the beams – but that’s okay. it does get wet here when it rains, but that’s okay because 90% of the time, I’ll have a dry home.

wait – I can picture your face right now. that nurturing look made when reacting to someone’s silver lining. but let me stop you right there. I’m making money. a decent amount of money. and I could easily afford to pay $1500 a month to share an apartment with a stranger I met on craigslist.

but I don’t want to pay $1500 a month to share an apartment with a stranger I met on craigslist.

I want to live here.

… I want to live here and I do.

I live in a basement.

more photos to come of the house itsself – I mean, in-suite laundry, a backyard with a bbq grill [unheard of in nyc] and we have a baby grand piano in the middle of our kitchen. banjos hang on the walls and are played whenever bourbon is served. books overload the shelves. an original print from ‘mr. brainwash’ hangs behind me. it’s the most funkiest of places with the funkiest of people [two roommates musicians/sound designers, two of them in theater] and it’s in the gorgeous tree-lined area of park slope. at night, if you look down our street, you can see the statue of liberty.

so – to recap:

- I get a job with a very hip ‘zine in manhattan [more on that in a bit].

- my first weekend in town, I spend it in a 50-million dollar hampton beach house.

- two days later, I have a book launch party that a lot of people showed up to.

- that next weekend, I move here.

…

it’s all gone a bit silly, if you ask me.