The Dashboard's Melted But We Still Have The Radio

Its a tricky thing this blogging business.  Myspace was my first foray into the world of online words, mingling with layouts and commercials, views and hits.  My words seem to float into space, not knowing if anyone was reading.  It's like writing a note and placing it in a glass bottle, throwing it out into the ocean not thinking that anyone in the vast sea will ever find it.  Yet the thought that perhaps someone, somewhere will pick it up off a sandy shore, wipe off the sea scum and sand, open the cork and find your pleas of hope, sanity, insanity, help.  Your SOS shouting across the miles as the bottle bobbled over the waves and whirled against the thrust of massive rotating ship engine oars, flipping through the hurricanes and night storms, the baking sun and the star light, moon washed sky until it finds its way to dry land, into the hands of a stranger.  It could be next week.  It could be next year or decades in the future.  Writing a blog feels like that message in a bottle.  Just throw it out there into the storms and sundrenched water.  Someone may want to read it.  Or someone may just want to read an album review.

Midnight Ramble

And so the buzz in Denver dies down. The chairs are being folded, the confetti is being swept. Another convention, and another speech, another nomination on hand. MLK is somewhere smiling. I have a tear in my eye.

Saw Will Arnett and Tracy Jordan filming a scene for "30 Rock" in front of 30 Rock yesterday. Production crew kept telling us, the riff raff, to stay out of the plaza. I yelled, in a low whisper lest anyone think I'm insane "Fuck you. Give me a job". I have a lot of television production, broken dreams and disillusionment baggage.

Times Square Blues

It kills me how the center of the civilization smells like garbage and puke. The fat thighs of tourists shoveling slowly on 42nd street. The way the stand and block those who need to get somewhere. The wax museum barks of oddities and freaks when sometimes I wonder if they are right there on the gum caked sidewalks, wandering around for their next meal at Red Lobster before taking in a show at Ripley's. Walking through the super duper ex-theater McDonalds to cut through the mire of slow day trippers, I walk through a darkened hall that leads from 42nd street to 41st to get to work. Before I find my way there, I pass the Metro and AM paper givers, greeting passers by with the new edition in their hands, saying "Good Morning!" to all, and talking a friendly jive that's supposed to make the skinny guy, his chubby wife and little children think that maybe New York isn't so unfriendly after all. Finally, past the other commuters intermingled with teenagers getting an early start on whatever, I find the large doors of the Super Micky-D's and find the darkness cutting drastically as I leave daylight behind. I dart around customers waiting for their mini-donuts and McMuffins. My nose quivers at the smell of sweet old cooking oil and stale air. As I enter the hallway that leads to the other side. It's like the hallway of lost souls. What seems to be a mile long counter top that stretches the length of the long passage, I gaze at each counter stool, round and smart, just big enough to hold the rear ends of those just downing a quick hamburger. The covers that grace them are thick plastic blue sparkles that shimmer and dance in the tract lighting that hangs in a gothic funky New York loft way. On the other side are tables with snoozing homeless or people just getting off the late shift staring at the front page of the Daily News. Some are just eating staring into space, as the sleepy ones continue to snooze on a table. TV monitors blare Feist or U2, or whatever music of the latest broadway musical needs promoting. I continue down the tunnel of darkness, or sadness and I see light from the doors on the other side. I approach them, and break out into the morning daylight. The smells are there. The ones that kill me. Add cigarette smoke to that, and the conconction makes me wonder why I even stopped. It doesn't matter anyway. I'm smoking the used smoke that has just been bellowed through the lungs of strangers. Second hand smoke feeling like I'm actually smoking. What's the use?

Summertime is Falling Down

I've got the urge for going. It's time to face the music. The lighting is changing. The mornings are darker. The sunlight dims earlier. Twilight goes in a flash. Look at the sunset quickly before it sinks into the horizon.