Baby, Slow Down

    The temperature had dropped considerably as the frigid winds that had swept out of the northeast brought the first big blast of whitestuff for the year.  Visibility was hardly thirty feet, but Bobby Helms' "Jingle Bell Rock" was blaring from the speakers and Mick felt pretty damn fine.

    - Baby, slow down. It's too dangerous to be going this fast.

    Mick turned and looked at Loretta, who looked a little worried. She was bundled up warmly and had the heater blasting directly on her. She was also eight months pregnant and due right around Christmas. There had been much joking about an "Immaculate Conception".

    - I don't wanna scare you, darlin. Of course.

    THUNK!

    Loretta screamed as Mick jammed on the brakes and began to slide. He turned into it and came to a stop in the oncoming lane of traffic. He held the wheel and stared out into the howling storm.

    Jingle bell time is a swell time 

    To go gliding in a one-horse sleigh 

    He was still breathing a little heavy as he eased the car onto the shoulder. As best as he could determine where it was anyway. He put the car in park.

    - Baby, what'd we hit?

    - I don't know, Loretta. Lemme go check.

    Mick opened the door and an icy blast came tearing into the coupe. He moved quickly out of the car, slammed the door shut behind him and walked to the front of the vehicle. Standing in the headlights he could see a sizable dent on the passenger side of the front fender. Dammit, he thought. Mick really loved his Pontiac. He'd bought it while still in high school and had only completed the restoration this past summer. Ten years spent fixing everything that was wrong with this old girl to make her perfect and he'd now gone and fucked it up. With a new baby on the way, there wouldn't be money to replace the fender and on a line worker's salary he couldn't afford full-coverage insurance.

    Mick looked a little closer at the dent. What was that? Blood? Ah, crap. He'd hit an animal. But, what the hell was it? Had to have been a pretty good size to make a dent like that. Moose weren't unheard of in southern Pennsylvania, but that would have had to have been a fairly small moose for him not to have seen it. Maybe a calf?

    - Mick, what is it? Is it bad?

    Loretta had gotten out and was walking towards him.

    - Get back in the car. It's cold out here. I just crunched the fender a little.

    She came beside him and viewed the damage.

    - What did we hit?

    - Maybe a moose or deer calf I think.

    He began to walk back the way they had come.

    - You think it's okay?

    - I'm gonna check. Baby, get back in the car.

    - I hope he ain't hurt bad.

    She came up beside and walked with him. They could see nothing but empty road and swirling snow ahead of them. They stood still for a moment and Mick listened to the night. Nothing but the howling wind.

     - Is it okay, baby?

    - I probably just clipped it and it took off.  If it was laying out there, it'd be wailing up a storm. Now get back in the car. It's too nasty out here for you and the baby.

    - I told you not to drive so fast.

    - I know. I'm sorry. Get back in the car.

    Loretta walked back and crawled into the Pontiac. Mick walked a bit further down the road, looking for any sign of the animal. He thought he might have heard something about ten yards up.

    - Ahhhhhh! Help me!

    It was faint, but it was definitely human. Mick ran quickly, slipped a little on an icy patch, jumped into his car, threw it into drive and sped away.

The Bathroom Window

It certainly is a beautiful day, I think as I gaze out the window onto the Brooklyn street below. Just one of those impossible to believe temperate and clear autumn New York afternoons that somehow seem so incongruous with New York's reputation.

    I spy an old pick-up truck parked on the street below. It's a 1979 Ford F-150, rusty and beat up. The same make and model of the first car I ever owned. My dad had given it to me on my sixteenth birthday. Of course it was eleven years old by then and had over two hundred thousand miles, but I was happy as a pig in stink to finally have my own wheels.

    I knock off the daydreaming that comes so easily when staring out the window on a beautiful day. I still have a lot of cleaning to do.

    I try to open the window to let in some of the cool air and to ease some of the less-than-pleasant odor permeating the room. It sticks. It's one of those old cantilevered jobs that are ubiquitous to the brownstones in these parts. I check and see if there have been nails or screws inserted into the casing to prevent it being opened. Nope. I grab the base and give another pull. Nothing. I press my hands directly on the glass and heave with all my might. The rubber gloves I'm wearing certainly give me a firm traction, but the window remains decidedly shut. I suspect the hundred-some years of repeated paintings might be the culprit and abandon the task. 

    It strikes me as very odd that someone would have a bathroom window that doesn't open. It's not like anyone could crawl through the little thing. The former owner must have been lazy or just not very handy. Not my problem. I'm not gonna be here very long and I'm sure he no longer cares.

- Honey, I'm home!

      The wife. I hadn't expected her home so early and was really hoping to have everything finished up before she got here. Oh well. I guess that I'll just have to have her help me out. The work will go faster with two instead of one. I grunt a response and can hear her climbing the stairs to come up and join me.

    I know that in the grand scheme of things she may help me clean this mess a bit, but ultimately she's just gonna end up making a mess of her own. For some reason this doesn't bother me. It's a beautiful day and I really enjoy cleaning. It relaxes me.

    I hear her walking down the hall towards the bathroom and take another glance out the window and then down at the pieces of her husband in the tub.

Handful of Nothing

Luke: Anybody here? Hey, Old Man. You home tonight? Can You spare a minute. It's about time we had a little talk. I know I'm a pretty evil fellow... killed people in the war and got drunk... and chewed up municipal property and the like. I know I got no call to ask for much... but even so, You've got to admit You ain't dealt me no cards in a long time. It's beginning to look like You got things fixed so I can't never win out. Inside, outside, all of them... rules and regulations and bosses. You made me like I am. Now just where am I supposed to fit in? Old Man, I gotta tell You. I started out pretty strong and fast. But it's beginning to get to me. When does it end? What do You got in mind for me? What do I do now? Right. All right.

[Gets on knees, closes eyes and begins to pray]
Luke: . On my knees, asking.
[Peeks up with one eye, waits. Then opens eyes and crosses arms]
Luke: . Yeah, that's what I thought. I guess I'm pretty tough to deal with, huh? A hard case.
[Clicks tongue]
Luke: . Yeah. I guess I gotta find my own way.
[Headlights shine through windows, backs up]
Dragline: Luke?
Luke: [Shakes head and smiles] Is that Your answer, Old Man? I guess You're a hard case, too.

The Story of Loquesto

When I was working at MARKT I would write these horrible little short storied about my co-workers. I don't mean they were bad (matter of fact some of them were really very good), but I would write about terrible, terrible things happening to those guys. It was just a way to pass the time really. 

I showed one of them to the guy I had written it about and he really liked it and told me it was okay if I let others read about how he was secretly an insane football player's ball-soaper. Yes, I wrote a story about a waiter who privately longs to work for a professional football team washing the players genitals. 

I thought for a little bit. If this was gonna be my first "published" piece of fiction I needed a nice nom de plume. There was a jar of Newman's Own spaghetti sauce in my fridge. On the back label there was a story purporting to be the "true story" of how this particular sauce came into existance. And it was signed "P. Loquesto Newman". I promptly typed "by K. Loquesto Pierson" on the short story and printed up a bunch of copies for my fellow waiters to read. And thus the Loquesto you've all come to know was born. I did it as a tribute to a man I have always greatly admired.

Paul Newman was my biggest hero. Even bigger than Bruce Willis. Cool Hand Luke is my favorite movie of all time.  Almost all of Mr. Newman's movies are in my favorite list. But it was more than his movies. It was how he lived his life. The profits from that jar of spaghetti sauce in my refrigerator all went to charity. The man gave hundreds of millions of dollars to try and make the world a better place. Most specifically children with cancer and other terminal illnesses. If you get a chance you should read Shameless Exploitation in Pursuit of the Common Good by Mr. Newman and A.E. Hotchner. It tells the story of their founding of Newman's Own as well as the establishment of the Hole-in-the-Wall-Gang camps for kids.

He was also well-known as a racecar driver. Most people would be surprised to know that this is a hobby he didn't take up until he was in his forties. I think of that when I start to feel I am getting too old to try and do new things with my life.

He and Joann Woodward were married 50 years and are touted as a Hollywood success story when it comes to marriages. Admittedly they both left their spouses for one another, but whichever of you out there who can stay married half a century, give countless millions to benefit sick children and provide hours of joy to millions of people the world over can feel free to start hurling stones.

My greatest dream was to meet the man and hopefully work with him in some capacity. I'll add this to the ever-growing list of things that just ain't gonna come true. If you'll excuse me now - I gotta go cry a bit (and maybe eat a few hard-boiled eggs.)

Keeping a Cool Hand,

Kyle

Kismet, Karma and Coincidence

"How a person masters his fate is more important than what his fate is."

- Wilhelm von Humbolt

Do you believe in signs? Do you? Really? I mean - really? I'd like to think I don't but sometimes Life has a way of really testing my limits. Enough so that occasionally, whether I like to admit it or not, I do in fact believe that something larger than myself is nudging me towards some destination.

Not that I have no choice in the matter. I can ignore all the portents and remain stuck in the mud of my life if I so desire.  But sometimes the messages I think I'm getting are so strong is seems rather ludicrous not to follow them and see where they lead.

Case in point: I have been rather occupied as of late with my attempt to write my very first full length book. I dare not call it a 'novel' and I am really pretty queasy about saying I'm 'writing'. Too often my time is spent sitting and staring at a blank computer screen, knowing what I want to say but having no idea how to say it. I know the story I'm writing and have the whole thing outlined, but hunkering down and actually putting words to the damn thing has proven quite difficult.

A few months ago I received an invitation to join LinkedIn - from what I can tell it's like MySpace for business professionals. I think the person that sent it to me accidentally included my email in the group invite. I have no recollection of actually joining this thing. But, apparently, I did because last night, via a message from LinkedIn, I received the following email:

Kyle,

I decided to ping you after much contemplation. Interesting thing... surfing the net, saw some of your work on GTC and was quite amuzed, in a good way. Thought to see how life is treating you and hope all is decent. Maybe you'd be interested in catching up.

From your bud in Houston (Spring Oaks Jr / Spring Woods Sr)

- Elaine [last name redacted]
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx@hotmail.com

PS: I hope that you're still writing. You had some wicked stories in school.

Here is where the augery got really to be too much for me. See - in my book I have a chapter where my protagonist is reflecting back upon his life and one of the things he thinks of is his first girlfriend back in sixth grade.  Because I am much too lazy to think of anything original, I used a true story from my own childhood and didn't even bother to change the girl's name. I figure the book will never see the light of day and even if it does (1) The girl will probably never read it and (2) The anecdote paints me in a bad light not the girl. I have been having my doubts about whether or not to change it just to be safe since I would have no idea how to contact her to see if she minds being mentioned in a silly adventure story. 

Yes, yes it would be too unbelievable if as I was writing it I get contacted by the girl herself. That would just border on the downright psychic. Elaine was not my first girlfriend (Not that I would have minded. She was pretty cute.) She was my first girlfriend's BFF.

And the part that's really freaking me out is the P.S. In all honesty I have no recollection whatsoever of writing stories in junior high. I mean, it's entirely possible (and given her email, I guess I did.) I just don't remember ever writing any and showing them to people. It comes down to some self-realization I have just recently acquired. I am not a film-maker. I am not an actor. I am not a writer. I am a story-teller. I always have been. Film and theatre and putting pen to page have just been the various mediums I have used to get the stories out. I suppose I don't recall writing any stories back then because I thought 'only writers write stories'. And I sure as heck wasn't a writer.  I'd be curious to see if she remembers any of the stories. Maybe she can remind me of some gem I can recycle later.

Reading the tea leaves,

Kyle

My Brother's Fu is Strong

My brother Jeremy has entered the Masters of Song Fu #2 competition! Click here to go directly to the site and vote for his song.

Masters of Song Fu is songwriting competition that pits songwriters against one another in a friendly battle of musical diversity and oddity. The competition is sponsored/managed by Quickstop Entertainment, a Kevin Smith company. Kevin Smith, for those of you who might be unaware, is the much celebrated and occasionally controversial writer director of such movies as Clerks and Chasing Amy, and the star of the enormously successful DVD series, An Evening With Kevin Smith and An Evening With Kevin Smith 2: Evening Harder.

Last Night in Pittsburg, KS || Part II

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, before I tell you any more, I'm going to show you the greatest thing your eyes have ever beheld. He was a king and a god in the world he knew, but now he comes to civilization merely a captive - a show to gratify your curiosity. Ladies and gentlemen, look at Kong, the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

- Robert Armstrong as Carl Denham, King Kong (1933)

Killing Kong

There is a tradition in Pittsburg called “Dragging the Gut”. ‘The Gut’ refers to Broadway, the town’s main thoroughfare. ‘Dragging’ refers to driving from the Wal-Mart down Broadway to the 1106, which is a drive-in burger joint, and back again. Very American Graffiti-esque. We’ve been dragging a section of The Gut for about a half hour. Jeremy is convinced that The 311 Club is on Seventh Street and he keeps driving up and back on Broadway, just slowing as he stares down 7th, hoping to catch a glimpse of this elusive drinking parlor.

I complain.
- There’s a sports bar right there! Let’s just go there.

- No. The 311 is right near the church. I’m positive it’s on 7th.

- Then turn down seventh!

- It goes the other way.

- Then turn down 8th and circle back.

My brother does not care to be told what to do. Bitching is just gonna make him more obstinate so I stop complaining and just let J do his thing. Three decades of being his brother has taught me enough to know when it’s not worth arguing with him. I’m a bit tempted to leap out of the car the next time he slows crossing 7th so that I can make a run for the sports bar. I just need a damn beer. Don’t really care where it comes from.

He eventually turns down 6th and makes a right onto Joplin St. Another right onto 7th and, sure enough, there’s The 311 Club. He parks in front. I jump out of the car and make a beeline for the bar.

Everybody orders their beers. Except Kari who feels the need to be different and orders some sort of wine cooler/Zima type thing. The total comes to nine dollars and change. I am positive that the bartender has made some sort of error. I mean, Christ, Jon and I both ordered 32 oz. beers for cryin’ out loud. Just one of those bad boys woulda set me back more than nine bucks back in NYC. I give the bartender a healthy tip and we all move to a table.

I have to let my friends back in New York in on this impressive bit of small town charm. I pull out my phone and begin texting.

To: Matt, Yvette
Just paid 9 bucks for 4 drinks. In a BAR! God Bless the Midwest!
Sat, Feb 16, 4:33pm

From: Matt
Bring me one!
Sat, Feb 16, 4:36pm

I take a look around the bar. The prices are simply ridiculous and I think my dick actually gets a little hard. I snap a pic of one of the drink menus.

To: Matt, Yvette

Bar Prices in KS
Sat, Feb 16, 4:44pm

From: Matt
Good Luck
Sat, Feb 16, 4:47pm

From: Yvette
That’s ridiculous. So they all for you?
Sat, Feb 16, 4:56pm

I spot another beer menu and decide that the "Kong" simply looks too insane for me not to order and get some pics of. I can't imagine a 200 oz. glass. I order one and send a pic of the menu to NYC.

To: Matt, Yvette

I’m drinking a Kong
Sat, Feb 16, 4:57pm

From: Yvette
I always knew you had a preoccupation with size. Now me, I’d prefer having a chubby but having it more often. That does say 200 oz right? Ian and I want a pic of the container
Sat, Feb 16, 5:26pm

From: Yvette
they give you to drink 16 beers out of with your head next to it so we can gauge the size
Sat, Feb 16, 5:28pm

They bring over the Kong. Holy Christ on a cracker! They use one of those friggin' ice tea dispensers. They also put a couple of ziplock baggies full of ice inside it to keep it cold. These folks have definitely thought this through. I grab a straw and give my camera phone to J to snap a pic.

To: Yvette

Me and my straw
Sat, Feb 16, 5:34pm

From: Yvette
What kind of pussy drinks beer through a straw?
Sat, Feb 16, 5:54pm

My friends are obviously so in awe of the Kong that they're reduced to childish comments.

To: Yvette
Subject: Bite me

Fuck you, whore
Sat, Feb 16, 5:56pm

I feel good maintaining the moral high ground.

From: Yvette
Was just kidding. No need to get all surly redneck on me. Have fun.
Sat, Feb 16, 6:02pm

I keep looking at the Kong and thinking that consuming him might be difficult on my own. Especially since I already pounded a 32 oz. mug of brew. I pour my brother Jon a glass. Kari comments on the little menu on the table. It says, "Chipd and salsa".

- I wonder what "chipd" are?

Fuckin' A! Nachos would be the perfect compliment to my meal of Kong. Kari hops up to go order us some.

We’re joined at the bar by my cousins Courtney and Chadd. I pour Court some of the Kong and top Jon off with some more frosty deliciousness. Chadd is Court’s designated driver and doesn’t have anything to drink. Plus he’s like twelve.

Kari comes back to the table.

- How much did you tip her?

- Huh?

- The bartender. How a big a tip did you leave exactly?

- I took care of her. Why? Was she acting surly?

I start to get up to give the bartender a piece of my mind. Greedy bitch.

- Sit down! The nachos are all on the house.

I sit. Jeremy now wants to know about the tip.

- Don’t worry about it. I gave her a nice tip. But, shit. Even with the big tip it was less than I would have paid in NY for all these drinks.

The waitress and the bar owner bring over two trays of nachos and we all dig in. I love these generous people! I see the owner’s ‘Only real men conquer the Kong’ t-shirt and of course I want one. But because God hates me they are currently out of the tees. The owner (George – his shirt says so) toddles off. Sure. Give us free cheap-ass nachos, but keep the awesome shirts for yourself. Cheap bastard.

He returns fairly quickly with 311 Club trucker hats for all of us.

- That’s awesome, man! How much do I owe you for the hats?

- Don’t worry about it. They’re on the house.

I LOVE this man and his generous Midwestern nature.

Ok. Now I start to wonder about my tip. I pull out my money and make sure that I didn’t accidentally give them a hundred thinking it was a ten. No. That wasn’t it. The only thing I can figure is that they use pesos here in Kansas and the fact that I was paying with American dollars was really holding a powerful sway over the natives. Whatever. God Bless the Midwest!

Kong has dealt the first blow against my bladder and I get up to go to the men’s room.

Wow. The ‘men’s room’ is simply a two by three foot closet that is completely filled with a piss trough. I haven’t seen a trough in a bathroom in years. In NYC most bathrooms are unisex single room occupancy jobs. I kinda wonder about the thinking behind putting a trough in this tiny space. Since it only has room for one, wouldn’t it make more sense to put in an actual toilet? It then occurs to me that if you were to try and sit in here you would have to keep the door open. Can’t imagine the rest of the bar wants to watch anyone sit and make Bud mud.

This definitely calls for sharing with the guys up north.

To: Matt, Yvette
Subject: No sitdown toilets

Yes it’s just a trough.
Sat, Feb 16, 6:20pm

From: Matt
Shit, you can put a baby in there.
Sat, Feb 16, 6:21pm

Matt has a weird take on the world. But give him credit. I have no doubt one could put a baby in there. Very astute thinker Matt.

From: Matt
Sit down anyway, I’ll give you five bucks
Sat, Feb 16, 6:22pm

A challenge! Of course I am up for it! Now – how to take a picture of me crapping in the urinal?

Cousin Chadd, because he is awesome, volunteers for camera duty.

- I’m in the Army. I have to shower with 50 guys at a time. This is far from the worst thing I’ve ever seen.

He’s a fine young man and I shed a tear of pride.

To: Matt, Yvette
Subject: When life hands you lemons

Make mud pies
Sat, Feb 16, 6:40pm

I guess one can sit down in there. I walk back over and join our group and resume my assault on Kong.

To: Matt
You owe me 5 bucks
Sat, Feb 16, 6:42pm

To: Matt, Yvette
By the way – this bar is called The 311 Club. That’s right – the police code for Indecent Exposure
Sat, Feb 16, 6:47pm

From: Yvette
So you’re telling me it’s really like a requirement for you to take part. And you really need to stop qualifying your statements with me. I’m not drunk.
Sat, Feb 16, 6:54pm

Maybe the beer is starting to cloud my thinking a little. I communicate to Yvette my misunderstanding of her message.

To: Yvette
Huh? Shut up.
Sat, Feb 16, 6:55pm

From: Yvette
You keep texting ME! You shut up. I so wish I was drinking right now. I have a six top full of screaming monsters.
Sat, Feb 16, 6:57pm

Y’know, Yvette isn’t an unattractive lass. I feel maybe I should let her know my progress and tell her I think she’s pretty.

To: Yvette
I’m almost done with the 200 ozs. I wanna pudayeen you.
Sat, Feb 16, 7:01pm

She doesn’t respond. Some people just don’t know how to take a compliment.

To: Matt, Yvette
Subject: Killing Kong

Finito
Sat, Feb 16, 7:18pm

From: Yvette
Well I expected no less but Ian thinks you spilled it.
Sat, Feb 16, 7:33pm

Ian is a dishonorable cad.

From: Yvette
My God. I had no idea you were so driven. Try to stay awake through dinner and I’ll talk to you later.
Sat, Feb 16, 7:40pm

Never Back Down

I don't mind if
lies keep talking
but you never back down
it hurts me so much
no, I don't mind it
I'm glad to leave the earth
haunts me
never back down
hurts me
but you never back down
hurts me
just get it back
- Novastar

Maybe I shouldn't post vague thoughts and feelings on this here blog. Although, interestingly enough, the last post generated more responses quicker than anything else I've written. There seems to be a general consensus that I am responsible for my current situation in Life. Really? It's MY OWN doing? No shit?

The thing that kinda bothers me is the people that sent me various comments to that effect I thought knew me better than that. To the best of my thinking I cannot recall ever having blamed anyone other than myself for anything that has gone wrong in my life. And you all sure as shit know I take full fucking credit for my modest successes. Re-reading the post I don't see anything that says I blame anyone for how I was feeling. I was just in the process of thinking about how I isolate myself from others and push people that care about me away. I didn't really feel like posting my full thoughts on the subject and was basically just writing a note expressing a feeling I had.

The fact of the matter is I am unhappy with the person I have become. There was a point in my life about seven years ago that I was extremely pleased with myself, my life and how I was living it. I'm just trying to figure out how I went astray and how I can get back there.

Not backing down,

Kyle

Differences

"When you look back on your life, it looks as though it were a plot, but when you are into it, it's a mess: just one surprise after another. Then, later, you see it was perfect."

- Schopenhauer

As I get older, I am slowly learning the difference between 'being independent' and 'being alone.'

I thought I was one, but am coming to realize that I am actually the other.

Trying to keep it together,

Kyle

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

Dear Mr. Lucas,

Please stop shitting on my childhood.

Sincerely,

Kyle

Baseball, Books and Conspiracies

Baseball is 90% mental, the other half is physical.
- Yogi Berra (1925 - )

Wow. Has it really been almost two months since I posted? Makes me feel like an asshole. I haven't been a complete lazyass, but I really meant to do a better job of posting here. If nothing else it keeps people from having to send me emails, texts and voice mails that I (in all likelihood) will probably not respond to.

Going back to KS

Part two of the Kansas chronicle will be posted soon. My original intention was to tell the entire story through the text messaging I had done that night. Compiling sent and received text messages was kind of a pain in the ass. Then, after I had drafted it, it wasn't that much fun to read. Kinda like look at someone's vacation photos. I'm sure you had a blast while there, but seeing still images of you standing in front of various landmarks isn't that much fun for the rest of us. So I needed to add context to enhance and hopefully improve the funny of the text messages. So I wrote some narrative. Then I realized the narrative was lacking a progressively more drunk element. So now I am doing a second draft and hopefully will share it with y'all soon.

Baseball, how I miss thee

Went to a Mets game yesterday. Believe it or not, though I have lived here in NYC for over a decade I have never attended a game at Shea stadium. Since it will be demolished next year I needed to get my ass out to Flushing and watch a damn game. They fucking lost. To the goddamn Nats. I went with my friends Matt (Who's been in several of my vids) and Pete. Pete and I blame Matt for the ignominious loss to the last placed Nationals:

(Sixth Inning)
Matt: Hey! Pelfrey has a no-hitter through six!
Pete and Me: Aw, man! You did NOT just say that!

The next pitch is hit comfortably to right field.

In Matt's defense, that hit did not actually lead to the game winning run, but Christ! He should have known better. It was definitely the beginning of the end. Willie Harris' incredible grab was just the final nail in the coffin.

Those of you that have known me awhile know I am a big baseball fan. Played it my whole life. Wasn't too bad a player even. I lived and breathed the 'Stros 86 season and wanted to be Billy Doran soooo bad. Since moving to New York I have adopted the Mets as 'my team'. I still check the Astros box scores, but it is hard to watch them play on a regular basis (though I cheered like a maniac when they finally went to the Series. Cheered all the way through the sweep.) So I root for the formerly hated Mets (damn 1986). Screw the American league with their nancy boy pitchers that are afraid to step up to the plate.

Anyway, going to the game really brought home how much I miss the sport. I am now too old to actually play anything other than some shitty old folk softball league, but getting out to the stadium to watch real baseball being played was very invigorating. I even plan on purchasing tix to the Brooklyn Cyclones season opener vs. the Staten Island Yankees. Go watch me some Single A ball on the beach! Really looking forward to enjoying what this city has to offer this summer.

Moving on up

What else? Started a new job. I'm managing part time at BXL. It's the bar where most of my vids are shot. Surprisingly I am loving every minute of the job and am really looking forward to when the new bar opens and I will work there full time.

That has actually led to my biggest reason for dropping off the face of the earth. I started to write a script for a short film to be shot at the bar (of course). However, the story seemed much more conducive to a longer form. Since I write better in the story format rather than screenplay, it has led to my now writing my first novel. I will of course also adapt it to a screenplay, but for now I am writing a book. I've finished the first couple chapters and have the others outlined. It's exciting (if time consuming) work. There is even an editor at Harper Collins that would like to see my rough draft when it is complete. So that's pretty cool. Of course I will let you all know when I'm done and what happens after.

The GooTube Conspiracy

Interesting thing the internet. GTC lives on. I still get emails regarding the show (which I have been a dick about answering.) Don't really know what to tell people. I kinda thought it was dead, but I will admit that I have had an idea for a blockbuster 5 part mini-series for the show. When the itch gets strong enough I am certain I will have to scratch it. Don't really want to say any more than that because I have piled a ton of crap on my plate and want to actually finish some of it. And, honestly, gtc is kinda at the bottom of the pile. Would be a ton a fun to do it though.

Buying peanuts and cracker jacks,

Kyle

Last Night in Pittsburg, KS || Part I

"Because what does it mean, to say things aren't going well? Compared to what? You can say: compared to how things were going a couple of hours ago, or a couple of years ago. But that's not the point. If two cars are speeding towards a brick wall with no brakes, and one car hits the wall moments before the other, you can't spend those moments saying that the second car is much better off than the first."
- Hugh Laurie, The Gun Seller

Grievous Harm

I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and stare silently at my brother Jonathan. Having brothers is nice. We’ve had interesting discussions, arguments and even knock-down-drag-out fist fights. But another underappreciated aspect of brotherhood is being able to sit a comfortable silence with one another. Not feeling any dire need to clunk up the air with meaningless conversation to merely fill the silence. Undoubtedly I have collectively spent entire years of my life sitting in a room with one or another of my brothers silently pondering life’s secrets.

Take now, for instance. Jon may very well being considering the socio-political impact of the state of affairs vis-à-vis the current conflict in Iraq. He may be pontificating on the child currently growing in his wife’s womb. Or even that age old question Why? But I doubt it. He is probably thinking the same thing I am at this moment: I wonder what the Pittsburg, KS penal code is regarding the assault with intent to do grievous harm to a hotel toilet?

Jeremy is in the crapper committing the aforementioned assault. Apparently he has a lot of anger issues to resolve and he has decided to take them out on the innocent waste receptacle. Or maybe he just bears a singularly strong grudge against the American Standard company. Actually, he and I share a condition called Crohn’s Disease and it can cause some pretty major gastro-intestinal difficulties. J is obviously working through some of his difficulties right now. I know what he is going through, but getting an audio performance of it is still a rather disagreeable experience. Hell, I don’t like listening to it when I’m the perpetrator.

At least the scent hasn’t seeped out from beneath the door yet. So our olfactory senses have been spared that.

Damn.

Spoke too soon.

Jeremy’s fiancée Kari enters the hotel room and walks straight through the noxious stank emanating from the lavatory. She is unfazed and begins to select a change of clothes. We have all just finished attending my grandmother’s funeral. J had taken me to my great uncle Leo’s house, where I am staying, and I had already changed out of my monkey suit.

J steps out of the bathroom looking less than satisfied. Kari takes her clothes and begins to head in the direction of the carnage.

Jon looks horrified.

- You’re not going in there?

- We live together. I’ve definitely smelled worse than that. Once, I was in the shower and he felt he absolutely couldn’t wait any longer. So he barged in. I passed out.

My turn to look horrified.

- You really lost consciousness?

- She sure did.

Jeremy says this with far too much satisfaction for my liking. He really ought to consider making a few dietary adjustments.

Kari braves the bathroom while J lies down on the bed and turns on the TV. He flips through a couple dozen channels of crap. I don’t want to watch television. I am feeling restless. The stress of the funeral is boiling beneath my skin and I wanna go out and blow off some steam. We have a couple hours until the family is supposed to meet up at Barto’s for dinner.

I get up to go outside and have a cigarette. Plus, I had noticed a crappy looking bar tucked into the woods behind the hotel. I figure I’ll go have a beer or two until we can figure out what the hell we all want to do to kill some time.

The Cottage Inn is the name of the bar. And it is closed. God forbid anyone staying at the hotel wants to get blotto on a Saturday afternoon. Small towns are strange.

I head back into the hotel to grab those guys and find a place to drink.

Coming next: Part II, Killing Kong…

Back from the Midwest

“My mom misses me, she has missed me for the ten years since I came to New York. She doesn’t understand my life. Neither do I. So I can’t help her much.”
- Charlie Huston, Caught Stealing

I’m home.

Or, more to the point, I’m back in New York City. Got a big pile of snail mail to sort through as well as about 45 emails that need my attention. To those of you that sent your condolences regarding my grandmother I give you my sincerest thanks.

Christ on a cracker, traveling can be rough! The trip home yesterday took about 16 hours! Left Pittsburg, KS at about 9am for a five hour drive north to Omaha. Sat on the runway for over an hour ‘cause a storm was blowing through Chicago. Flew to O’Hare. Sat in O’Hare for about 4 hours before making my final flight back to NYC. Developed a big ole’ blood blister on the back of my left leg from all of the prolonged, cramped sitting.

A Penny Saved…

Went back to work at the restaurant first thing this morning. Found out the owner is on vacation and that everybody’s paychecks from last week bounced. Doesn’t particularly bode well, does it? Matter of fact, allow me to share a text message I just received from one of my co-workers:

“Just checked my bank account. Two checks were removed. I’m now negative $200. I will cut that whore’s tongue out I swear.”

Don’t worry, folks. My fellow employee managed to calm down, as can be noted in the follow up text message:

“Made that deposit last Monday do don’t expect this week’s checks to clear. I will steal everything that is not nailed down.”

And people thought I was a little over-the-top with my completely fabricated blog post about breaking the legs of a boy that, completely by coincidence and entirely without forethought on my part, might just resemble the owner’s son.

Return of the Prodigal

I don’t really think of myself as a Prodigal Son. I mean, I’ve never really asked my parents for much help. (With the extra super-duper large exception of crying for my daddy to come take care of me when I got out of the hospital last year and couldn’t take care of myself. I also hit him up for money, to my great shame, and have every intention of re-paying the debt in full. Might take a little while. See above.) But I still don’t think I’m very prodigal. I love my family very much and I know that they return this love ten fold. And by and large I’ve never really gone all that long without some form of contact. Yet, I was still referred to as “The Prodigal” by not just a couple of relatives while I was down for the funeral. Maybe it’s because my brother Jeremy really stepped up this past year while my grandparents lived with my folks. And there is a misconception that I have a special place in my parent’s hearts because I took off for New York without a pot to piss in when I was a young and stupid man. At least I’m not young anymore.

It was great seeing all of my extended family. It’s a shame that it takes something like a death to get us all together. I spoke to several of my cousins, reminiscing about the summers of our youth when all the various children and grandchildren would assemble at my grandparent’s lake house in Oklahoma, and they all expressed interest in trying to get together when a wedding or funeral was not the Main Event. That sure would be nice.

The Main Event

The funeral, by all accounts, was a very nice one.

We all met up at the funeral home on Friday night for a Rosary service. I haven’t said a Rosary in almost twenty years, but I think being Catholic is like riding a bike. You just don’t forget that stuff. My mother correctly assumed that I didn’t actually own a chaplet (Rosary beads for you pagans out there) and brought some up that a woman in her parish makes by hand. It’s made with knotted blue and gold thread and is hyper cool. Madonna aside, you’re not really supposed to wear Rosary beads as a necklace. But I’m wearing this one. It just feels like I’m supposed to right now. And my friend Yvette thinks it suits me very well. Admittedly, Yvette’s a Jew. But she is also a fashion designer and has styled a music video for me, so I trust her completely in sartorial matters. Though my wearing of this is entirely a matter of Faith and not Fashion, it’s nice that it looks cool as well.

After we prayed the Rosary, we all milled about and caught up with long unseen relatives. It was great talking to my cousins Robby and Cassie and Sissy and Josh and Uncle Mike and Uncle Glen and Aunt Verla and I’m gonna stop trying to list the relatives now because I am very likely related to everyone in the entire Midwest. We Catholics are breeders.

My cousin Josh, my Aunt Carolyn and I crashed at my Great Uncle Leo’s house that night. This is the first time I ever spent any significant time with one of my Grandfather’s siblings (he had eleven of them. Seven are still up and kicking.) Leo is one funny old man. He kept talking about the wild time we’d have in his “bachelor pad”. His wife passed a few years back. I told him we’d turn the place into Animal House. My Aunt Carolyn then commented quite casually that she would make a quick trip to Wal-Mart to pick up a baseball bat. “Not to beat you with it, just to make sure I have your attention.” Leo then said to help ourselves to anything we liked, but he was gonna bill me for any water we used. Like I said – funny guy.

Me and Josh set our alarms for 7am so we could get up and make a Starbucks run before we had to get ready for the funeral service. Pittsburg, KS is pretty podunk, but it’s a college town so it does possess a few of life’s necessities.

At 8:12 I get a text message from Jeremy:

“I have something I would like you to read at the service”

I told him to meet us at Starbucks and I’d read what he wrote and make a decision. I was asked to speak at my Grandmother’s funeral. Grandpa wanted all of his grandsons to serve as pallbearers and wanted his granddaughters to do the readings during the service. They were doing a full Mass. I’m much too lazy to explain the workings of a full Catholic Mass. Just know that there are biblical readings peppering the event and Grandpa wanted the girls to do them. Mom had asked me to also step up and read a version of my last blog post.

I felt I really needed to make some alterations to the actual post to make it fit for Church consumption (Mom agreed. She specifically requested that I remove the ‘f-bombs’.) I was kinda stressed out by this. I mean, of course after all these years as a performer I have no qualms about public speaking. But I do wonder about how appropriate the crap that comes out of my mouth is for a religious service. I mentally wrote and re-wrote what I was gonna say. I added a couple of jokes (I actually began with one about my grandma and a Mexican biker gang) and was terrified I would go over like the turd in the proverbial punch bowl.

So J brought me the pages he had been up all night writing. It was very touching and personal and very wrong for me to read. Especially after my fairly light hearted speech about Grandma. I told him he should read it himself. He said he’d prefer that I read it on his behalf. I told him I’d think about it.

We got cleaned up and headed to the church. I told Mom that J had written something for Grandma and he wanted me to read it. I expressed my reservations on the matter. We reached a compromise: I would speak and then invite Jeremy up to read. I would remain standing behind him and if he felt he couldn’t continue I would step in and finish for him.

The priest went to go fetch the readings for the girls and asked what I would be reading. I told him I was going to just speak. I hadn’t written anything down. The priest got a very worried look on his face.

The hearse arrived and me and my brothers, Chuck, Jeremy and John, as well as my cousins, Josh, Jim and Rob went out to carry in the coffin. I’d never done this before. But I guess the guys at the funeral home know that most people haven’t so they were really great about telling us exactly what to do and when to do it. Dad was doing all the music for the service and we carried in the coffin as he played (Ave Maria?)

The priest then began the service and my cousins did an excellent job with their readings. After Communion the priest nodded at me and I genuflected and went up to the podium. It was pretty awesome. Not in the surfer way, but in the sense that I was pretty awed. Looking out on the half-filled church (this church is pretty damn big) and knowing that I was related to every single person in there. And they were all waiting to hear what I had to say about their beloved Helen. Suddenly my Mexican biker joke seemed wildly inappropriate. But I hadn’t prepared anything else and, shit, I was always pretty good at making grandma laugh so fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke:

“I’ll be honest – I’m not really sure what I’m gonna say. It’s hard to know what to say at a time like this. I figured Mom just wanted me to get up here and trot out that old, boring story that everyone has heard a thousand times about the time me and Grandma hot-wired that sports car and went down to Tijuana and got into a fistfight with that gang of Mexican bikers. And then I thought she probably doesn’t want me to tell that story. Mainly because it isn’t true.”

Everybody laughed. Sometimes you forget that your sick and twisted sense of humor had to come from somewhere. And I was in a room full of people that shared my DNA. It was pretty easy to speak from there on out. Kinda wished I woulda wrote it down. It’d be nice to remember exactly everything I talked about.

I finished and invited Jeremy up to join me. He took the lectern and… well, he was a bit overcome with emotion. Mom came up and gave him a hug. I took his papers and read his speech on his behalf. It was extremely sweet and touching. When I finished everyone clapped. I can’t remember hearing people clap during a service before. I hope J knows that they were clapping for his beautiful words and not for the knucklehead reading them.

After the service we made the procession to the cemetery. I was honestly moved. As all of the cars followed the hearse I noticed that all of the cars in the oncoming lane of traffic pulled over to the side of the road and stopped, waiting for us all to pass. Showing respect for our grief and our dead. I was touched and reminded once again how hard New York is making me. There are still places where people honor and respect total strangers because it is the right thing to do.

“I look at New York. I don’t want to be here anymore, in this city. I’m just tired of it, I’m tired of my life here. I want to go home, and I’m not sure how to do that.”
-Charlie Huston, Caught Stealing

If I get around to it, I’ll definitely share my final night on the town in Pittsburg with all my cousins. Loquesto was out in full effect and from what the beer fog allows me to remember, a good time was had by all.

Remembering,

Kyle

Helen Winifred Gilmore

“Guilt. Catholic guilt. The guilt of not feeling guilty enough.”

– Tom O’Neil, Jack Kerouac: Last Call

My grandmother passed away last night. She had a very long and successful life and went peacefully in her sleep. We should all be so lucky. She was 94 years old. Would have been 95 in May. Celebrated her 70^th wedding anniversary last November. Had 5 children. 16(?) grandchildren, and I’m not even gonna try to count up all the great- and great-greats she had. I’m certain it wasn’t an easy life. The Great Depression. Both world wars. Korea. Vietnam. Iraq and its sequel. Man landing on the moon. The invention of television. Shit, movies getting sound, for chrissakes. I never heard her complain about anything. She got through life the way most of the members of her generation did. You did what you had to do and you made things work. One day at a time. You took responsibility for your lot in life. And worked to make a better one for your family. And I think her recipe was a good one.

I’m gonna be traveling to Kansas to attend her funeral. My grandfather would like all of his grandsons to serve as pallbearers. They had about a dozen or so grandsons so I’m not certain if we’re just gonna crowd around the casket or draw straws or what. Jeez. I suck. I fall back on glibness and flippancy. This sucks huge donkey dicks. Not necessarily my grandma’s passing, just the fact that I never know what is appropriate to say and do in these situations. Not that I’ve had to deal with this sort of thing very often. My family, for the most part, has been blessed with a very extended life line.

I just called my folk’s house to talk with them and a baritone voice answered the phone. I thought it was my youngest brother. “John?” I asked. “Yeah. Who’s this?” Oh fuck. Fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme. I was not prepared for this! I wanted to work my way up to it. Or, like the coward that I am, put it off until the last possible moment. It was my grandfather on the line. My youngest brother is his namesake.

What the hell do you say to someone that just lost his life partner of 75 years? I mean, crap, my friend lost her cell phone this weekend and the best I could manage for that was: “That sucks. Wanna go get something to eat?”

I’m pretty well spoken and usually have a witty bon mot or two for any given situation. Provided the situation isn’t an absolutely shitty one like the death of a beloved family member. Even writing this feels wildly inappropriate.

“Hey, Grandpa. I’m really sorry.” Not a bad start.

“Well. She went peacefully. No pain. I just woke up and she was laying there under the covers with her arms up. She didn’t struggle in her sleep.”

“That’s good....” And that's about all I had. The well had run dry. Like I said, I totally suck at this.

My mom picked up another phone and rescued me. Cuz that's what moms do. I'm sure she learned it from the best.

She and my grandfather gave me the play by play of what happened from Friday morning until last night at 7 o’clock. My Grandma received her last rites about 45 minutes before she finally breathed her last. That’s good. Despite my own lapse, my grandparents are very devout Catholics and I know that receiving the final sacrament, The Anointing of the Sick, was very important to both of them. I feel the need to let everyone know that I actually know the correct name of the sacrament. Grandma, I’m not nearly the sinner everyone thinks I am.

Shit. I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to let everyone know what happened and that I’m gonna be out of town for a bit.

Now I’m gonna go and do the dishes underneath a single lit bulb near the sink in an otherwise dark kitchen. I think we all have a sorta iconic picture that comes to mind when we think of a loved one. For my Grandma, when I picture her I have an image etched in my brain from many summers spent at their lake house in Oklahoma. We would all go out fishing, then my dad and uncles (and sometimes us kids) would clean the fish and my Grandma would fry up a whole mess of perch for all of us to eat. Without fail my father would get one that still had a bone in it and would jokingly accuse my grandmother of trying to kill him. Even though he was the one cleaning the darn things, it was still a joke they shared. After dinner we would all go out in the front room and watch baseball if it was on (Grandpa would never fail to comment on how much too tight Pete Rose’s pants were.) Or we might go catch fireflies or light some firecrackers or something. But Grandma would stay in the kitchen doing the oh-so-many dishes in the sink beneath a single lit bulb. I’m sure others must have helped her with the chore, but I have no memory of it. Just her. Doing it because it needed to be done. I’m going to miss you, Grandma.

Business is business

I put a thirteen year old kid in the hospital once.

It was a couple of years back. I was working as a knuckle breaker for this Latin bookie named Franco. Easy enough way to pick up a couple of extra bucks. Only problem was I have small hands. Ridiculously small. I get it from my mom. She has hands like a fucking China Doll. It’s alright though. You find ways to work around your limitations. An orange in a sock or a tightly rolled magazine can break a guys eye socket just as well as my fist can. And I don’t end up soaking my knuckles in an ice bath. So it’s all good.

I didn’t have any crisis of conscience with the guys I hurt. Fucks knew what they were getting into. You pays your money, you takes your chances. The thirteen year old I kinda felt bad about though. I thought he was an okay kid. Was his mom’s fucking fault. She also had a little bitch of an eleven year old daughter that I probably wouldn’t have minded sending to Beth Israel for a little involuntary R&R, but it’s tough to find muscle that’s willing to pound the piss out of a little girl. So her son drew the short straw.

I couldn’t administer the beating myself because her kids knew me. So I subcontracted the job out to some Albanian toughs to whom I am acquainted. The joints. Fuck the kid’s knees and elbows up. He showed a lot of promise as a young tennis star. Sorry kid, but you’re gonna have to find a new hobby. Blame your cunt mother and her inability to settle her accounts.

The mom liked the ponies. Too much. She was also dumb as a sack of hammers and would make ridiculous long shot bets. She got hooked up to Franco through her ex-husband. He was this pretty cool Argentine that owned a couple of restaurants. Nice guy. Always settled his debts on time. The wife left him for some greasy con man that claimed to be a z-list actor. She’d blow him under the tables in her husband’s restaurant. Real classy bitch. Husband found out about it and dropped her like a hot sack of shit on a warm summer’s day. But the wife managed to sob a big wet one in front of some dyke judge and she gave her one of the restaurants in the divorce settlement.

So the bitch would use the restaurant as her personal piggy bank and stiff her purveyors and employees so that she could continue her lifestyle and her illegal bets with my employer. Honestly, I could give two shits how she treats her employees or if she cooks her books. I don’t really have any feelings on any matter until Franco tells me it’s time to care. And Franco only thinks it’s time to care once she’s completely raped her business to the point of being unable to pay Franco the money he is owed. Franco cares greatly about this. Therefore I also care greatly about this.

He tells me we gotta send her a message. Normally we might send a little fireball through the front window of her establishment. Problem is she’s already bled the place pretty dry and eliminating her source of income doesn’t really help us now does it? Plus, she’d get the insurance money and that leaves her sitting a little too pretty. So we contacted her ex. He basically said Fuck her. Well, there you go. Going over and fucking her up would certainly be pleasurable enough, but she’s such a fucking narcissistic bitch she would probably delight entirely too much in the attention she would be bound to receive afterwards. But fuck her kid up and it cuts deep on a couple of levels. First, no matter how fucking self-centered a woman may be, she doesn’t really want to see her kids get hurt. But if you are a self absorbed skank, it’ll just eat you up to see your son getting all of your attention.

So I sent my boys to pick her son up after school and give him a few pointers on how to properly swing a tire iron. Kid’s never gonna walk right and, like I said, I really kinda liked the little fucker. But business is business.

Happy New Year and WTF?!?!? Kyle?

Hey everybody. Here's wishing everyone a happy and prosperous New Year!

Kyle, WTF?!?!?! Are you dead or something?
No. Not dead. It's just my cell has kinda gone buns up and I have very limited communication abilities at the moment. Due to a ridiculous work schedule for the next two weeks I will be unable to replace my phone til at least next Friday at the earliest. Sorry about that guys. Send an email if you REALLY need to get ahold of me, but even that will be limited due to my spending nearly every waking hour at the restaurant.

New Years Loquesto Stylee

I actually spent New Years in Times Frickin' Square! Now a lot of y'all that don't live here probably think that's a very obvious place to spend New Years. But if you do live here then you're probably thinking, "Huh?!? What the hell is wrong with you? Times Square is Hell on Earth everyday of the year. Dante couldn't even figure out a circle of hell to describe it on New Years!"
But see, true believers, in NYC it's all about who you know. Anything can be cool if you've got a good hook up. In my case, I had pretty good one of my own and that led me to lucking in to a pretty fucking awesome one. At this point I think you are all familiar with the bar BXL where I film a disproportionate number of my vids. They're located on 43rd near Broadway. Which is pretty much right in the belly of the Beast. So close, in fact, that the cops basically close down that entire block and you can only get on it by special invite. Which drastically reduces the huddled masses you have to rub up against.
Better though is, while sitting in BXL, I met a group of folks that work at the law firm of Skadden Arps. Skadden Arps is located near the top of the Conde Nast building which sits right on Broadway across from where they drop the ball. Check this - about twenty minutes before twelve they take me up to one of their conference rooms and we look out the huge windows. Where's the damn ball? Oh. There it is. Below us. So I didn't get to watch the ball drop so much as just sorta move further away from me. The superduperextrafuckingradicallycool thing was - the fireworks blew up immediately outside the window! I don't know if you've ever had the opportunity to view a fireworks show at eye level but it is quite the treat and I highly recommend it.

Resolutions Schmesolutions

I didn't really make any resolutions per se. I made a list of certain things I plan on doing differently this year and I'm really hoping to accomplish them all, but if not that's okay. One of them is to update here a little more often soze y'all can keep up with my doins here in NYC.

Moving forward,

Kyle