Song - Sunday Morning
Album - Hold On Dodge ep.
Needs more....well, some of you will get that.
This song for the past few months has been on a steady play for me. They're a mix of something new, something old and something passionate. But this song in particular cuts to the core of me. It's not very often a band can do a song with a very positive message and not come off condescending, righteous or corny. Honestly. At least to me. But these guys really pull it off.
And this song has been on repeat for months. Almost the day it was released on their MySpace, was the day I needed to hear a stranger telling me not too worry, that this would blow over.
And so I keep plugging along, and realize....oh my god, this is post 200. So much has changed in that time, for me personally and for the world at large. I never realized how much can happen day by day, and somehow counting the days gone by I realize that we may all be on collision course with something, we're just not sure of what yet.
And I think of where I was two years ago. All my old haunts in Albany. One of my favorites being a comic book shop I spent more time in than probably my own room.
It was this little hole in that wall that you almost had to know existed to begin with to find. Buried deep in the cracks and crevices of a town on a street with shops where the sings all meld into one, and there's nothing truly defining about any particular store, you just have to already know where it is you're going.
And like anything worth discovering, one afternoon while riding the bus I happened to spot it, tucked in the way near an old diner named Dewey's which I'm not sure was actually ever open. I really didn't have anywhere to go, it was a day off and I really didn't know anyone at the time.
It was early in the morning, something like nine in the morning. I'd slept like shit the night before, and all I could think of was this itch I had. Here I was sitting in one of the most glorified States in America, and I had the nerve to sleep instead of go out and explore? So the itch grew and grew as I tossed and turned repeatedly.
I hopped the first bus I could. As with many days in my tenure as a New Yorkian (is that the right term? Who knows.) it was gray, cloudy, cold and rainy. Armed with just my CD player and Neutral Milk Hotel's "Into The Aeroplane Over the Sea" (which honestly is a classic everyone should own) and Against Me!'s "Searching For a Former Clarity" (another classic everyone should own) I went to face the day and explore my new surroundings.
I was a transplant, and I feared my itch was the body of New York warning me if I didn't get out and see something, it'd soon reject me.
I really don't think I saw the sun that day, honestly. And for me those days are my favorite. Not to come off weird and all Edgar Allen Poe-y or anything, it's just that I've lived in Arizona for nearly my entire life and at least 315 days a year we get nothing but sunshine with no reprieve from clouds or rain. Sure, once in a while there's a rogue cumulus cloud sitting maverick in the corner of the sky somewhere far, far away from you but other than that, good luck.
When I stepped off the plane on May 5th, 2007 it was so chilly I had to don a jacket, something I'm not exactly accustomed to doing in that particular month in Arizona. And what's this...trees? Grass growing on its own instead of being prompted by someone's O.C.D anal retentive care several hours a day? Furry squirrels romping playfully without incinerating the moment they step outside of the confines of the shade this strange wooden...tr..ee provides? And for that matter, what the hell is shade? An education in climate collision.
So I'm sitting on this bus with Jeff Mangum singing passionately about Holland in 1945, and the fuzz from the bass is seeping into my brain and flooding my cerebellum with imagery so vivid, I'm almost positive at any moment his words, his tapestry will paint a picture so vivid that my current ocular world will fade to a boy playing a piano built of flames.
A woman gets on the bus, and I've seen this particular route be so packed I'm surprised a person can even move off of the bus. But while the bus was moderately full, there was still plenty of space to be comfortable. One thing I definitely learned about living in New York, no matter where at in New York, you cannot afford to be claustrophobic. Literally. It's too fucking expensive to have your own little head space.
But at this point on a Saturday morning, the bump and grind of day to day work was a lot less, because well...it was the weekend. Self explanatory, really.
But this very disheveled woman chose to sat next to me. It's not something I'd usually pay attention too because I'll shower the night before, wake up and just go. I've spent more time counting gray tiles in my Senior AP English floor (114...that always bugged me. It felt like there should be one more) than I've spent looking in a mirror in my entire life. So pot, meet thine kettle.
However, this woman's appearance I felt were a dramatic cause for concern. Not just her appearance, but everything about her. Hair askew in ways I thought were reserved for sensationalized portrayals in movies. Her salt and pepper hair were matted with dirt, and other material I'm sure I would've needed gloves and a laboratory to find out what they were, exactly. And that's only if I was feeling brave after drinking my liver into a cesspool of whiskey and lament.
She chose to sit next to me. And I mean, why wouldn't she? I was the only person not making snide remarks, crudely laughing or reliving a sophomoric glory, which consisted of tossing refuge at the social leper.
"How ya doing, ma'am?"
"My son...my pie..."
And my initial concerns were pretty much justified at this point. She stank of cat urine, which if you've ever smelled cat urine...you know for a fact that's the smell. It wasn't just a hint, either. Almost as if she'd filled up a tub and soaked after a long day of...whatever it is.
She became irate, screaming loudly mostly mumbled gibberish punctuated by a screech for pumpkin pie. This illicited laughter from every patron on that city bus that day, sans the bus driver and myself.
She began to pace the walkway back and forth, going in between hysterical crying to hysterical screaming to just plain old fashioned hysterics. At one point the bus driver pulled over and asked her where she needed to go. At this point I decided to make my exit.
As I got off the bus, lo and behold was Earthworld comics. It might as well have been the set for comic book guys comic book store from the Simpsons.
The workers there were awesome. Honestly, if you're ever in Albany, hit up Earthworld comics. It's on Central Ave. Great selection, and really cute girls nerding out about Warren Ellis and the like. There's a select group of guys who read this blog who will understand why that's more of a turn on instead of two girls going at it.
I left with a lot of comics that day. Her name was Cheryl, and she could've sold me Snuff Manga, and I would've agreed with her that it was the most brilliant depiction of Japanese art since God knows when.
That day lasted forever. I wound up at some strip mall in God knows where, maybe it was in Troy, I don't remember, but I sat there for a while and found this really rad sandwich place. To be quite honest, I love sandwiches more than the average bear, so I sat with my newly aquired nerd trophies in a very comfortable and chic sandwich shop having one of the best days of my life.
When I got back on the bus to go back home, the same woman was on the bus still screaming, crying and laughing, all while ranting and raving about pumpkin pies. In over a five hour time span, no one had thought to contact some sort of help for this obviously distressed woman. It made me quite sick to my stomach, but even I did nothing in the end. Not that I really could...I'd have no idea whom to call or with what cellular device. What do you do though, in a city where no one really does give a shit at the end of the day.
See, ironically I feel New Yorkers get a bum rap. They get put into this little square on mentallity where they "don't care" and are all self-serving assholes. While I won't disagree they aren't seemingly the most friendly people on the surface, I think most of it boils down to peoples misconceptions about them. For example, I've lived on both coasts and the differences are so monumental, I can barely believe we all live in the same freaking planet, let alone the same country.
But it's something as simple as a going to a show that can point out the differences. Honestly, it mind seem so inconsequential, but the truth is that it really does exploit the differences. While out here in the west people are more laid back and casual, the truth is...there's so many phonies I'm surprised anyone actually knows another human being on a level deeper than what their common interests are.
And you go to these shows on the west coast, and people stand still with their arms folded and get pissy if things start to sway too much (crowd wise, I mean) and really show almost bitter contempt for the hard working kids on stage for whom they paid to see. Not all shows are like this, but a huge majority of them are.
Inversely on the opposite side of ye olden America, an east coast show...there's so much movement and energy and exuberence. There's a solidarity and commrodarie that you don't really find here on the west coast unless you have a popped collar and take turns double teaming some broad you met in a Scottsdale bar, who to her own credit is a pseudo celebrity for having been featured on "the Dirty".
The reason why New Yorkers get the bum rap is because they get misunderstood. While you can easily approach most anyone on the west coast and talk openly with them, on the east you can't. Why? Because they value actually knowing someone, and are secure enough within themselves to constantly be honest. And those who know them, that bond is stronger than blood and family. You have to earn respect and earn the right to actually know someone beyond a cosmetic level. I love that, honestly.
While I can talk to anyone, I always try to make that deeper connection. Most people don't care too the further you get west. Not everyone is like that, not at all. But many are, and it's not always such a bad thing because a lot of the time there's just nothing to discover. Sorry, but it's true. It doesn't make those people bad people, there's just no substance.
There's just more passion on the east coast, for everything.
But they deal with harsh weather...we get blessed with three perfect seasons, and one season is a bit less comfortable than it's contemporaries.
But what I took from Albany was a new sense of being and purpose. A new perspective I never would have obtained while trying to keep the sun from melting my brain. A new respect for people as a whole, and a new idea about what else lived in America besides palm tree's and melanoma.
I miss my apartment. The buildings have so much character. That's something important to me in a city, the architecture. It tells a deeper story, it's the backdrop and the people are the characters. The thing is, all the backdrop is set, and all the characters wander aimlessly without direction.
My old apartment is right next to the illuminated sign that says Ralph's (to the right in front of the red molestor van). Ralph's was interesting. It was a "wink wink" pub with certain influence from a green persuasion. I can't really count how many times I barely made it to my steps which I could honestly reach over and touch from the stoop of the bar. I can say I've literally crawled home before.
I took on an army of White Russians, and they won.
I never took personal photos, though. Well, I took a few but never kept them from myself, and sometimes I wish I hadn't done that. Sometimes I just want to fade away, to be forgotten. The irony of that is that I'd never forget those I truly do consider friends.
I wish now I'd taken pictures, because that's an important moment in my life, and while I'm eternally grateful to call the southwest my home once again and wouldn't trade it for anything (except for beach front views) I just wish I'd allowed myself to enjoy the fact that I was living in the moment.
One of my final days, on my final week in Albany, I spent all day getting stoned and drunk and walking around this muesum. Standing out on that balcony and over looking the city from all angles is one of my favorite memories of life, bar none. It was so quiet you could almost hear the city breathing. I knew then that while it was time to go, it was a bittersweet departure.
For a long time I sat in the hallway next to the preperation room for the lunch room, on the bench. It was a long white hallway, and I felt like I shouldn't have been there...but no one seemed to care. Running low on funds, I swiped a few caprisuns (yes...caprisuns. Tell me you wouldn't do the same, you god damned liar) and stared at some planes they had hanging on the roof. I was there for quite a while, and no one seemed to go down this hall. I wonder how long it'd been since someone had seen those airplanes, and I wondered how the workers who had to hang those planes up there must've felt about that. Or the people who had to dust up there.
There's a section in the muesum dedicated to the Adirondacks, which are these mountains kind of near there. I wound up there accidentally once...it wasn't so bad.
But there was a man sitting on a bench. This room was nearly pitch black. The best way I can explain it is...have you ever been in a cave? Like a natural park cave, with the tours and everything? The type of lighting they use in there. The low lighting that uses the natural reflection of the cavernous walls, that's how the lighting was here. And this guy, he was a bit older. He sat so quietly and perfectly still that at first I assumed he was part of the display. They had many lifelike displays of women, children, men and various animals throughout this room. But soon enough, I realized he was just sitting there.
And it was so peaceful and tranquil, I almost wish I'd never left at all. Something about that moment seems unnegotioable in it's posterity. Something that shouldn't be touched, and movement or further acknowledgement at the time would have only tarnished what it was.
I continued walking and looking. Maybe it was pills, maybe it wasn't, but there was a Native American Chief (of the Iriqouis tribe) and it was this almost...crude cardboard cutout of an Englishman obviously taking advantage of the Chiefs goodwill. And even though it's just the cardboard cutout, the look in his eyes just struck me as forlon, tired and drowning in sorrow.
I couldn't stop imagining what that day must've been like. She was obviously losing something that meant a great deal to her. "The times, they are a'changing" and unfortunately the casulaties don't really have such a go-getter attitude reciptive to the change.
How would you feel?
I've always really respected big cats. My cat Rizzo is huge. He's, according to Velvet, "the size of a small pony or farm animal."
But something about big cats strike me as regal. There's the cougar on display in that room, and it's stuffed. That really bothered me, because I can't think of anything worse than a taxidermied animal, especially one that's as graceful and regal as a big cat.
Afterwards I headed down Lark Street to the public library. It's a fantastic and very comprehensive library. The staff couldn't be nicer.
I love the smell of books. I really do. There's not much else I'd rather do than sit and read in a library. One of the most serene public buildings in all of modern society. If you think about it, all libraries are mosques, housing the words and thoughts of so many dead and gone.
I'd like to apologize to the Albany Public library. I accidentally packed away a copy of Augusten Burroughs "Sellevision", and "accidentally" kept the Clash' "London Calling" deluxe edition. Sorry.
I decided after that that I needed to hit up Last Vestige Records one last time. If you do find yourself there in Albany one day, go down Quail Street. It's worth the search. Burried next to houses is this hole in the wall, amazing record store. Nothing but treasures as far as the eye can see. Pornography for audiophiles.
It started to rain pretty heavily. I wound up hiding out in a Subway for quite a while, eating soup and a footlong. The streets washed with more water than Arizona see's in three years time, and while I considered building an ark with spare chairs and tables, I noticed people walking quite comfortably in what I could only describe as a torrential downpour.
I braved the flood 2.0 and walked next door to a liqour store and bought some cheap whiskey.
The rain subsided and I wound up watching the menacing clouds overheard jump to life with a riot of lightning and thunder, seeking refuge under the arms of the Lord. I nearly passed out on the steps of Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. Staring up at the steeple above is quite menacing, add in the thunder and lightning effect...it was eeriely remincent of the famed Zuul scene in Ghostbusters.
I realize it looks peaceful and serene here, but the truth is...this photo is a fucking lie.
There will be a part two to this tomorrow. I realize this is a bit long, but hey...there's lots of pretty stuff to look at, and besides...it's my 200th post. I can't just sluff off, can I?
-Until tomorrow.
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