Barbershop Backtalk

2007-09-25T23:24:00.000-04:00

A poem, ~~second~~ third draft:

Take down these next ten digits:

[Phone number]
[Repeated. Faster.]

That,
my friends,
is your muthafuckin' bat phone.
A direct line to dial
before the next time you head to hit the [Name of Location]
because I
am the wingman.
Here to help you procure all the pussy
I've never been able to get for myself.
And I know that probably pissed off half the women in the audience,
but I'd remind you that one day
you're going to go out for that good dick
and I'm not going to judge you then.
I might even
be able
to help.
I'm available to push, prod, nudge
and be the grand fucking facilitator
without a single soul sensing a thing.

Providing open shots
like Steve Nash gets the Suns
carrying conversations about nothing
like a master of my domain
and, yes,
fucking
fat
friends.

NOTE:
There remains a two-bagger minimum.
I've still got some standards.

Keeping the conversation
cohesive and compelling
is par for the course,
but the Phase 2 package
means remembering that time you saved the sea lions in Alaska

...

There's no pinnipeds in the Arctic?
Well, fuck you and your marine biology!
... I meant penguins.
Ladies love the lil guys.

And it's obscure knowledge like that
that will allow me to cock lead block
right through the heart of the defense
breaking open a lane
for backfield penetration
bandying stiff arms about
as you hit holes
without anyone
deflecting a pass.

This is a special set of skills
acquired only after years of watching
that guy
get the girl,
before becoming cool belatedly
and remaining unable to convert the knowledge
into succ-sex
in spite of myself.
When you're accustomed to being best friends,
it's hard to treat women like conquests
because you've seen what they look like defeated
and that's not something you're ready to be responsible for.

So I've made every effort
only to break hearts
that will remember me fondly
as I mutually mack it for everyone else,
offering a steady supply of situational setups,
making the magic happen
because maybe it means
this time
they don't fuck it up.

And it's easier to have that faith in others
than change anything about myself,
a me never remembered
unless I'm run into,
but then showered with smiles
and even some shots,
because if the situation went sour,
well,
it wasn't my fault
and God -
she had sooo much fucking fun that night
and totally wants to do it again,
obvi,
and needs my number like, yesterday.

This is a fine plan
until she shows up with someone else
and can't remember my name
at the introduction.

But I'll smile
and find a partner for pool
because maybe it means
this time,
she won't fuck it up

if only she gets a little encouragement
from someone willing to draw away enemy fire
even as it blows up
in his face.

2007-09-13T23:27:00.000-04:00

A poem, ~~third~~ fourth draft:

It’s okay.
The Grand National Nightmare is over –
Barry Bonds FINALLY hit those fucking home runs.
Now we can move on to hating Michael Vick
because electrocuting puppies is waaay worse than doing steroids.
And since he happens to be black,
we won’t have to demonize any white athletes.

But first,
Picture four friends.
They are 12, and walking back from school.
They see a girl beating down some dude,
yelling to give back her headphones,
encouraged by the friends that surround them.
One of her people
says the white kid
is laughing at her.

Three friends are named 'Aamir, Shapel and Kareem.
The fourth
is Benjamin.

He is surrounded,
and hit twice
and they laugh.
They take the Yankee hat Kareem just bought
because they won the World Series
and the rest of the city
is celebrating.

Because of this
you know in your stomach
that when a friend cracks wise
about his latest DWB,
it's not just an attempt at black humor.

We are the sons and daughters of the Civil Rights generation,
and for the first time

America

is exploring how it works
when the dominant popular culture
is colored.

Our poetry has become Def,
Jammed into breakbeats
and sped-up soul samples,
stomped around in Air Force Ones
and steel-toed Timberland boots,
our flat-brimmed fitteds sittin' sideways
bling so bright you can see it in the dictionary.

But all the ice shines cold light
in distracting directions
and the snow trapped
in the mainstream
makes music like Minstrels.

These are some things you probably know:

Barry Lamar Bonds.
Leftfield.
San Francisco Giants.
Black.

Already established as the best player of his generation,
Bonds hits 351 home runs after the age of 35.
He collects four straight MVPs.
This is one more than anyone has ever earned
in their entire career.
He is named in a federal investigation
regarding illegal performance-enhancing drugs.
As is Gary Sheffield,
black,
a training partner who couldn't keep up with the regimen.
Reporters seek Sheffield for comment.
Two books are written.
The world wants its records back.

These are some things you should know if you don't:

William Roger Clemens
Pitcher
New York Yankees
White

A one-time phenom thought to be on the decline,
Clemens wins four Cy Young Awards for three teams
after the age of 34.
This is one less than anyone has ever earned
in their entire career.
He is named in a federal investigation
regarding illegal performance enhancing drugs.
As is Andy Pettitte,
white,
a training partner who couldn't keep up with the regimen.
Reporters pass Pettitte by for comment.
There are no books,
and Clemens gets paid $18 million
to start the season two months late,
and only join the team on days he is pitching.

Sports
they can be at the forefront of society.
Baseball broke the color barrier
seven seasons before
Brown beat the Board of Education
And now that Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith
squared off as coaches in the Super Bowl,
their landmark leadership
showcased on sports' most spectacular stage,
maybe
just maybe
we’re prepped for a black President.
In politics.

We are
Team America.
Fuck.
Yeah.
Just remember,
don't hate the players,
hate the games
we keep playing
with race.

Because until I can’t update this poem with parables,
we’re still separate
on unequal fields.

2007-08-21T21:03:00.000-04:00

A poem, second draft (Word to D-Wil of The Starting Five):

The Grand National Nightmare is over –
Barry Bonds FINALLY hit his fucking home runs.
Now we can move on to hating Michael Vick
because electrocuting puppies is waaay worse than doing steroids.
And he happens to be back,
so we won’t have to demonize any white athletes.

Barry Lamar Bonds.
Leftfield.
San Francisco Giants.
Black.

Already established as the best player of his generation,
Bonds sets a career high with 49 home runs in 2000.
He is 35.
The next year he hits 73.
The next three, 45 in each.
He collects four straight MVPs.
This is one more than anyone has ever earned
in their career.
He is named in a federal investigation
regarding performance-enhancing drugs.
So is Gary Sheffield,
black,
a training partner who couldn't keep up with the regimen.
Reporters seek Sheffield for comment.
Two books are written.
The world wants its records back.

William Roger Clemens
Pitcher
New York Yankees
White

In 1997,
after four straight seasons of 11 wins or fewer,
Clemens leaves Boston for Toronto as a free agent.
He is 34.
During the next 10 years,
he wins four Cy Young Awards for three teams;
three of the other seven seasons rank among his best.
He is named in a federal investigation
regarding illegal Human Growth Hormone.
So is Andy Pettitte,
white,
a training partner who couldn't keep up with the regimen.
Reporters pass by Pettitte's comments.
There are no books,
and Clemens gets paid $3 million per month
to start seasons two months late,
and only join the team on days he is pitching.

Adam Bernard "Pacman" Jones
Cornerback
Tennessee Titans
Black

In two years as a pro,
Jones is questioned by police in 10 separate incidents,
famously "making it rain" during the NBA All-Star Weekend.
He has not been convicted once.
April 10, 2007
Jones is suspended without pay for the entire season.
There is a chance of reinstatement after Game 10.
An appeal is made,
but withdrawn when it appears futile.
He is not allowed to practice with the team.
He has turned to professional wrestling
because he needs to make a living
and he has got a lot
of fucking time off.

Jared Scot Allen
Defensive end
Kansas City Chiefs
White

Twice convicted of Driving Under the Influence.
First time:
May 2006
Enters a diversion program.
Second time:
Sept. 2006
Pleads no contest.
April 28, 2007
He tells the KC Star he has been suspended 4 games without pay
under the NFL's Substance Abuse Policy.
After expressing remorse and becoming involved in local charities,
focusing mainly on juvenile diabetes,
an appeal is made.
July 16, 2007
4 games becomes 2.

Sports
they're at the forefront of society.
Baseball broke the color barrier
seven seasons before
Brown beat the Board of Ed.
And now that Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith
squared off in the Super Bowl,
landmark leadership
showcased on sports' most spectacular stage,
we might
just might
be prepped for a President.
In politics.

We are
Team America.
Fuck.
Yeah.
But remember,
don't hate the players,
hate the games
we keep playing
with race.

2007-08-19T15:35:00.000-04:00

A poem, first draft:

CURTAIN

PROLOGUE
You lost her twice.
The first time at 15,
when you believed being cool
was beyond you.

Then again at 22,
when a move made too much sense,
but the seven years since
has stripped away any sense
of an ability to sense
and perceive innocence
because every broken heart
makes it harder to choose correctly
when a special situation presents itself.

SCENE
Meeting a mutual friend on the subway
on the kind of day we all imagine in cliche.
It is morning.
You are on the way to school.
She is standing next to your friend,
five-foot something with brown hair in a bun
and glasses that make her library hot.
Her chest is ample,
and she has not yet grown into the ass
that will inspire introductions to your friends
just to prove it actually exists.
Jocks have yet to make bets about bedding her
and this means that you've still got time to dismember a bird
because you found a prayer the second you saw her.

You are only a sophomore -
wise enough to know this won't end well,
but foolish enough to try.

You pop the cherry of your acquaintance,
and faith scores a point against cynicism
because it is the first time you know what people mean
when they talk about breath being taken away.
It is the only time you lie to her outright
because she asks if you're asthmatic,
offering an inhaler,
and nodding yes is an easier answer.
You convince yourself she was laughing with you
when it only makes you choke harder
and she becomes the only girl
to take your breath away two times at once.

SCENE
Train rides.
SCENE
Small talk.
SCENE
She EXITS.
You have nothing new to say to your best friend,
so you tell him you hope you can make it to her party.
You say this while blushing.
He notices.
Of course he notices.

--You like her.
--Huh?
--Like like her like her.
--Uh ... yeah, I guess.

SCENE
Scheduling conflict.
SCENE
New semester.
EXIT
Train rides.
EXIT
Interactions.
END
ACT I

CURTAIN

ACT II
SCENE
It is seven years, two college experiences
and a fuckload of technology later.
CUE
Reconnection.
CUE
Curiousity.
SCENE
Halloween.
The East Side.
It is warm.
You're a Newsie.
You hold an address
and papes
with a cigar stashed somewhere on your person.
Elevator goes up,
and you're there.
She's a faerie
and you forget you should breathe
for the first time since 15.
You recover in time to talk
because you remember living last time,
and you still had not been instructed
on the physics involved in inhalers.
She rolls blunts like breakfast cinnamon,
introduces you to her people
and you take the train together
when it's time to go home.

SCENE
Hanging out.
SCENE
Mad movies.
CUE
Holding back.
EXIT
Your chances.

SCENE
Big snowfall.
First day post-operation
you're allowed to open your eyes.
Glasses gone,
you go along
as she captures the community on film.
The scene so perfect
all you can do is observe,
a ghost of your ability to alpha.

ENTER
Job prospects.
EXIT
Brooklyn.
ENTER
Upstate.
END
ACT II

EPILOGUE
When you live larger than 8 millimeters,
second chances are short in supply
and often speed by
because 24 frames per second
only fools you into thinking
you're seeing the speed of life.

SCENE
We met.
SCENE
We left.
SCENE
Reconnect.
SCENE
I regret
that each scene to be next
features another actress
in the role that could have made her
a star.

CURTAIN

2007-08-15T13:58:00.000-04:00

From a January mass email:

I placed third at the November Oneonta Poetry Slam, hosted by the Black Oak Tavern, against some stiff competition. I also worked with the owners of the Oak to set up a myspace page for the venue ( http://www.myspace.com/theblackoak), where you can find a recap of the event. I was later invited, along with Sierra -- another newcomer; she came in second at the November OPS -- to join the Intangible Spoken Word Collective and feature with them Friday at SUNY-New Paltz's Gathering of the Minds event. Nearly 30 poets performed to a packed house at the Student Union. I actually surprised myself by coming through smoothly (until flubbing MY SECOND TO LAST LINE. Ugh. That close.)

There was an afterparty at a bar downtown, and then a late-night "Round 3" impromptu poetry showcase at the organizer's crib, where most of us crashed for the night before brunch and a return trip to the Big O.

2007-07-02T11:49:00.000-04:00

Sports writers
are the most cynical bunch of fucks you're ever going to encounter;
They hate their job, the athletes they cover and the people they're writing for.
However, this remains a career they chose because at one time,
they cared.

After all,
these were the dorks getting their asses beat
for knowing more about baseball
than how to get in a girl's pants.

The reason they became writers and not fans
is an innate ability to be objective,
to separate the personal experience from the game.
And it takes a special moment
to realize this is even possible.

Mine came in 1993.
--
I was 10
and the Mets
were terrible.

I'm talking spectacular disappointments.

The team had broken the bank,
bringing Bobby Bonilla back to his hometown -
which is what you can do
when you make him the highest-paid player
in the history of the sport.
And joining "Bobby Bo"
were Bret Saberhagen,
a two-time Cy Young Award winner
and one-time phenom,
and Eddie Murray,
who's now a Hall of Famer
and one of four players
to ever amass 500 home runs
AND 3,000 hits.

And these three players
are now known as the core
of "The Worst Team Money Could Buy,"
because those Mets
lost 103 games.

One day, relatively early in the year -
with losing already threatening to euthanize
this abortion of a baseball experience -
I looked up from the sports section
and remarked to my father
that I sure hoped manager Jeff Torborg
got fired sometime soon.

My dad replied almost immediately,
"Well, jeez, honey -
we never like to see anyone lose their job ..."
And right then, athletes stopped being heroes
and started being people.
I had already
become a journalist.
--
So you have your "Eureka!" moment,
and you take a job barely making a living wage,
all while writing about adults earning millions to play a kid's game

You commit to working nights and weekends,
traveling all the got damn time,
and you learn the art of getting information
involves working the room like a politician,
and that you go to Derek Jeter for the facts,
but Gary Sheffield
for the truth.

And though Jose Reyes still doesn't speak English so good
after three years in the big leagues,
you know he's always smiling because he really is just happy to be there.

You learn to phrase your questions
so Willie Randolph doesn't get defensive
like he had to be growing up in Brownsville
and that if Tom Glavine trusts you,
so will everyone else.

And you pick up all this
just so you can become
the coolest dude the hot girl at the bar has EVER
introduced to her guy friends so she doesn't have to give out her number.

But then one day,
you'll meet a kid like Jack,
who survived a Stage-III terminal cancer,
and knows something about what it really means
to live and die with a team.
And he'll tell you how cool it was
the first time a real-life YANKEE
visited him in the hospital,
and how he knew then he'd be okay,
because he had to get better to see one more game at the Stadium
before it closes after next season.

And for a moment,
the filters come off,
and you remember that you've been doing this for a reason.
Because a kid like Jack -
even though he's a Yankee fan -
know that sometimes
all ya gotta do
is believe.

2007-07-01T02:12:00.001-04:00

WHY did Freaks and Geeks get canceled? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?

That is all.

2007-06-20T23:49:00.000-04:00

A first "draft" of me spitting the poem I posted last week:

2007-06-20T16:05:00.000-04:00

This is a fantastic article from BusinessWeek, outlining Best Buy's move away from the 9-to-5. As someone who wastes an infinite amount of time in the workplace environment because I know I have to kill an eight-hour day or risk the wrath of Capt. Dress Me Down for No Reason, this article made way too much sense to ever actually be implemented in my case. But a guy can dream.

Word to kottke.org for the link.

2007-06-19T20:42:00.000-04:00

Reddi
(from her MySpace)

My boy Akie, broke-ass bohemian and musician extraordinaire, posted a livejournal entry (which I can't comment to, son!) the other day mentioning his upcoming collaboration with Reddi, the copper-haired vixen above. She's got a pretty pop-ready sound, kind of like Des'ree, but ... hip. Check out her site or her MySpace.

2007-06-19T12:17:00.000-04:00

With Senators (and former Congressmen of my district) like this, how am I supposed to expected to be anything but a schlocky hopeless romantic? Thanks, Chuck - it's good to know I get it from somewhere.

2007-06-14T21:06:00.001-04:00

A poem (in progress?) I don't want most people to see:

Breaking your heart
is the hardest thing I have to do before leaving, so I'm saving it for last
because that aftermath isn't an insurgency I've got a real plan for.

And in trying to be selfless,
I'm making my self less
and all I want is to let you make me more than I am.
Crack the can open again;
vacuum seal separated as metal slices neatly through metal
at every emotional twist
until all of me is exposed and you can empty and rinse out my insides,
filling me back up with every dream I've been unable to articulate
because it lacked the eloquence your editing was able to offer.
You helped rewrite the stories of my soul in an order that made more sense,
and doesn't depend on defense to provide proper context.

It took a little bit of time,
but you're no longer a best-friend bandage
ready to fall away after any intimacy opened has healed.
You've rubbed raw my secret moments,
infected every embarassment
and poisoned my plasma with so much shared ... life
that a hemophiliac episode could never
bleed you out.

We've succeeded in stripping away
the pseudo-personality I repeatedly recreate
protective layer by practiced parable,
filleting the rigid structure of intentional reveals
in order to savor the flesh of my experiences
without any forced direction as you sectioned my soul into categories of your choosing.

"I'll take relationships that shouldn't have got this intense" for $500.

And when I come back to visit,
I hope you're somewhere else.
Not because you're out of town
or have a family function
or a fall festival on some farm,
but because you're bigger than this.

And I know you don't believe that,
and maybe you never will,
but all I can do is tell you,
lock my hands around your shoulders
and keep you an arm's length away
because you'll need the distance to see I'm speaking the truth.
When I'm speaking of you,
and the way your life sparkles like fairy dust and affects everyone else just as much,
because you allow them to fly when you make people believe
that Neverland really is the second star on the right and straight on 'til morning.

So stay awake with me
and steal kisses before the sun as it breaks above the balcony,
our eyes too bleary do anything but stare directly into the center
just like our mothers warned us not to.
But we won't go blind,
just come to find ... love
in a look we'll never get to share again.
And though time from that moment passes,
until we see that same sun set together,
this day
never
ends.

UPDATE: Edited after performing Thursday, June 21

2007-06-12T16:01:00.000-04:00

An incredible Henry James quote on the females, from Daisy Miller:

Certainly she was charming, but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York State? Were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of gentlemen's society? Or was she also a designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and reason could not help him.

That's my life in five sentences. Crazy.

In other news, this story brings new meaning to the term "thrill ride."

2007-05-31T13:02:00.000-04:00

A rough poem I'm having trouble revisiting:

I just got
tired.
Tired of taking shit,
tired of taking care,
tired of caring.

There were 25 times
I thought we were over,
but the last time
was the first time I knew.

We're gonna hit that awkward phase,
the adolescent maturation
of an evolving relationship
that never really was,
but should've been
as long as both of us
weren't idiots.

We both had side stories
and tangential relations.
But you fucked someone we knew,
and the girl I fucked
had no face
because she was part of a past
that's only moved upstate
in the amounts I've chosen to reveal.
And for that,
you've never been confronted by my options,
never had to think about knowing
what it could be like to lose me.

Each time I found an out
I let myself let you go
a little bit further,
snapping back harder each time
until one was final
and separate ways
became the inevitable consequence
they had threatened to turn into
from the first time we kissed too quickly
and hung out too often,
too early,
and force-fed an intensity
falsely founded on a feeling
I realized too late was fiction.

2007-05-30T18:59:00.000-04:00

So I had a nice 5+ hour bus ride back from the city, and with sleepy eyes and low lighting, decided to vibe with the iPod instead of reading. I took advantage of the time available and threw on 2Pac's double-album, All Eyez on Me, intending to listen start to finish. But, shortly into Book 2, I was froze in my tracks by some of the most blatant beat jacking I had heard in a minute. I knew - KNEW - I had heard that beat, heard it fairly recently and that it came from a song that wasn't obscure. Check out "Shorty Wanna Be a Thug" and see if you can hear it:

You name that tune? Would it be ... Kanye West and Paul Wall smash single "Drive Slow," perhaps?

Wow. Kanye's supposed to be one of the preeminent producers of this decade, and he straight up JACKED a 10-year-old beat. This isn't even like flipping a sample differently - all he did was slow it down. I call bullshit, 'Ye. Man up and do yours.

2007-05-16T14:29:00.000-04:00

My boy Fascious finally released his first video, "Anoxia's Inertia," via YouTube. It's a dope song - my favorite off the Regime Records' release "Corpus Callosum" - is a sick lyrical display AND has a substantive message. As a hip-hop fan, you can't ask for much more. Enjoy:

2007-05-10T00:37:00.000-04:00

Ways girls can catch my attention, No. 47:

Walk outside wearing pajama pants and a ratty tee with your hair up and no makeup on.

This is guaranteed to make me look, because if I see you like this, and still think to myself that you're worth hitting on, and not only worth hitting on, but actually cause me to hit on you, I'm already in love.
Women have NO IDEA how much this factors in to long-term decisions.

Even if it's a one-night stand - we're judging you in the morning. It's not really on a "Wow, she just did BLANK, she's clearly wack" scale, but more of a "Holy fuck, she just impressed the hell out of me" scale. Passing this test puts you on the "call again" list. Even if the ONS wasn't worth it.

However, if you wear makeup and do your hair right while rocking the aforementioned outfit, you can earn major hot points - it seems kind of classy, even though you're clearly trying too hard. But do you. We're all about the hotness. And totally not superficial. Nothing like that. Not at all.

2007-05-07T14:56:00.000-04:00

I've done a lot of reflecting during the past week, and have decided the "Barbershop" gimmick has run it's course. During the next year, I plan on rolling out a new (well, heavily redesigned) Web site that's blogcentric (which is what this should have been). The new blog - Just Left of Nowhere, which I've been writing for two weeks now - is "life as it's happening," which means, yes, I break down that girl drama most of you hear in pieces. All nicknames, though the recap in post one is likely to earn me a butt-kicking. It should be noted that I'm going on a good three weeks drama-free, which I'm pretty sure is a new record.

I'm planning, for now, to maintain "Barbershop Backtalk" as a blog for random ideas, thoughts and recommendations that would fit outside of Nowhere's scope. We'll see how it pans out.

Remember to check out The Laminated List Fantasy Draft and keep an eye out for the debut of The Watering Hole (Torah commentary from the 20-something set) on May 25.

2007-04-11T16:08:00.000-04:00

This just happened. Really.

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:51:41 PM): i can't decide if this is llfd blog worthy: http://www.deadspin.com/sports/boxing/i-like-oscar-de-la-hoyas-chances-if-he-doesnt-explode-before-may-5th-250574.php

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:51:59 PM): it's high comedy, nonetheless

PatJMcCullough (3:53:33 PM): Oh yeah! I actually read that!

PatJMcCullough (3:53:37 PM): That is seriously messed up.

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:53:42 PM): yeah really

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:54:01 PM): blue balls are bad enough the next day ... but for five months??

PatJMcCullough (3:54:21 PM): I mean, that would piss me off something extreme.

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:54:45 PM): i'm sayin

PatJMcCullough (3:54:45 PM): Think about it. Five months of getting *thiiiiiiiissssssssss* close to busting and then having to stop?

PatJMcCullough (3:54:47 PM): GOD.

PatJMcCullough (3:55:07 PM): He probably has tried to kill his wife a few times. Just out of sheer frustration.

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:56:08 PM): i mean ... is she okay with this? like while he's balling her out, does she go "oh, no you don't - I've seen that face before. You pull out THIS SECOND, mister. I mean it!"

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:56:51 PM): and he does it all forlonly, like a kid who has to stop playing with ninja turtles to clean his room?

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:57:25 PM): does she count to 3 first?

PatJMcCullough (3:57:25 PM): How does he not walk around for hours with a raging hard on.

PatJMcCullough (3:57:43 PM): Like, it's not like he can go train or work out if he's pitching a monster tent.

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:57:49 PM): i have trouble going five days without cleaning the pipes

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:57:52 PM): i'm sayin

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:57:58 PM): could you imagine sparring?

PatJMcCullough (3:58:09 PM): God.

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:58:15 PM): is swordfighting illegal in boxing?

PatJMcCullough (3:58:20 PM): HAS to be.

The BR00KLYN Boy (3:58:23 PM): can we frame this conversation?

2007-04-10T09:18:00.000-04:00

Things that have thoroughly amused me this morning:

Two quotes from "A Home at the End of the World" -

A bakery truck drove by, the driver singing Patsy Cline's "Crazy" in a loud off-key voice, and I sang along with him for half a block. I suppose at heart it was the haircut that did it; that exploded the ordinary order of things and showed me the possibilities that had been there all along, hidden among the patterns in the wallpaper. In a different age, we used to take acid for more or less the same reason. (pp. 153)
I could have skewered his heart with a kitchen fork because he was a peripheral character promoted by circumstances to a role he was ill equipped to play. I can't deny this: I thought I deserved better (pp. 174)

And a passage -

The entire reveal scene when Bobby and Clare tell Jonathan they're sleeping together (pp. 175-180)

I'm clearly going to have to re-read "The Hours." Stupid Michael Cunningham making me like him.

Also, Jimmy Rollins is HI-larious. After declaring pre-season that the Phillies were the team to beat in the N.L. East, Rollins - who's team is 1-6 after losing to the Mets last night - defended his statement thusly:

Above all, Rollins was firm in his position that he'd said what he'd said for a reason, and he had no regrets.

"I don't have to defend it," he said. "If I didn't feel it, I wouldn't have said it. I try to tell it the way it is. Sometimes it needs to be said.

"It's like with your wife. If you don't tell her you love her, even though she knows it, (she) still wants to hear it. With us, the feeling is there, that, 'Hey, we are good,' but sometimes you need to hear it to really believe it."

What a guy. Jimmy Rollins, I heart your resolve. Even though I hate you because you play for the Phils, and I will thoroughly enjoy watching the Mets relegate you to the second division. Which they can't do because this isn't soccer, and there's just no way you'll be as bad as the Nats. But still.

2007-04-06T09:09:00.000-04:00

So I have the kind of mom who buys books for me without reading them because she thinks I'll like them. Because it she pays attention (to life, my interests, what else I'm reading), she's unfailingly good at this. However, when she thrust upon me Michael Cunningham's "A Home at the End of the World," I was highly skeptical, track record be damned.

Cunningham, you see, is on my author sh*t list. He wrote "The Hours," which being spun out of Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway" was bound to be disastrous for our introduction. It took me about seven years and four full-fledged, non-mandatory attempts for me to stubbornly succeed at finishing "Dalloway," which I've now come to appreciate. "The Hours," however, still makes me want to do something - anything - but read the next page (line, sentence, word).

Mi madre was acutely aware of this, and I unnecessarily reminded her when he foisted "End of the World" upon me. She insisted I would like the book. And I insisted I hated Michael Cunningham with a fiery passion from the depths of my soul. She again insisted I would like the book. I again insisted that no, really - I hate Michael Cunningham, and I didn't think she was getting this. She again insisted that I would like the book. I decided to placate her and take it, finishing "Speaker for the Dead" and starting Michael Chabon's novella, "The Final Solution," before giving "End of the World" the obligatory toilet-time preview.

Wasn't impressed, but wasn't turned off.

One day and 32 pages later, I'm conceding: you win, mother. I present the following passage, in which the narrator's nine-year-old, slightly tipsy self finds his father in the kitchen during a party for the grown folk:

There I find our father leaning up against the refrigerator. A line of butterfly-shaped magnets hovers around his head. "Are you enjoying this party?" he asks, touching his goatee. He is still getting used to being a man with a beard.

'Uh huh.'

'I am, too,' he says sadly. He never meant to be a high school music teacher. The money question caught up with him.

'What do you think of this music?' he asks. Carlton [my brother] has put the Stones on the turntable. Mick Jagger sings '19th Nervous Breakdown.' Our father gestures in an openhanded way that takes in the room, the party, the whole house - everything the music touches.

'I like it,' I say.

'So do I.' He stirs the drink with his finger, and sucks on the finger.

'I love it,' I say, too loud. Something about our father leads me to raise my voice. I want to grab handfuls of the music and stuff them into my mouth.

And BANG. There it is. I'm D-U-N. Like Bobby and Whitney (No, really - this time it's serious. Suuuure it is, guys.) My mom has taken a solid lead in the battle of book recommendations. Blast you for making me like Michael Cunningham. That was my last bastion of literary hate. I'll get even one day.

2007-03-31T10:15:00.000-04:00

After remembering a nearly year-old book recommendation last time I was at the library, I'm now in the middle of Orson Scott Card's "Speaker for the Dead" (sequel to "Ender's Game," which was the remembered recommendation). It's got a bit of a different flow to it than "Ender's," but I read a line I LOVED last night:

... he knew that most stars were invisible to us; a trillion of them could disappear and we'd not know it. For thousands of years we would continue to see the photons that had already been launched before the star disappeared. By the time we could see the galaxy go blank, it would be far too late to amend our course. (pp. 87)

I can't even properly verbalize the reasons why this struck me, though the nagging thing I want to say is that it really puts the insignificance of the individual - and even society - in perspective. That was a favorite concept from my astronomy class at UNC: in universal terms, none of this matters. The whole of human existence only dates back about 200,000 years. The universe is, conservatively, 13 BILLION. So, human history is 1/70,000 (1.42 percent) of history as we can establish it. Crazy stuff, this.

2007-03-25T20:19:00.000-04:00

Out of tragedy, great art can be made. It serves to honor the memory and make relevant stories and situations that would otherwise go unheard or forgotten. In the aftermath of Sean Bell's fatal shooting by NYC police - two of whom have been indicted on charges of second- and third-degree manslaughter - Aurora Rose has composed a song, "Fifty Times." She's allowing me to host it, offering it up here:

On a similar note, I spent the last few days covering the 4th annual Special Abilities Weekend at the Baseball Hall of Fame, much of it trailing Ray Negron as he spoke to three audiences - a classroom in Michigan, a group of at-risk students from Albany and a group of Museum visitors. Negron has a great story: George Steinbrenner busted him tagging Yankee Stadium in 1973, and made him pay off his damages by serving as a batboy. Negron remained in baseball for the next 34 years, working mainly as a consultant and player agent. The two cousins who escaped when Negron was caught never made it out of the streets, slain by gunshots as young men.

But that wasn't why Negron was at the Hall. Last year, he wrote a children's book, The Boy of Steel, about a young boy with cancer who gets the chance to be a Yankee batboy, and must fight to be strong enough to accomplish his duties. The story was born of Negron's work with pediatric cancer patients, after a hospital visit when second baseman Robinson Cano - volunteering for the first time - said he'd try to hit a home run for a young boy. Cano went 0-for-his-first-four at-bats, forgetting the promise. During his fifth at-bat, in the bottom of the ninth, Cano hit a game-winning home run. Negron approached him after the game, and told Cano he was glad he honored his promise. Cano asked, "What promise?" Negron reminded him about the boy from earlier in the day. Cano's eyes went wide, and he exclaimed, "Oh, my god!" Cano later invited that boy to serve as honorary bat boy for a day.

Negron knew this was an important story. Approached by Harper Collins (through Regan Books) to write an autobiography, Negron redirected the project, focusing on publishing a children's book. "The Boy of Steel" was published in August 2006, eventually reaching No. 2 on The New York Times Best-Seller List for children's books. All proceeds from the book's sale go directly to the New York Yankees Foundation.

Having grown up in Brooklyn, I was skeptical. There's always an angle, I thought. Not with Ray. He means it. Really, really means it. This is important work he's doing, and I'm not letting people go without knowing it. Cheers, Ray. You've made me a better person in two days. I can't imagine the number of people you've done that for in 34 years. Thank you. From all of us.

2007-03-24T12:57:00.000-04:00

So I totally was ready to bring some reading material for a trip to the can here at work, but totally lost my nerve because there were other people sitting around in the break room. It would have been like announcing to them, "Man, am I ready to take one GREAT poop." That's too much information for most people, let alone these poor saps from the Village (of Cooperstown).

However, upon further review, I've decided I no longer care. I'm ready to be "that guy," the one who enjoys reading on the toilet unashamedly. So the next time you see me, magazine/newspaper/book in hand, I'm going to give you a knowing smile that says, "Yup, I know you know. And I know you think that's a little weird. I'm okay with it. You can be okay with it, too. Deal? Deal."

This is what happens when they make me come in on a Saturday ...

2007-03-19T01:39:00.000-04:00

An update to the last post:

After praising Shari Goldhagen's book, "Family and Other Accidents," I opened my email the other day to find a note from Ms. Goldhagen herself, thanking me for the support. Totally made my day. I already swore by her stuff, but she's officially earned a permanent spot in the favorite author pantheon. Cheers, Shari. I hope if I ever make it as a writer, I stay as grounded as you are.