recording mistakes

Major League Baseball is the only sport in this world that has accrued more than one hundred years of professional history that is still around today. By 1856 the sport was already considered the "national pastime." The National League was created in 1876 (none of the original teams exist in the same name or location), the last major rule changes occurred in 1901 (turning foul balls into strikes), and the American League, first existing as a competitive rival league, agreed to form the MLB in 1903. The World Series was created as a seven game playoff between the teams that were in first place at the end of the season. This format existed until 1969 when each league was split into East - West divisions, with the top team of each divisions playing a seven game playoff. After the 1994 strike a Central Division was created, creating a four game playoff for the top teams of each division AND the best non-division winner. Since 1903, the Yankees have made the series 39 times, the Los Angeles / Brooklyn Dodgers 18 times (9 a piece), and the St. Louis Cardinals 17 times.

Baseball's immense history serves as a backdrop to the way the game is watched. It is a democratic event. Women have been allowed in baseball stadiums for over 120 years and have occupied every role in the stadium including player and umpire. Little children are at the game (with their paying tickets, mind you) and can't even pay attention. There will always be old men who have been sitting in the same seats since they were children, more than eager to tell their stories of what they have seen. It is not always a place to keep your attention rapt; you may do as you please at the ballpark, be it score every moment of the game, preen your nails, or walk around the park with your wife, admiring the unique stadium that exists as a shrine to the sport. Technology has evolved for the game as both sports radio and sports television began with baseball. In short, baseball has always been a game that doesn't cared if it was watched, it already has been for longer than anyone who is alive today can remember. Seriously.

But any fan will tell you watching the sport in the stadium is its own experience. So once you make the mental shift to watch the game itself, you realize it's much bigger than the dimensions of the field. The bullpens shift and move, pitchers limbering up to get ready for emergencies. Both dugouts are alive with at least a dozen people always shifting, moving, watching, observing the game. Batters waiting their turn in the on deck circle swing their custom bats with varying degrees of intensity. Infielders stay on their toes waiting for a ball to come blazing their way. The pitcher's confidence and ability is to to be nitpicked for days. Wind drifts into the stadium (if it's not an indoor stadium), alerting the way the ball carries into the outfield. Moisture and dew levels affect the pitcher's grip and the impact off the bat. Extreme colds can tighten muscles faster and create more mistakes or extreme warmth can do... well the same thing. Fans can intervene into the game to almost any affect. Yet the fan is not forced to examine all the details or participate. He or she can do whatever he wants.

The best part of this convenient indecision is what is memorable and what is important for a fan can be two completely different things. Watching a 21 year old pitching phenom methodically work the strike zone all night is forgotten when he leaves a fastball for the best home run hitter in baseball. There's no way to immediately preserve the lead or the boy's confidence and ability; it plays out, and a 1-0 lead for the young man turns into a 5-1 losing decision after his manager finally pulls the hook on him. This happened to Clayton Kershaw on Friday night. After showing poise and confidence of a seasoned vet, Ryan Howard's fifth inning double forced an early exit for a boy who was pitching on a pace never seen before in the history of baseball. Instead we watched him boy crack and throw three wild pitches in an inning, making every mother want to give the boy a hug. Reality, it seems, can be a harsh mistress.

Yet that is only a portion of the story of this year's Championship Series, which has featured four teams that deserve to be there. The Phillies have two MVPs in Ryan Howard and Jimmy Rollins (and a possible third in the California native Chase Utley) alongside Cy Young winner Cliff Lee and last year's World Series MVP, Cole Hamels. The Dodgers have the three best young arms in baseball in Clayton Kershaw, Jonathon Broxton and Chad Billingsley supported by the veteran bat of Manny Ramirez and two quality young outfielders in the game in Andre Ethier and Matt Kemp. The Angels have solid arms in John Lackey, Jered Weaver and Joe Saunders with the veteran presence of Torii Hunter and Vladimir Guerrero. And the Yankees? Well they're the Yankees of every year: the best team money can buy. All good so far, right?

But, even with the quality of these four teams, the major story has been errors and the miracle catches. Three errors by the Angels (including a dumbfounding pop up that fell right between Aybar and Figgins) handed the Yankees that game one. In the chilling second game, a wild pitch by A.J. Burnett let the Angels tie the game until the thirteenth inning, when Izturis threw the ball (and the game) away giving the Yankees a 2-0 series lead. Two of the wild pitches by Kershaw set up Ryan Howard to knock in two runs, making him the Phillies all-time postseason RBI leader and put them ahead to help secure game one. A double play ball hit to Rollins seemed routine until Utley threw it into the stands, letting the Dodgers load the bases and walk in the winning run in their game two. Hiroki Kuroda's miserable performance in game three put the Dodgers in a 2-1 hole for tonight.

Tonight the highlight for the Dodgers wasn't Wolf battling back from a two run deficit. It's most memorable might have been George Sherrill striking out Ryan Howard on a high fastball to secure the eighth inning. Manny Ramirez' diving catch to save our 4-3 lead, an unprecedent piece of athleticism from someone considered a savant at hitting and an idiot at fielding. Instead, like Dem Bums of Brooklyn, the best closer in baseball, Broxton, gives up one fast ball too high to All-Star shortstop Jimmy Rollins, who hits it to the gap in right field, scoring two runs in the last out of the game. A walk-off hit for the former MVP. And now the Phillies only need to win one game out of three to make a consecutive trip to the World Series. A Dodger Drought of 21 years without a World Series appearance continues. Is it too early, fans, to say next year?

podcast: down home cookin

download at this link

a mish mash of music from the sixties, seventies, and also right now.

here's the playlist:

Charlie Binger & His Quartet: Jamaica is the Place to Go

Luther Ingram: The Other Man Homely

Dinah Washington: Cry Me a River (Truth and Soul Mix)

Clip from Chi-Lites: Never Had It So Good.

Ananda Shankar: Sa Re Ga (edit)

Desmond Dekker: 007 (Shanty Town)

Serge Gainsbourg: Je N'avais Qu'un Seul

Lee Fields & The Expressions: Love Comes And Goes
Mayer Hawthorne: Maybe So Maybe No

Eli Reed: Am I Wasting My Time

Jorge Ben: Oba, La Vem Ela

Tony Williams: Dreaming Of Your Love

Koushik: Nothing's the Same

the standard "i'm just djing" disclaimer applies.

enjoy.

When you see your future have the courtesy to smile back.

At the very least Roger was dedicated. The last three years of his life were migratory at best: four or five days of the week working in one part of the country, the other wherever he chose to call home for that time period. Work took him to Plano, Orange County, Evanston, and Bristol while "home" took him to Chicago, New York, and Los Angeles. Whether all this travel was a perk of work became a hard sell for him after the first two years. He loved living in different areas. He could see friends from all across the country. But the compressed air of the airplanes was getting to him and the weekends weren't long enough to have fun anymore. It wasn't a normal work pattern either: 15 or 20 straight days of work and then 5 days off, then five weeks of normal business until he ended up working through a holiday. Nights like tonight, then, were the norm: eating at the hotel bar alongside other vagabonds like himself.

As such he became a denizen of the executive travel racket, locking up Marriott Rewards faster than a better paid stewardess. Weather didn't phase him because he'd be be shipped out somewhere in a few days anyways. Chain restaurants provided "options" for eating and their bars presented an allure of comfort but rarely anything more. Family existed in phone calls and holidays and friends came along for weekend adventures in any of the places he called home. He was the youngest guy at every meeting. While friends and family provided some substance to his life, they only provided enough gravitational pull to keep him in orbit but never landing.

"Do you know if there are any good beer bars around here?" A man in his graying forties, nearly double Roger's age, sitting on his right asked him.

Roger shook his head no and kept glaring at the television. "I just got here a couple days ago. I could barely find this bar."
"I really need one. I'm from Oregon and maybe the most expensive beer I get out there is four bucks. Good beers too. Although I'm not partial to putting down a few of these Sam Adams. Even at six a pint, but what is better?"

"I'd rather have a local option," and with a slight cheers, Roger finished his pint.

The graying man laughed and gazed over at the television in the corner, ostensibly showing the local sports while the bar patrons simply read the box scores running on the bottom of the screen. The bartender came by and both of them pointed at their beers.

"It's my birthday."
"What are you doing here then?" Roger asked, unnerved by such a personal statement by a stranger.

"Work."
"Well why not take the day off?"
"It's not that. I have to be here for the next three weeks so there's really no reason to leave."

"Not even for home?"
"Work gives me a home. I don't need to be there for my birthday anymore" said the older man. They both stared into their beers for a second. Roger tried to lose himself in the sudsy splendor of beer but couldn't shake himself out of his own mind. The television kept chirping into his brain the importance of this game for the local team's playoff chances but that could hardly break his concentration. Alone on a birthday...

"Well happy birthday then." Roger offered.

"Thanks." They clinked glasses and turned to their cell phones, checking for contact they knew wasn't there.

"You know there's a place about five blocks north of here called the Older Option that does have some good beer on tap. I don't know if you want to travel for it but it's a nice bar."

"Thanks for the advice."

"I need to get out of here or else my boss will have to fire the bar."Roger lied. It was 9:30 but he had to be up at 5.
"Hah. Take care of yourself." The graying man smiled and kept watching the television, ignoring his surroundings.

"You as well."

He grabbed his coat and walked to the elevators. Off the brass sheen of the elevator door he could see four middle aged men behind them, all comfortably dressed for business. He got on the elevator and pressed six. Each of them just glanced at the button before they became immersed in their cell phones. Everyone got off on six and walked down the same hallway, filing off to their respective rooms. Roger finally got to the end of the hall and sighed, exasperated by monotony. Hindsight does not mean reevaluation.

Redesigning

It's been over a month and I apologize for a lack of updates. This won't become one of those forgotten ambitions like so many blogging ideas are and actually a lot of posts have been worked on but have yet to see the light of day. Too many drafts, not enough posts. So I will inundate you all with a deluge of posts in the next week, I promise.

Jorge Ben: Africa Brasil

* * * * *



I'm not a fan of being a reviewer again. I thought I outgrew this phase. Furthermore, I'm not a fan of reviewing products that have been out for a while; it is unfair to previous reviews and allows me to question the real impact of a review in terms of the sales of the artist. Another five star review, an inaugural review; can that sway a mind into buying an album out for over thirty two years by an artist who, if American, could collect his social security this year?

If anything, Jorge Ben's music has become more relevant in the current musical climate. The funk revival, pioneered on the west coast by Stones Throw, as seen in Yesterdays Universe and the subsidary Now Again Records, and revitalized in the east by Daptone Records, has mingled with Afrobeat and Soul music to create this wonderous blend of music coming out now. A subtle shift in the generation, from 100 Days, 100 Nights to Security to La Revancha del Tango to the unsightly Back to Black, has led me to believe once again in the bumper stickers that "Drum Machines Have No Soul."

Yet none of this would be possible without Jorge Ben; if anything, his music is the synthesis of this sound that is finally re-emerging into the marketplace. Most Americans who cringe when rock and country mix would be downright frightened by the drum breaks mixing with Portugese call and response phrases, unified by a powerful young voice and distorted guitars. Yet that is the genesis of the record; a bouncing football groove of Ponta de Lanca Africano that sets the stage for the next 11 tracks. The oscillation continues throughout the record, with the infamous reworking of Taj Mahal (eventually ripped off by Rod Stewart for "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy") to the international hit of Xica da Silva, bringing the record almost to a festival frenzy that demands not an audience but a crowd, a party, a festival, a celebration.

It is hard to say so little with so much on this record. Don't sell yourself short on this one. The only imperfection in this record is the lack of a rerelease and the lack of exposure now a days. I love old recordings as much as the next audiophile but a reworking would be great for this man and bring great exposure to a classic artist not just in Brazilian history but in popular culture. This record isn't a footnote to popular Brazilian music, this is a starting point for where radical genre blends invade the popular consciousness.

a stain on leather. pt. 1

"You will never get it back, brother." Will looked wistfully at the traffic up ahead, appreciating another day lost on the highway. "It's not going to make anything better. You can go out there and pick it up, but how does that make things better?" Roger and Will had migrated down this road day in and day out for months now, evolving from a painful ritual of their drab work lives into a meditation they woke up for each morning. Jarred from their beds by a heavy dose of caffeine and, in Roger's case, nicotine, once torturous mornings became the mental equivalent of a happy hour with uppers. Will examined the road further, realized they weren't moving for at least a couple seconds and threw the car into park.

Roger knew Will was right but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. The suitcase, his father's 1923 Louis Vuitton cabin trunk, remained irreplaceable in his mind. He spent months refurbishing it into a condition too good for travel. He had cleaned gunk out of the brass lock, massaged oil into the leather trim and bindings until it submitted, and polished the brass weekly to give it a youthful luster. Never considered an heirloom or a part of his inheritance, Roger's past infatuation with this inanimate object looked like a product of an a man obsessed. Until, of course, he couldn't get it back or didn't want to, one of the two, for nearly a year now.

"Will I could always ask for it to be delivered somewhere."
"And if it looked like shit, would you be satisfied?"
"No, but at least I'd get back everything in it." Roger took a drag from his cigarette and carefully ashed it out the window, open only a fraction just to preserve the heat from leaking out of the car.
"Like that shit matters, man. You know it doesn't."
"But it's the principle of it all. That stuff is mine. What's inside it, mine. The whole damn thing is mine."
"It's been a year, brother."
"So?"
"Whatever was in that thing is now ruined, you know it. That suitcase was probably in the corner of the garage or warehouse or wherever the hell it is now. I bet some rats got into that thing and ate the blanket, your gross tightie whities, nasty bikini bottoms, thong collection, gay club records, you know, all your gay stuff... What the hell is this asshole doing?" Will slammed on the horn and dropped the car out of park, staring down a car trying to cut in front of him in deadlock traffic.

"I get the picture," Roger sighed, exhaling smoke recklessly in the car, drawing a playful smack in the chest from Will. He had been thinking about politely asking for it back when he first returned from Europe a year ago. But when he got back he cut off complete contact with her. His lone communication was an e-mail a year ago that can be summed up in a pair of words he hadn't said, well really, to anyone in his life. Phone calls were made to him, an occassional note sent his way, all of which were ignored. He called it "mental preservation" and it wouldn't have been far from the truth. Breaking the human condition of being a "creature of habit" needed him to quit communication with her cold turkey. It was harder than cigarettes or an exorcism and that freedom was intoxicating. It worked until he rememebered the luggage.

"Are you crying bro?"
"Dude, what?"
"You're crying, you little sweetheart," Will teased.
"I'm not crying."
"Baby wants his little box to play in, he misses his box, wah wah, you little boy," Will jeered until Roger threw his lunch bag into Will's face, landing on the steering wheel and triggering the horn.
"I do want it back though. I just don't want to talk to her."
"Or confront that crazy..."
"Yea I don't want to see the parents either."

A glimmer appeared in Will's eye. It was possibly a reflection from the snow-caked cars in front of him.

"You remember how to get into her parent's garage? I bet it's there. It would take five minutes."
"Dude this is such a bad idea, that mom is going to be there..."
"Who cares."
"We don't even know if it's there, man."
"Brother, I don't want to go to work and neither do you. Today already sucks." Will took his almost empty cup of coffee and threw it on Roger, coffee lightly spilling on his white shirt. He threw on his turning signal and slowly started to push the sedan across the four laned highway, mouthing thank yous, smiling, and waving at every angry driver whose morning he made worse.
"Dude!" Roger exclaimed.
"See, today already sucks. Let's make it better. Call in and say you'll be in the afternoon, your cat vomited blood or something and you'll be right in at lunch."
"What is wrong with you this morning man? I just want the suitcase back, we don't have to do all this now." Roger felt sweat grow on his brow in frustration. He hated being forced into anything even if it was something he wanted.
"Did I hear you say that?"
"Huh?"
"You just said 'I just want the suitcase back.' So get it. Come on. It'll take 30 minutes to get there. I'll buy breakfast."
"Piss off."
"More like piss on them when we show up, grab the suitcase and jet!"

They were off the highway by now and had reached the onramp to go back the way they were coming from. Will turned the radio on to find some music to amp them up to, flipping the volume to max right when "Highway to hell" began to blare through the car's speakers. Roger, powerless, began to take off his white shirt and replaced it with his black track coat waiting on the back seat. Maybe it was time for him to get what he wanted. He sat back to the ride, feeling his ear drums rattle every chorus.

the golden age

a golden age of creativity for us all. 2009 may not be 1929, but it is reminiscent of 1930. Zelda's life was gutted by the depression / recession that slowly drifted into our lives in the past year. "People in New York are jumping off of buildings," a phrase that stuck with me since the demise of Lehman Brothers last year. And then priorities changed in her life and mine. Over a year ago, Zelda had a nervous breakdown that shattered us, yet she accepted the need for her treatment. Alcohol frayed whatever remained between us. And with nothing left to gain, we departed ways. I fled to France. I started working on a book about a man, whose potential partially realized yet still without limitations, makes the fatal decision to marry a beautiful yet mentally ill woman, destroying their relationship on the brimstone and cliffs of Northern California.



As such, me and Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald are inexorably linked. I never meant to pattern myself after anybody, yet circumstance and fate brought us together. My father gave me the novel "Some Time in the Sun" at an early age, before I even read the Great Gatsby, Brave New World, The Sound and the Fury, or The Day of the Locust, but the stories of Fitzgerald, Huxley, Faulkner and West living and dying in the heat of Los Angeles resonated beyond any word written by Tom Dardis. A day after Fitzgerald died from a heart attack (complicated by excessive drinking), West perished in a car accident in Imperial County. The other characters of the story have their own dramatic ends: Zelda was famously incinerated in a mental institution, Huxley received 100 mgs of LSD to his demise, Faulkner also crushed by a heart attack in a Mississippi Sanitorium.

I never hope to wrestle with my own sanity yet it seems inevitable. As we age, the less we question and the more we accept our fate. I won't ever come back for Zelda, but I certainly hope she won't bring me to my demise. At least not now.

Getting around.

This city feels water-logged, like the liquids will never leave it. Ice freezes over the sidewalks, the lake turns into rolling hills of ice, the car sputters and coughs out condensation from its tail pipe. It even gets in his body, and Roger, mostly made of water, now get too cold when he wakes up. Each step in the wintertime leaves a part of him attached to the city, stuck in the ice.

Most of this vast continent is like this. From Vancouver to Massachusetts, people refuse to leave the cold, content to enjoy winter in all its frozen glory. And then there are the Southerners, people who never accepted the cold in the first place. Wearing a jacket is too much, preferring the desolation of New Mexico or the soft fields of Alabama. But now the cold grabs at Roger's ankles as he trudges through another blister inducing day, not even showing his eyes to the world. Scarved to the nose, hatted to the collar, and sunglasses just to see his way past a blinding reflection. His skin gained three years in only two. This couldn't be his fate, another day of this.

Slowly walking up to the train, he couldn't help but examine the sharpness on the faces of people around him. The holiday cheer is unimaginable in this bitter frost, mostly due to dead trees clogging the sidewalks. The citizens had a reason to be mad about that, a city so broke it can't pick up the remnants of Christmas. On the platform he examined the coccooned bodies around him, refusing to smile or make eye contact. That took too much effort. Roger felt his gloves get sweaty, tight around the edges, the leather adapting to the cold grip solidifying his hand to his briefcase. The anger was palpable now, making him an island like everyone else on the platform. Bristled, bothered, and wanting to work.

Parting the icy snow, the train arrives stuffed to the gills. It might be the warmest place in the whole city. So close to downtown it only makes sense that it would be this packed every day. But add three layers to each person and it's a veritable sardine can, albeit alive and angrier. The doors slowly slide open, creating some breathing room, and the masses exhale, making the crowd waiting at the door stare at only three spots instead of five. Roger can't help but laugh, dislodging his scarf, cold air pouring into his nostrils. Fifteen people, three real spots, and four get in. He'd be late to work today, but that's because of the coffee from downstairs. With a stunt like that you at least need something to drink.

say no but mean yes.

Every good story can begin with a girl talking a guy out of something. Those stories are intrinsic to human society since we were still living in the cave. Everybody can talk about a story they all know, it's just got a different personal shine and varnish on it. Sex, careers, children, or location are common themes, many times tied together into impressive narratives.

Maybe it is the loss of will, the sacrifice of mental superiority, stepping down to a superior, or not recognizing a situation correctly. Every girl talks a guy out of something at some point. It protects a man from himself just as much as it can shred his life into pieces, a story in tatters across the room. Every subsequent rearrangement the man attempts is reactionary. The story is never the same and the past is reinterpreted as he tries to staple and tape everything back into place. "That was before, this is after." He never knows where he is, he's just on his toes.

Proust wrote in circles about rearrangements of reality, babbling brilliantly about the inconsequential consequences of these minor events in your life. Don't eat that food, but drink this tea and dip your cookie. Do this, not that. The inevitable formulation of your life, crystallized by accepting or rejecting someone's opinion. Do you inevitably close everyone out or just let everyone in? Do you get talked out of living or talked in?

In these situations, just be vain.

it's that constant rhythm
forever oscillating
off of harmonics and modes
that i pretend to climb

owls haunt the harbor,
hunting yesterday's garden
in the water,
waiting for today

it wouldn't stand a chance,
a piano in the harbor
rotting for today

summer list:

Here is a list of things to do on your summer vacation. I know we are all working, but the following activities will not only enhance your summer but also make it one filled with memories!



1: Go to a sporting event you have never seen live before. Like a soccer game, a lacrosse game, hockey, whatever is rare in your part of the country. If proper, make a day out of it.

2: Drink the local city brew or spirit. WHATEVER that may be. If it's a Montrachet, a Goose Island, Crown Royal, or grappa, it never hurts to drink the water.

3: Be open to options. Meet people, dance, dj, game night, new music. Options are the pepper of life. "No" doesn't get you anywhere except back on your ass.

4: Watch a movie you watched 10 years ago exactly. Maybe watch it the same way. Enjoy it again, it'll remind you how old you aren't.

5: Visit a body of water you haven't seen before. All shower and bath jokes aside, go kayak or jump in. It never hurts to get your feet wet.

6: Take control of your body. Get in shape for a sport and play once or twice a week. As a child, you didn't have motor skills. Bruise, contort, or stretch your entire body and remind yourself of those good muscles.

7: Give a gift to a good friend. Make it an actual gift, too. Personalize that shit. Give it cause it matters they have it. A book you talk about, a record they like, a trinket.

8: Take a night off from everything. Hide your cell and gmail, crack the crackberry. Do whatever the hell you want: baths, massages, movies, good food. Fall asleep already feeling good for tomorrow.

9: Don't scrimp on your goodbyes. Don't make a show of it, but pay your respects to the people you are with. Never leave with a foul taste in your mouth.

10: Hug it out, bitch.

City lights.

the cultural divide of Chicago remains one of the principles the city is founded on. Segregation and racism could never be more blatant in this town. It's nondiscriminatory: whoever you are as a person doesn't matter, your color does. And the difference between the north and the south is not like the difference between the North and the South. You can't emancipate the southside, the northside will never acknowledge it. Besides that fact, the southside really does run the heart of Chicago. At the very least the mayor lives there. The north really just has a losing sports team. Northside pretty, southside gritty.





whatever.


Beer, baseball and a night where my vacancy sign dominates the window. There was no stop to the evening of drinking in the face of the southside, my Los Angeles flow (and cholo flow of an LA cap and wifebeater) undeniable. Paisas (countrymen in mexican slang for you gringos) recognized me, throwing the LA hands in the air, reppin Lil Rob and East Los. These are just cultural things, you see, but that's what makes us different inherently. Cultural "things" don't make it halfway across the country. It's hard to see that until you are halfway across the country. And I, a person from the west, to whom the east is foreign.

There are 250 million people who live outside of California in this country. Out of 300 million. That means that one out of every six American is Californian. This of course, doesn't include paisas. How many are Hispanic? The numbers are more than reckless now. They are inconsequential. This is who we are, this beautiful mix of indigeno called Americano. I love it, this beautiful world.

British nights

"Did you hear that?" I craned my neck around, getting closer to the speaker.
"What, the sax?"
"That's a Conn Conqueror."
"What?"
"A Conn Conqueror, probably a 1940s model. They make a big band... big. Bigger, I guess. The sound is almost reckless and can dominate the band." I had completely lost control of the conversation by now, my mind was absorbed by sound and tone. I hadn't heard the sound of that horn since I saw a Henry Mancini tribute band in a smoky Chicago bar, a tender duet at best. This London bar, however, presented this horn in the form of a menhaden shanty. This wasn't a parallel universe, this was...

"A hell of a sound, Jorge." Roger smiled at me, Lisa latched to his shoulder. Lisa wasn't really listening anymore, more interested in balancing her shanty on two fingers. Megan dug into my shoulder, whispering something into my ear that I couldn't understand before lips suctioned my ear drum and teeth tugged at my earlobe. There were girls anywhere, but I couldn't touch or talk, even if I was single. On this trip I was taken. This wasn't Pigalle.

"Those were the days, my friend, that I thought would never end."
"Indeed."
"I know. Whatever. It doesn't matter now, does it?" I glanced at Megan and reached for my Guinness, swallowing it like a pill. My thoughts couldn't link together anymore, trapped on unhitched train cars. I felt Megan's rings get caught on my alpaca pants, gliding up to my waist, holding my stomach in a half hug. 3 AM was hours ago, we all knew the night was over. I just didn't want to leave. A couple minutes of silence passed, Roger and Lisa locked together as I held Megan up.

"We'd love to show you a good time while you are out here." Lisa licking her lips, her eyes trained on my eyes, my face, my chest, the necklace dangling from my neck. I had no choice but to smile uncomfortably. A carnal desire filled my heart. Megan tugged at my belt and put her hands in my pant pocket, grabbing the keys to the hotel.

"Well, Lisa, what else could we do?"
"Jorge, it depends if we should part ways. Roger, what do you think?"
"I'll let that man make the decision." Roger pointed straight at me and drowned himself in Lisa's brown eyes, but Lisa's hand pointed at me, pulled at me, shifted her skirt away for me, opened her legs a bit more for me.

I pondered the decision for a second. "Let's see if we can even get out of this place." I propped Megan up, slowly, placing her coat around her shoulders.

"What do you want to do, dear?" Her eyes were barely open but I had to ask.
"You? What else do you want me to say..."
"Nothing," I shushed her. "What I meant, do you want to head to Lisa's place or to the room."
"Either is good, but she's a predator," pointing at Lisa and smiling at her. Lisa pursed her lips together and shot a sexy eye at her best friend. Megan stumbled in elation, grabbing my waist. "We don't need her tonight, do we?"
"I didn't know we needed her in the first place..."
"She always shares herself, Jorge..."
"Don't toss this dog a bone, Meg," I smirked in anticipation.
"I don't want her tonight, though."

I stared back at the married couple, wrapped in each other.

"We're heading to the flat, my dear friends. It is so late that this is tomorrow's party, isn't it?" I slammed the shot glass on the table, startling our party to attention.
"Yes, late... come on dear." Roger grabbed her by the leg and pulled Lisa out of the booth. "We'll see you in the morning, Jorge."
"Of course, Roger."

I turned my back and offered Megan my arm, propping her up. Out of the pub, we turned to the hotel, our last night in London. You never get what you deserve.

Coughing Fits

Snow turned to slush and the lake cracked under the heat, thin sheets of ice succumbing to the waves. I juggled a pack of Dunhills in my hand, fumbling for the lighter with the other. The warmest day in six months rode in on a gap in the clouds, melting our ice and thawing our faces. The city chose this morning to remind me that, yes, spring was desperately making headway through the bitter cold that shook the core for what I stand for. Water fowl danced on the concrete headway behind me, squawking through the revving of engines and lurching of tires during the morning deadlock. Turning my back to the wind became a necessity, whipping my hair into the cigarette. Tar and tobacco, I love it.

I turned my attention to the boats drifting south towards the ports, lumbering across the horizon. I smiled. So many times I had been here unwillingly, lamenting that it was simply an "inferior ocean" in my mind. The first time I came here was on the rooftop of a hotel, trying to boil the grey water with my hatred. The second time I was trapped on a boat, watching fireworks while I spiked my own drinks so every double was really a triple. Mary and I watched the city lights from miles offshore, the waves rocking us nearly to sleep. And now the sun dried my chapped lips and raised the hairs from my hands. I started to cough, violently. Cigarette still in my hand, I turned around and breathed in the fierce wind, closing my eyes. When I opened them, she was there, on her bike, burning holes through my eyes.

"What are you doing here?"
"I needed to thaw out, I can't take this damn city."
"I didn't know you were still here..."
"You're right, you didn't." She just kicked the dirt under her bike and started looking at the traffic. Cars roared as traffic began to pick up
"You haven't talked to me for nine months..."
"What are you going to do, get mad at me for that?"
"I guess I can't." She looked disappointed. "You know I think about you."
"I figured as much."
"You think about me too."
"Oh really."
"I come to you when you remember me."
"I was actually thinking about Mary, you know."
"There is no Mary."
"You sure can keep your tabs on me, dear."
"So you're engaged now?"

I had no choice but to laugh, and laugh some more, and shook my head.

"You came out here to ask me that?"
"This was a coincidence, Roger. That or you remembered me."
"I actually didn't remember you. I just remember how mad I was at you that night, but I forgot what you looked like."
"So you're engaged now?"
"What makes you think I'm engaged?"
"I have my ways."
"Well trust them and don't bother me."

Her hair was purple again, tinges of red through it. She might as well have been that crazy bitch from the fifth element without that whole importance to humanity shit.
"I still have a lot of your stuff."
"Keep it."
"Even your dad's blanket?"
"Mail it to me or keep it, you decide."
"Well my mom threw away half of it."
"That bitch is crazy."
"Yeah. She is." We both laughed, half a smile crawling to our face. I put my hand out and smiled.
"Take care."

She just stared at it, laughed, and got back on her bike, heading south to the University. My cigarette was just a filter stub in between my fingers, blown out minutes ago. Turning around, I stubbed my toe on the concrete bridge leading me back to the boulevard. The world grew dark as a cloud passed overhead. When you're already in Chicago, you don't need a bus to get there.

Now, Paris

We all wonder why people go to Paris. Sometimes you get insanely lucky with a great apartment, like we did, and we wonder why we aren't taking full advantage of it. Fortunately for us this place fell into our laps, with 3 people splitting it is more than affordable and has simply too much goddamn space! Too much space in Paris flat? Impossible.

Clearly this led to destruction and pain. I cut my ankle on the wooden table within 3 hours of arrival (thankfully requiring the paramedics, a hospital visit, and 7 stitches in the process) and Yacoob decided to recolor some areas with vomit later in the evening. Notice the gymnast thing hanging in the left corner? Comfortably about 7 feet high, great for pull ups, sit ups, and falling straight on your butt. This apartment was put together by a photographer. But her secondary profession must be sleeper, because if there is a place to lay your head then there is a high chance you will be asleep within 10, 15 minutes. Good luck staying awake.

Paris is Paris, it doesn't feel different after all these years. It is fun and metropolitan and in love with itself, but then again, we love it, so it has every right to feel self-worth. Our neighborhood really is "charming" and filled with youth, bustling more at 5 am than almost any other time. I've learned to separate the city a lot better now and every other visit hasn't given me the treatment I have received here.

Now the general Paris post is done. Details to follow.