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07.30.2002 :: With The Red Balloon.

Sunday was softball. We played and lost. But it was for fun. Heat and hornets occupied the game. Lazy Boy Saloon was another day. All days are days missed without a camera.

Last week. Some day. With the Danish travelers. Them at the station, me with the car. Horse. Track. Yonkers Raceway. Mike was joined up, others missed out. Evening races, betting as little as possible. Pace 6, One Smart Fella in black, 4-1 with $2. Lost (Mike won). Pace 7, Wally Brown in yellow, 6-1 with $2. Lost (Mike won). Pace 8, Princetown Cody in purple, 6-1 with $2. Lost (Mike won). Pace 9, Kookee Kid in blue, 5-1 with $2. Won (mike lost). Pace 10, Super Dakota Man in pink, 6-1 with $2. Lost (Mike lost). Pace 11, Doubledown Hanover (first thought it was hangover) in pink, 3-1 with $2. Won (Mike lost). Pace 12, Laugh To The Bank in pink, 5-1 with $2. Lost (Mike lost). Pace 12, Take Me in blue, 3-1 with $2. Won (Mike lost). Good night, had beer and broke near even. France won once as Christian kept loosing, even with higher stakes.

Last week. Other day. With friends in Manhattan at night. Planed events. Filter 14. Talked to the manager, told to say “The Underground Collective Anthem is the shit” in exchange of free entrance and drinks. Remembered the words, took the train in. Went to 72nd and Lex. via the 68th street subway. Hung out in an apartment among three people getting drunk as they prepared to the eve. I had a Carona, they had a bottle of gin. By 11:30 we left the apartment as I helped one down five flights of stairs, keeping her from slipping and tumbling hard over the dirty step ends. From outside to the subway I continued to help. In the subway people stared. In the subway people never stare, usually. Walking off the 5 to the L cross-town people still stared. On the L, close to the club, a girl in our group, one I’d never met before, got sick. Throwing up on the space next to her. Poorly covering her mouth, fluid and partially digested food came out through the gates of her fingers, making a yellow-orange puddle against the pale blue subway seat. People in the cars moved to the doors, waiting as the train slowed down. The doors, closed forever, waiting. The train stopped, waiting. The girl threw up again, goo in drips from her mouth, like threads hanging. Waiting. OPEN! People flood out as my ill group stumble. Again, on the platform, she throws up. The nights a mess. No longer is getting sober at the club an option. I find tissues, running to people, asking. Clean enough to walk, we go to street level and into a deli. Water. Coffee. Water. The girl throws up again. She goes outside. Time passes. I grab a bag for the sick and we take a cab back to where it began. Me. Key. Inside. Stairs. Helping the one up who I helped down. With the apartment door open and everyone in, I leave. It’s 12:30. Wishing to make the 1:30 home and end the night I wait impatiently for a subway train to Grand Central. I listen to a woman yell “revolution” from a poster she sees. Her friend tells me it’s just the acid. Then, from the poster she picks up the receiver of a nearby payphone and begins to speak into the dial tone with a French accent:

“Yes, the yellow patio chair? The yellow chair. With the red balloon. Do you have? The chair? The yellow patio chair with the balloon on top. Yes? Thank you.”

The train comes. She hangs up the receiver. I’m on my way home.


07.18.2002 :: I’ve Been Loosing Sleep

“Yo... what's going on with your website... Where's the love for the game?”
-Gregory Dorchak

It’s true, my love (read interest) to post had died these past two weeks, me being stuck in many things, enjoying myself and trying to review.

“[France and I] are getting very close now (we are in Maine), and we will be in New York the 9th or 10th of this month. We hope your home at the time. It would be cool to hang out with you, and if we could stay at your place: super nice.”
-Christian Marcussen

Last week I sponsored two Scandinavians through part of their travels across the U.S. To me their adventure so far had seemed fascinating and intangible; me being unable to know what it is like to drive for such long stretches of time to see parts of the U.S. that I haven’t even tried to see in the eighteen or so years that I have lived here. Traveling across the States, mostly through the south, their stops left me to wonder about how Graceland and Bourbon Street are just as valid as Nice or Venice.

Looking to sell the car that tore them from west to east, France and Christian spent their days, online, calling dealerships, cleaning/washing their car. It was only in the evening that they or I had time to go out. On night one we met up with Alex do see the swank decor of the Hudson Bar & Hotel in Manhattan. Probably being one of the youngest in the crowd, I wandered some, wondering of the patrons wearing their expensive suits and the bartenders serving their expensive drinks. For seven dollars I got a beer. A. One. A single beer. I took my time drinking it as I waited to play pool among socialites, one of whom stumbled over in her elegant brown dress and flute of wine to ask me if “anyone in my immediate family owns a horse.” I smiled, telling her now, that she confused me with someone more regal (though I didn’t really say that). She then returned to her gaggle of friends and drank.

Playing pool. At least waiting to. The game died down in focus, letting someone’s friend, a drunk to mess around with the pool balls. Splashing them around the table as people occasionally continued with the game. Eventually Christian and I picked up the next game. Preparing the table. The drunk would have none of this, as I racked the balls he stood abreast to me nudging me and mumbling about how nice I was to set up his next game. I mostly ignored him and began the game. From the drunk I got stares, constantly, ones of inebriated anger and courage. But it regressed as Elana, a friend of Alex, pestered him to why he was such an asshole. Eventually he sobered up to talk about how drunk he was and then left after spending some time saying goodnight to his equally drunken friends and the girl who asked me about the horse.

After the game and some time spent lollygagging, we moved to a cheaper, college type bar with a name I am unable to remember. Their I watched people play Beer pong as I stayed sober. Driving home was long, the west side highway closed much of itself down to a huge car pile up. Finding a new way home resulted in Harlem. First 130th St. then the Cross Bronx Express Way, then 170th St., then 287, then ending with home.

Night two with the travelers we went to see Dahmer, a film that wasn’t worth the travel or cost. Watching it in passing I would have done. But making an active effort to watch simulated gay sex combined with fake gore was not what I wanted from the screen that night.

Night three was spent locally, at a small Irish pub with a friends little sister as our waitress. We talked about film the way people drag on about sports. Me asking to end about a particular film with a cliche story and an amazing atmosphere. The night ended as casually as it began. The next day the guests were gone, off to New York City to sell a car and discover the city streets.

“Perhaps it's the electro pop to your acoustic tastes.”
-babelicious-sonatas

Last night was too long to explain. It began with trains and friends. Then comedy clubs and being told to “suck my cock.” It continued with missed trains and a lost Pete from the hours of 1:30 am to 5:43am. I enjoyed that stretch of time by returning to the village and finding a 24-hour coffee shop that would house me for a couple of hours in exchange for the cost of tea and enough silence to read all of the Village Voice. That night I learned about underage prostitution and how to become invisible.


07.08.2002 :: Vanity Is For Those Who Can Afford It (Or Have Good Credit)

Cheif Rabbi is described as fallows:

- Possessor of the Torah, the Talmud and the Codes of Law.
- 'Kosher Kill' sniper automatic handgun and Jehovah mklll silencer.
- Staff of the Vengeful God.
- Figure size - 7.5cm standing.

Also you can finally find Jesus and make him your own; he even "includes Ninja-Messiah throwing nails." All of it can be yours at www.jesuschristsuperstore.net.


07.04.2002 :: Keep Away!

Make your own South Park character


07.03.2002 :: Enjoy Your Fourth Of July

"Worldwide, 15- to 24-year olds account for half of all new [H.I.V] infections. Almost 12 million young people now have H.I.V., and an additional 6,000 young adults become infected everyday."
-The New York Times


07.01.2002 :: My A&R Man Doesn't Know R&D While I Play D&D

Building with all sort of silliness. I need figure out what approach I should take to this (in terms of writing). I don’t think it is what it once was. Now the words pushed out. Me listing the facts rather than telling the story, the atmosphere. Also, what judgment can be given, what cant?

I believe images move words.



copyright peter nofelt