Breaking Up With A City

Dear Fellow Burners,

The five stages of grief read like the last few months of my life. These stages are: denial, anger, bargaining*, depression, and acceptance. What’s worse is I haven’t quite reached acceptance yet. I’m still wallowing in the depression phase of it all with brief interludes of extreme highs, disguised as denial. In fact, I’ve been in denial so long that I’ve had to skip past anger, done a little bargaining in the form of booking a trip to New York, and now I find myself wallowing in a black hole of depression. I guess the only consolation -the light at the end of the Holland tunnel if you will - is that thing called ‘acceptance,’ not to be mistaken with New Jersey. Being that as it may, due to city wide power outages, (#3rdWorldProblems), the light is currently not working and I find myself stumbling along in the dark, with no direction home.

There being no light I spend most of my days living in some empty nostalgic haze dreaming of what once was. Baz Lurhman said in that ‘Sun Screen’ song that nostalgia is a way of fishing away the past from the disposal, whipping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more then its worth. Or was the advice? Either way, New York and my two-year love affair with her, didn’t really have too many ugly parts. Oh sure, she’s got her problems. Garbage bag aromas on a stinking hot day in August that manages to ruin that perfect Marilyn Monroe moment, as some unsuspecting beauty steps over a subway grid; the fire engine catching you off guard as it blasts its horn into your ear, causing your head and heart to throb like an obese woman caught in a lasso; the jerk who jumps in front of you to steal your cab on a freezing January night; February in general; Wall street preppy’s; the tattooed up hipster in your local coffee shop who insists on playing Regina Spektor all day – I know she’s quirky and so are you. We get it! Now return to your old school game boy strapped around your neck, and throw something on the speakers that doesn’t resemble your non-prescription glasses or ironic moustache. (Oops there’s some of that anger).

But for me our time together was just mostly good. Free comedy shows with Zach Galifianakis; watching The Dude abide on the Brooklyn promenade with a lit up Manhattan skyline in the background; Method Man crowd surfing; Julian Casablancas crowd surfing; The Gorillaz at MSG; The Black Keys at a ‘secret location’; James Blake in Williamsburg; Woody Allen films on opening weekend; The Yankees in the Bronx; supporting Spain in a German beer garden; Halloween; Halloween again; Santacon; Christmas and a desperate, yet ultimately feeble attempt, to find small town girls in fur boots, huddled around a roaring fire, with whiskey filled coco and an inviting smile; joy riding around the city in a coupe; The Frying Pan on a sunny weekend evening; conversations with ‘pizza’ girl; watching an ‘ex-cheer leader’ demonstrate her ‘skills’ in a closed off Thompson’s Square Park; Boom Bar; the girl that got away at Boom Bar; cheering on Luis Goodman as he makes his way down St Marks; Hurricane Clemze; Sasha visits; Emma visits; screening my thesis to a bunch of strangers and some friends; porn star conversations; singing ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’ on an empty Wall Street without even a hint of irony; Summerstage; being ‘caught out’ at the Standard; The Standard Beer Garden; dinner and breakfast with the face of Africa (thanks pops); Ludlow street; rooftop bars; Chelsea market; fake plastic trees on fake plastic beaches; pub crawling with the rugby team; the return of Lauren Hill; Wu Tang, Wu tang,  the list goes on and on. 

Like any relationship there are far too many memories to recount them all into something manageable. But it’s never the big events that one remembers most. It’s those moments in between. Life is what happens when you’re making plans. Closing a restaurant over shallow or heavy dinner conversations; watching the city being reduced to a small town by massive snow storms and the snowball fights that ensue; walking home on a Friday evening, ipod in hand, a cold beer or whiskey waiting for you when you get back; the first bite into a chipotle burrito, (never did get to the last); sitting in a plunge pool on a mates roof; bike rides up the Hudson; sitting on 2 Gold rooftop talking shit; watching the boats go up and down the Hudson as Lady Liberty gives you a cheeky wink; dolphin taming and dolphin training conversations; mancunian swagger; retelling stories of the previous night with old pals on couches, while you slug back a couple of myprodols and prepare yourself for another adventure filled day; brunch by yourself; brunch with friends; people watching at BUA; people watching in general; meeting some of the craziest, coolest, most full of shit people I’ve ever come across,  MOMA days and nights; beer pong; flip cup; flip pong; the Manhattan skyline; having an accent – “Why yes I do have an accent and yes I suppose it is kind of enduring the way I use words like ‘inconvenient’ and ‘howzit’. By Jove look at the time. Best be putting the kettle on the boil. I’m yearning for a fresh cuppa. Freshen your drink guvna? Howzit bru. Your place or mine?”

I encounter these memories on a daily basis all of which seem to come flooding back on some idle week night. I’m tempted to text New York. Send her inappropriate messages that I’ll end up regretting in the morning and sometimes I do. The only consolation is that one day I won’t get horribly drunk, stumble into New York again in some dive bar, and make an ass of myself, saying, “Look at me now New York. Look at what I’ve become. I’ve found a new woman, that’s better then you. She has more fire, more excitement, more charisma then you’ve ever had. Her names Wanda.  Rrrrrraaaaa wanda to you!”

But I guess I’m slowly coming to terms with the ultimate burn. New York was never mine to begin with, even though she made me feel that way. The moment I stepped off the tarmac she’d moved on. She’d already made plans for that night and weekend ahead. Cavorting with her many other lovers. Slut! But I guess that’s why I was attracted to her in the first place. I’m always been attracted to ‘free spirited women’ I can’t have…  

And while I still refuse to accept that we don’t ultimately belong together I’m not going to revert to anger. There’s nothing to be angry about. New York City and the people in it have given me the best years of my life. How could I be angry with someone like that? She might have moved on a little, her inhabitants changed, her tastes evolved, but her glorious, imperfect, edifices remain and will for some time. Her intoxicating energy will endure through thick and thin, and one day I shall return to continue my love affair with the city that’s given me all of her greatness and then some. 

Wait, I think I see a light….

*Bargaining refers to: trying to establish a new relationship. This usually involves trying to be friends with your ex which generally doesn't work out. 

The Deep Burn - Gym

Note: This post might make more sense if you have seen the music video to System Of A Down's "Chop Seuy" - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSvFpBOe8eY

Dear Fellow Burners

Recently I started attending the gym located at the bottom of our building. And with each visit something unexplainable happens to me. As I enter that cold dark arena of grunting, snorting and all around male bravado an unknown aggression inside me builds. The sound of metal clunking together, the sight of teeth gnashing. Crazed beasts marching up and down, ipods in hand, chests puffed out, only broken by the sight of a couple of girls jogging effortlessly on treadmills in the background. Their bosoms rolling like vast swells in a violent ocean. Its impossible not to notice them as mirrors surround you in every direction you look. As a result you unconsciously find yourself competing for their approval

In the mist of all of this the atmosphere could only be described as ‘tense.’ So much so that at any moment all hell could break loose kicking off into some sort of chaotic mosh pit reminiscent of a Metallica concert or the video for System Of A Down’s ‘Chop Seuy’*.

On one such occasion I founded myself more aggravated then most. I’d already made a dismal attempt at the bench press. Now to move on to curls. I walked over to the weight shelf, eyes down, trying to keep my feelings of angst toward my fellow ‘gymers’ to a minimum. 17.5 will do just fine for curls today. The Japanese version of Hercules stepped up next to me. We glanced at each other. He looked down at the 17.5’s smirking arrogantly. I wanted to knock his head off right then and there, but in my heart of hearts I knew I didn’t stand much of a chance against this pumped up bastard. Move along you sonofabitch, I thought. Go do some stretching. Yeah that’s right. Run along. Amber on the treadmill was now in clear view so naturally I skipped over the 17.5’s and moved straight to the 35’s. Way above what I am capable of lifting, but I got caught up in the moment. I struggled over to the only free bench located in amongst the ‘chamber of mirrors.’ Japandroid from earlier was sitting on the bench next to me. Great I thought. What exactly is he doing? Mocking me? Taunting me! He’s certainly not doing any 'gyming.' The desire to fight him grew stronger. I envisioned tearing off my Nike ‘dry fit’ shirt and in one brisk movement ripping his head off. Amber on the treadmill having seen my brute strength would wonder over, at which point we’d ravish each other right there on the bench.

Snap out of it I thought. Ignore these horrible urges. Just concentrate on the task at hand. Lifting a mountain of weights without shitting out your own intestines.

But still that bastard starred at me. He expected me to fail but by god man I wasn’t about to give up now. Not today. Amber on the treadmill will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine.

All right that’s it. Get your back straight. Arms rigid. Looking good. Now easy does it… ‘Onnnnnneeeeeeee.’ That’s right baby. You’ve got this. ‘Spaniard, Spaniard, Spaniard. Channel Gladiator.’ “Tttttttwwwwooooo.” Almost there. My arm felt like it was going to snap at any moment but I kept my eyes on the prize. Eyes on the price? Who says that? Who am I?

“Threeee,” My face was slowly turning the color of a turnip. “Fouuuuur” Almost half way. “Fiiiiiiii” My right arm collapses under the weight, inciting laughter from Jerkulese who’d been watching all along.

Are you laughing at me? I said.

“What?” Replied Jerkulese.

“Yeah that’s right. You! You think I’m funny? You think this is a joke?

“Well…”

“Cause if you think for a second that the girl from 4501 likes you, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“What?” said Amber in astonishment, “how do you know where I live?”

“Whatever,” responded Jerkulese, “Amber’s been eyeing me out all week. Amber needs a real man. That can lift ‘real weights.’ Not a skinny boy like you.”

“How do you know my name?” asked a bemused Amber.

Ignoring her I responded, “Amber doesn’t need another beefcake. She needs a man with style. With intelligence. With substance.

“Oh really,” says Jerkulese, “and I suppose you’re the one to give it to her?” I rose up to meet the Goliath. We squared off like two cowboys in a dual. I could hear The Good, The Bad and the Ugly score whistling through my head. “Waaa, waaa, waaa”.

“What was that?” Said Jerkulese.

“You shut up!” I snapped, and with that I lurched at him. He elegantly moved to the right, sending me crashing into a giant inflatable stretch ball. I rebounded back off the ball as if in a wrestling ring, and hurtled towards him, arm out. “Close line. Bam!”

He lay helplessly on the cold ground. But I wasn’t done yet. An excitable crowd had built up around us, and I was going to give them what they wanted. I climbed up the weight shelf, standing on top of it, ready to jump onto the barely conscious Jerkulese.

“Jump” one shouted. “Crush him,” yelled another.. “Spaniard, Spaniard,” they began to chant. I looked around at the rows of gnashing teeth and clenched fists. What was I doing I thought. What had I become? I looked down at them with distain. “Are you entertained?” I asked them. “Is this not why you are here?” There was much grunting but no discernable response. I leapt forward. There was a hush as I flew through the air. I came crashing down next to Jerkulese's lame body with a thud. Fortunately a mat was there to cushion my fall. The crowd sighed, disappointed by my change of heart. I got up and offered out a hand of support, “Let me help you up my friend.”

He smirked and kicked violently at my ankles. I went tumbling down. Jerkules jumped up, rising over me. “Finish him” they cried. His fist came down like a hammer hurtling towards my face. I moved out of the way just in time, grabbed him in a headlock and in one brisk movement sent a knife slicing through his well-groomed ponytail.

“Last Samurai my ass” I said, holding up the loose ponytail in triumph.

There was a moment of silence. A look of pure disbelief swept over the crowd as the ponytail swayed in my hand.

“Well, that’s incredibly racist,” said one onlooker.

“He’s not even Japanese!” said another.

“Where did he get the knife?” inquired a third.

What have I become, I thought. Dear God what is this place turning me into. “You have disgraced yourself and your family,” said Jerkulese. I looked around at the sweaty men, judging me. “Its this gym.” I said, “These weights. All this testosterone clogging up the air. It’s messing with my head.” I broke down onto the ground, looking up to the heavens in despair.

“Father,” I sang, “why have you forsaken me? In your eyes forsaken me, in your thoughts forsaken me.” Jerkulese looked at me with pity, seeing the utter despair in my eyes. He dropped to one knee and joined in, “in your heart forsaken me”. All the men inspired by this moment of camaraderie embraced. Like a choir, we looked up the heavens and sang the chorus to Chop Seuy, “trust in our self righteous suicide, weeee cry when angels deserve to die, in our self righteous suicide. We cry, when angels deserve to die.”

There was an eerie, silence as twenty or so sweaty men, arm in arm stared toward the ceiling waiting for some kind of divine revelation but nothing came.

Eventually the door to the gym opened and in came a vision far more inspiring then an angel. The girl from 3604, clad in light blue hot pants and a white tank top. Men broke off quickly so as not to appear awkward, returning to their gym equipment with gusto. Much grunting and snorting ensued.   

“She looks like fun ey?” I said to my disheveled looking comrade.

“She’s mine you son of a bitch”

I looked down, clenching my fists in rage, and made for the showers.

End

That Wallace Sure Does A Lot Of Meeting

Dear fellows burners.

A friend of mine shared this with me the other day. He happens to live in a high rise apartment adjacent to the very same building that he works in. His bedroom is in fact visible from his offices. This has afforded him the luxury of going home for a nap during lunch, amongst other things. One day however, he forgot to close the blinds leading to disastrous consequences. Well… depending on how you look at it.

Enjoy

It was 11am on a Monday and ‘Bob from accounts’ was on his routine coffee break. Bob liked to stroll around the office stopping occasionally to make small talk with various colleagues. On this particular Monday he thought he’d drop by Wallace and Richard's desk. Richard who was affectionately known as Dick, (though he hated being called Dick), was busy and didn’t have time to chat to Bob from Accountants.

"Where's Wallace Dick?", said Bob, as he sipped gingerly on his coffee, standing awkwardly close to Richard. Richard did not bother to look up, as he secretly hated Bob from Accounts because Bob from Accounts was just so smug! "Don't know,” replied Richard. “Think he said he had an important meeting.”

Bob from Accounts reflected out loud, "Ah, that Wallace sure is a hard worker. He sure does do a lot of meeting."

Bob continued to stand next to Richard casually scanning the building across the way. Something however, caught his eye. He squinted trying to make sense of the shape and movements. "Hey what the hell is…. Dick..."

Richard continued to stare at his computer, though now noticeably frustrated "What?" said Richard. “Dick, Dick. Look over there, Dick. There’s some guy masturbating in that apartment in the building across the way." Richard peered over his cubicle and astonishingly Bob wasn't lying.

"Hold on," said a bewildered Richard. "That's not just some guy. That's Wallace!"

This observation caused Bob to spit out his coffee onto Richard, and Richard’s computer. "Oh. Sorry Dick. I was just so..."

"My name’s not Dick you son of a bitch. It’s Richard. Richard!" Richard shoved Bob from Accounts. He'd shoved him again and again. Across the office they went. "Get it. Richard! And you're not sorry. You're anything but. All you are is God Damn smug." 

They were now on the opposite end of the open floor approaching a balcony. Bob almost toppling over with every shove. But before Richard could gain control of himself, he gave Bob from Accounts one last, fatal push. Bob lost balance and went crashing backwards, out onto the balcony and over the railing. Floor after floor he dropped. It would seem like an eternity. Falling, falling...

Richard, as white as a ghost, turned around to face his hushed colleagues.  Shaking, sweating, Richard said, "Dear God, what have I done?" his voice quivering with fright. There was dead silence in the office.

"Dick! My God. You've killed him," said Hassleback. “Well Dick, we can't have that happen in such a reputable institution that is Webber and Wicks Bank. “No, no," continued Hassleback, "Can’t have that. If we were to go around pushing every smug in-house accountant out of the window to their inevitable deaths, lets just say that the IRS would be up to their guts in audits." The whole office laughed at this.

"I'm sorry Dick, but we're going to have to let you go."

"But sir, its Wallace. Wallace was...."

"Now now Dick. Don't blame it on Wallace. Wallace is a respectable, hard working  employee....".

“A credit to this institution”, said another,

“He sure does do a lot of meeting.", said Higgins.

"To true.”  Continues Hassleback. “Speaking of which, looks like we’ll have to give that promotion to Wallace now, since well, Dick’s a murderer and all. Where is that son of a gun?”

Jut at that moment a sweaty looking Wallace came hurriedly back into the office, “Sorry fellas. Was just at a meeting. Did I miss anything?”

“Only the death of an account, and a promotion!”

"I got it?” said Wallace.

“You sure did Wallace” said Hassleback.

“But I thought Dick was a shoe-in?”

“Well that was before Dick went awol and murdered Bob from Accounts.”

“That’s great news. I mean, that’s tragic…”

“I’m not going to miss that smug son of a bitch. Are you?” The whole office laughed, except for the accounting department, who while having heard, and seen the events pass, were physically incapable of laughter, or any other human emotion.

Richard, dragged away, kicking and screaming by security, made one last defiant statement of intent, “I’ll get you Wallace. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get you.”

Wallace ignoring Richard looked down at his watch. "Well. No time to waste," he said, "I got a meeting to get to. Later"

The whole office laughed at this, simultaneously giving each other high fives….

End

These old locks?

Dear Fellow Burners,

Las Vegas is a city that every man or women should get the chance to experience once in their lifetimes. It is a city that burns and anti-burns simultaneously and therefore a city after my own heart. To give the story below a bit of context when I was in Vegas I fell in love with a stripper – lets call her Maria. Maria told me many things that night. Many wonderful things. She had an acute awareness of all things good, and right and beautiful in the world.

“Handsome,” she said, “Have you ever considered hair modeling?” “Me?” I said confused, “Why no. As a matter of fact I haven’t. Why? Do you think” She interrupted me, “Because you’ve really got some great hair.” She continued to stroke my skull leisurely. Purring like a kitten I said, “These old locks? Well, I guess. I mean, you think I have what it takes?” “Absolutely!” And how could I not take her seriously. She’d never lied to me before. “Another dance?” she asked. “Where do I sign!” I said.

I still maintain, perhaps somewhat naively, (and much to the amusement of fellow burners), that Maria and I, or whatever her name was, shared something special that night. I wasn’t just another client, and she wasn’t just another hot Vegas stripper.

Anyway that should be enough context for the story below.

Enjoy.

Summer scent was fresh in the air. Energy levels were high and expressions happy. I love summer in New York and what better way to explore the city then on a bike. This would be first priority, so I set off to Soho Bikes to find my two-wheeled companion.

I browsed around the store. Nothing in particular took my fancy. I was becoming despondent. On my way out however I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. There it was. A black and brown Biria. A simple classic street bike. No gaudy gimmicks. No shock absorbers, bells or whistles. Just a comfortable seat, low profile tires, and a bit of character. My interest had not gone unnoticed. The store owner had seen me drooling over the Biria and had swooped over to seal the deal.

“Yes sir. Is there anything I could help you with today?”

"Ah, well I quite like that one. The Biria. How much does that cost?”

"Yes sir, a mighty fine choice indeed. On sale in fact. The last one of this model. You’ll need to act soon though because today is the last day of the sale, and these have sold like hot cakes. It’s really an anti-burn at that price. He showed me the price tag. It was more than I bargained for. “What happens if I don't have the money right now?" I said. “Well then sir,” he responded,  “I guess you can go and burn!” Oh no I thought. What the hell am I to do. I must have that bike! At which point, another customer interjected and said, “Look boet this is not fuckin Paris, floating down the river Sienne on a Gondola...”

“or some shit.” said the man behind the counter. “Make up your mind.

I looked at the bike again. I caught my reflection glistening in the frame and responded. “Tell you what, we can make a deal. I'll give you $100 dollars and the rest in hair. Imported from Africa you know.” The owner paused for a moment, "Hmmm, well that does seem like some mighty fine hair. Mind if I ruffle my hands through it a little.”

“I’d prefer if you didn't”. I had another look at the gorgeous machine. “Go wild” I said.

The man made claws for hands and suddenly lunged his hands into my thick locks. He shook my head around uncontrollably, sending me flying too and fro. As a result I knocked down one of the bikes creating a domino like effect, sending all the bikes in the shop crashing to the ground. The resultant sound was deafening. Thousands of bells rang off simultaneously reminiscent of a schoolyard at the end of lunch. Out of pure instinct pedestrians on surrounding streets dived into the closest stores. Women and children were tossed aside in the chaos.  A couple of no good hipsters choose to play hooky and stayed outside, smoking casually, cursing the bankers and lawyers who scuttled frantically into the surrounding shops, calling them sellouts and teachers pets. Policemen interrogated the hipsters asking them where their hall passes were.

In amongst all of this I found myself on the ground clutching my head. The owner seeped through the crowd, eyes fixated on my hair, “Its mine” he said, “my precious.” In one last desperate effort he made a lunge across the room. I moved out of the way just in time. His head went crashing against the wall. Fortunately for his sake, it was the same wall, which contained the helmets and consequently only suffered mild concussion. I had to get out of this place.

I scurried out of the store running up the street in search of the closest hair salon. Please, give me a haircut. Make it short. Real Short.

“Sure honey” said the man behind the counter. “But are you sure you want to cut it so short. You really do have great...”

“Just do it!”

A few minutes went by in what seemed like an eternity.

"Well that's it." He paused... “You don't mind if I keep some of this”, he said referring to my hair. “You know just for...”

"Do with it what you will! How much will it be?"

"That will be $100.00."

"What?! $100.00..." I felt faint

"Sir? Sir!!!" I walked out of the shop, into the middle of the empty street as if in some catatonic state. Dropped to my knees, looked up at the skies, tears in my eyes, shouting

"BBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!"

'I went down to Chinatown in pursuit of a kimono and came out singing...'

Dear Fellow Burners,

The other day I went down to Chinatown in pursuit of a Kimono and came out singing a beach boys song, wearing a pair of fine Italian shoes, sunglasses, a Chinese robe, sporting a new haircut, and a new perspective….”

Ah, the sights, sounds, and smells of Chinatown. Well, I’d rather forget the smells, but regardless the place is abuzz with energy. Squawking salesmen sound their loudspeaker like voices from all directions. “Come in, come in,” they say, “best price, best price, all day, all day. For you young man. Nice sunglass. Seven dolla for one, two for ten dolla. Is the best deal in the land!” I continued on through the market like streets. 

“You like sunglass? I give you special.”

“Just looking thank you,” I said.

“Yeah, you look. These are men’s. You like these?” said the grinning saleman.

“Really, I’m just looking. You don’t happen to sell Kimono’s do you?”. The salesmen’s superficial smile ran off his face. “Kimono?! No, no. No Kimono. Kimono is Japanese, not Chinese. You Western all think same!”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, I was just wondering if you had something similar,” I said.

“This little China not little Japan!”

“But there is no little Japan?”

“Yes Japan is very little. Is tiny," said the salesmen angrily, "China crush Japan if Japanese try any of their dirty tricks again!”

“Don’t you mean little Italy?” I asked.

“Little Italy next door. This Chinatown. No little Japan. You go to Tokyo if you want Kimono.”

“I wasn’t looking for a geography lesson.”

“Little Italy is like boot. I give you boot – Good Italian leather. Twenty dolla for one, Thirty dolla for two. Real Italian leather." He pointed to the engravings on the heels which said this much.

“Surely I should buy real Italian boots from little Italy?”

“No! Little Italy don’t sell real Italian boot, only look like boot. China sell real Italian boot’, 30 dolla!”

“What’s that over there?”

“That’s Chinese robe. 30 dolla!” I inspected the robe more closely.

“It says made in Vietnam on the label?”

“No this Chinese. Chinese robe. Not Vietnamese.” An excitable Southerner overheard our conversation, “I’ll give you 25 dollars fir that robe over there.”

“30 dollars replied the irate salesmen”

“27!” the southerner continued.

“30”. The salesmen said resolutely.

“32 dollar it’s my final offer”

The salesmen stern look was replaced by a grin, "Ok, I give you for 32 dolla. You very good bargaina big Daddy-‘O’."

The Southerner looked decidedly pleased with himself. I shook my head. “You buy anything friend?” said the salesmen turning his attention back to me. “You like handbag, I give you two for 40 dolla.”

“No thanks,” I said, “but I will take a robe for 25.”

“35!” snapped the salesman.

“Forget it.” I walked over to the next store hoping to find a better deal.

“I’m looking for a kimono or should I say, Chinese robe…” Suddenly, from behind came  a great garbled noise. A turned around, and there were four Chinese men, dressed in floral shirts, “Bamuda, Bahama, come on pwetty mamma….” I though dear God it’s a -

“Off the Manhattan keyyyyys, der a place called Kimonoooo, that where you wanna go, take you away from it all… body in the sand, tropical drink melt in your hand, we be falling in love to the rhythm of the steel drum band, down in Kimono”…-

…beach boy tribute band, only Chinese!  They continued “We get there fast, you take it slow… five dolla for CD. All greatest hits.  You like? We do all Beach boy song – “You get around, big daddy-O? My name Jimmi-Yo”. Jimmi-Yo grabbed me by the arm and lead me forward. “Come on lets go Big Daddy-'O,' , we take you down to Kimono town, hit it boys.” Before I knew it I had a pina colada in my hand, and was being hustled along by a Chinese salesmen in a floral shirt and white pants. I had no choice but to go with it, and so the band continued…

“Round, round get around, you get around, yeah get around ooooh, you get around, you get aroundddd, round, round, round, round, you get rounddddd,  down in tttoooowwwwwnnnnn, down, down, down, down, down in Chinatowwwwnnnnnnnnnn, yeahh in Chinatownnnnnnnnnnnnnn! 

You getting bugged, walking up and down the same old street, you need to find a new place where the kids are hip.” Jimmi-O, interjected “you buy good Italian shoe, 25 dolla, you be hip too..” I found myself completely hypnotized by the pace of it all, and before I could say ‘size UK 9’ I had placed 25 dollars in the shopkeepers hand,  “Now Daddy-O, you be hip too.”

They changed it up a little and continued “Well East coast girl are hip, I really dig those style they wear, - sunglass 5 dolla for one, 7 dolla for two, just for you – our Southern friend intervened ‘and the southern girls with the way they talk, they knock me out when I’m down there,’ and they all chorused “but I wish they all could be Californian girlllllll….”

 “Lets go Daddy-O,” Jimmi continued, “come and safari with me”, we continued on the crazy trip zipping and zapping between the stalls of Chinatown. And so it went on, “You want haircut’ five dolla" , “ahh, Ba,ba,ba,ba, ba, ber man” you got me rockin and a rollin, rockin and a reeling Barber man,”

“But wait” I pleaded”

“Went to a dance, looking for romance saw Barber man so I thought I’d take a chance….” “Please” I said,  “I don’t  need a haircut.”

Jimmi-O interrupted. “Don’t worry friend. This no ordinary barber." He waggled his finger, "No small talk. No nonsense. Just good haircut.” Jimi wasn’t lying. This wasn’t any ordinary barbershop. All around me, were women in scantily clad outfits, “you looking for romance? They asked, "25 dolla for massage, 45 dolla for special massage.”

“Snip, aahhhhh.” 

This was certainly the most satisfying haircut I had had in years.’ But before I could say “I have an early meeting…” I was yanked out of my chair and on we continued on with our journey to Kimono.

We were approaching a sea of colours and fast, “I’m picking up good vibrations Big Daddy-'O.' Here we are down in Kimono, we got here fast, you take it slow.” Wow, look at all the colours and variety of fabrics I thought. Silk, velvet, satin robes, all embroiled, with oriental symbolism, in every colour you can think of - silver, merlot, black and gold, and then I saw it. Cobalt blue! My cobalt blue kimono. I put it on - the band began to play again.

“I love the colourful clothes you wear, and the way the sunlight plays upon your hair…I’m picking up good vibrations, you giving me the excitation…mmm bap en bap, good vibrations”

“I’ll take it!” I said, “how much?”

“30 dolla!” It was the same salesmen from earlier.

“You again?! I thought I got rid of you…Alright, 30 dollars it is then, but you better thank you friends the Beach boys!”, I said as I forked over the last of my remaining cash.

I turned to Jimi-O and his band and found myself singing.

“You guys are small, and you’re such a ball, I’m glad you’re my tour guides, you’re so good to me, how come you are? You took my hand, and you understand when I get in a bad mood, you’re so good to me, and you aint no Japaneeee, I’m truly sorry for calling you so.”

“Its no problem friend, we get you something else? Cigar, special cigar, it suit you Big Daddy-O. We take you to Cuba if you like to go?”

“Thanks but no thanks,” I said with a smile on my face, “I think I’ve done well here. I wanna go home. So hoist up the John B sail, see how the main sail sets, call for the captain ashore let me go home,” “let you go home? You wanna go home?” they asked wearing confused expressions.

“I wanna go home.”

“And how about you friend?” they inquired of the excitable southerner.

“Lets get together and do it again,” he said excitedly.

I strolled off broke but ultimately satisfied, clad in my cobalt blue kimono, white Italian loafers and five dollar sunglasses. A bumped into a friend on the street, “What happened to you?” he said.

And so I began, …"I went down to Chinatown in pursuit of a kimono and came out singing…”

The Day A Snowman Saved My Life

Dear fellow burners.

Here's something I wrote home when I had just arrived in New York.

Enjoy.

Wow, this god damn weather... It sure has been cold. Last week Monday there was a blizzard. Schools closed down for the first time in fours years. Even the snowman on the corner was wearing a coat. He smoked a cigar, which melted his lips, but he didn't seem to care.

“Hey buddy,” I said, “can you point me in the direction of the Empire State building?”

He responded, "With these sticks, I cannot do much. Just look up”, he sighed.... “I can’t. Bastards that built me never gave me a neck. Forever I will see you, and all of existence at eye level. When will the sun come and end my misery?”

“You and me both buddy, you and me both.”

Unbeknown to me, I ended up having dinner that night right underneath the Empire State building. I thought, man this place sure is exorbitant. I overheard the monocle-eyed man next to me comment, “I say, this pâté de foie gras is quite delectable.” A chef approached me from behind, grabbed me by the shoulder, swung me around and said ‘Who are ya, who are ya?" I thought blimey, its bleedin Gordon Ramsay! I wondered what those three stars stood for. “Look mate,” he said, “ are you gonna pay for this or what? We don't except cards without the customers name on it. Was your name then lad? Its not Travel Wallet is it? Is it?” He proceeded to prod me with a fork. I instinctively made a dash for it, having no other alternative then to head into the kitchen.

It was like entering the halls of a mental asylum. Chefs, clad in straight jackets, were locked in cages all in various stages of delirium. Others had their hands free but their feet shackled. They never even looked up as Gordon chased me around the kitchen frantically.They just continued chopping, slicing, dicing, mumbling, "just one more onion. Just one more onion."

Flames engulfed our surroundings. I found an exit, but the door was locked. I heaved and heaved, but it was no use. "Nowhere to ‘travel’ now ey 'Wall e'...ha, ha ,ha" taunted the crazed chef. I backed up against the door in fright. Ramsay lunged at me with a knife - I thought ‘that’s it, I'm a gonner.’ Suddenly the door behind me gave way and I fell back onto the sidewalk. “Snowman” I cried, “you came back for me.” “That I did young sir, that I did!" Ramsay now furious, made one last futile attempt to stab me, but snowman stepped in the way. The knife carved through his chest like butter. "Ha, Ramsay,” said the snowman defiantly “no knife can affect me.” Ramsay grinned, "how about a hot one?" Snowman peered down as his chest began to melt away. “I'm melting” he cried, “melting!” “Oh snowman”, I pleaded, "don't melt on me, not now." “Save yourself boy. Forget that you ever met me. Just remember, the next time you build a snowman give him a neck... maybe a ahh…” “A what?” I cried in despair, “A what?” Snowman melted in my hands and with that his eyes fell to the ground. I grabbed his nose and said defiantly "Here's one carrot you'll never chop Ramsay!" and fled into the night.

End

 

The purpose of this blog

Dear Fellow Burners

The purpose of this blog is to amuse and entertain, fail and try again. It'll contain my musings and observations on life, complete fabrications, spelling mistakes, the occasional image or video, most of which will occur in New York City. I must stress that none of this is to be taken seriously. The people i write about do not (for the most part) exist but are rather creations to serve my own purposes. I try not to take life too seriously but i am cynical by nature so if i happen to rant, and you hate it, ignore it, or commment on it, and if i believe those comments to be fair i'll keep it. If not, i'll probably delete it because well... i'm an egomaniac and respond badly to criticism.

I hope you, (whoever you are), enjoy reading the blog. Pass it on to friends if you so desire, but most importantly, if nothing else, delight in my 'burns' and 'anti-burns' and speak very highly of me in fashionable circles, so that i can look down on you all one day, like Citizen Kane and say the word over and over again 'Rosebud'... i mean 'burnnnnnnn'.

Yours truly,
'
Solly AKA The Burn