Bill Maher Live at the Wellmont.

Bill Maher

Last night at the Welmont Theater in Montclair, NJ, my wife and I enjoyed a belated birthday present for me. Technically, the gift was right on time, back in July, but the show wasn’t until last night. And much like the Henry Rollins show, I wasn’t as entertained as I would have been in front of the television. As much as I dislike how that sounds, it’s totally true. My wife and I had decent enough seats, and Bill was pretty much right on the money, but the factors of a live show and all of its trappings started to take effect very early on.

For starters, while the chairs were fine, the way the theater stacks them up on top of each other, makes for a very uncomfortable experience. They’re just too close to the chairs in front and behind them, so one ends up leaving the venue with water trapped in their knees, and one’s back all stiff and stuff. Secondly, to the right of my wife was a young man offering me a “job”, selling I don’t know what on the net, and to my left there was an obese woman with a nasty cough. When she sat down, her fat leaked over into my area, and after a while, she didn’t care to try to keep her legs closed, so that I had to crush my own nuts just not to have to touch her. And she had a very nasty cough that she was far too fat and slow to catch into the crook of her elbow, so I’m probably going to die soon.

Back to Bill, he was great. As per usual, his delivery was easily followed and his punchlines had their signature sting. Halfway through the show, he even had a little fashion segment where “models” showcased the height of feminine-oppressed attire, consisting of the same burlap sack, used to identify them as second-class citizens where they are required by religion and law to wear. He even went as far as to call one model a “slut” for wearing a sack with “a plunging eye slit”. Very funny stuff.

However, as I’ve mentioned before with the Hank show, I would’ve enjoyed this as an HBO special from the comfort of my couch, jammies on, snacks in hand, with only my wife as company.

I Scened It Die!

I don’t know for certain whether the scene is dead. I mean, who am I to make that call anyway? True, I cut my teeth on the classics when they flew fresh off of the presses, but what more have I contributed to the scene besides loyal attendance? The biggest dent I made came in the form of a “thanks” from P.A.L. on one of his releases, and credit for a sample along with Tim Spann of Abfall/Pain Receptor on Navicon Torture Technologies‘ first release on Malignant Records,( if I’m not mistaken), and I was once pulled onstage by the singer of Spahn Ranch during a local show many moons ago.

At any rate, I’d be expelled by now if we were to count on my recent attendance, and it had been weighing on my mind as of late. I’ve started to compile a list of possible reasons why I’ve slowed down, (other than the obvious reason: i.e., marriage):

• The music itself. The golden years of this scene are long gone. That oh-so-new experience of The Sounds, the common fashion associated with The Sound, and the pleasant surprise of following fellow followers no matter where in this country I have lived. The Sound is now the sound, and it’s no longer new. I’ve also moved, and continued to move, in every direction when it comes to being a listener. My tastes have shifted many times over, mainly because the golden years are gone, and because “one thing leads to another”. So the very Sound itself plays a part in my listener-progression.
• The fashion is a joke, but fashion is a joke across the board, regardless of genre. As with any trend in fashion, there has always been a few people who can pull off a particular trend, and then the masses who cannot, yet still give it shot. In recent years, chubby guys in tight clothing; the women with the horsehair platform boots; the guys and girls with the yarn in their hair — I just can’t take it. And I certainly don’t participate.

• Generation Y:: Hipsters:: The Me Generation:: The rebels without the slightest inkling of a cause. Everyone’s a model. Everyone’s a dj. Everyone’s a rock star. The scene is overly saturated with watered down imitations and stagnation. I don’t get the horror thing. I mean, I love horror movies and horror books, but I don’t understand Combichrist songs blessing a list of serial killers. I don’t understand a suburban kid’s fascination with death. Maybe it’s because I’m from the ghetto and lived through enough of the real shit.

In all due fairness, I too am guilty of silly fashion and the initial naivete, but GOTTDAMMIT it wasn’t intentional, and never did I fancy myself a model (too short, hehe), a dj (I’d STILL rather dance), or a rock star (I always preferred/experimented with producing).

An “interesting” time at Winnberies.

Winnberies in Summit, NJ

I’m posting this to see what you have to say about this.  You can comment here, in private, or at the other places I will be linking this entry.

My wife has not been feeling well the past couple of days.  So today she decided to go to her doctor.  She gave me ample time to get ready after making her appointment for a little after 2pm.   We left the house at 1pm, in order to grab a quick lunch before heading to her appointment.  We stopped into Winnberies.  We have had lunch and dinner there before, perhaps twice.

Upon entry, we were quickly seated, as the restaurant was half empty.  A server named “Michelle” came by, introduced herself and promised us to return to take our drink order.  Another server came to us 15 minutes later, and we ordered our cokes.  Two minutes later, we were ready to order, but the second server who never introduced herself seemed to forget we were there for another 13 minutes.  When she did return, we placed our orders and waited.  And waited.  My wife was the first to take notice of the fact that other people were coming in the place after us, and getting their food before us.  Again, the place was only half full, and we were seated in the middle of the place.

The manager made his rounds, greeting each table, and as I was in mid conversation with my wife, I missed my opportunity to ask about our slow service.  For the record, I order a tuna sandwich with fries, and my wife ordered a bowl of soup.  We were seated at 1:05pm.  Winnberies is literally around the corner from our house.  Finally, at 1:45, after having seen the second or third couple to walk in and get their food since we had been there, I flagged the manager over, explained the situation, and asked him for the check for our two cokes.  He apologized and gave me a lame excuse about how it was taking long because he wanted to bring the soup out with the sandwich at the same time.

How long does it take to slap tuna on some bread, or serve a bowl of soup?  I guarantee you it wouldn’t take the 40 minutes we waited before the “benefit of the doubt” ran out.  He gave the check with my cash to the second, nameless server, (a young brunette with the features of a featherless vulture), and she brought my change to the table.  She placed it at the far end of the table and mumbled something under her breath, then quickly walked away.  I literally had to stand up and reach across the table to get my change.

The cokes cost us $5.35.

Random facts:

• We were the only Latinos in the place.  In fact, we were the only tanned folks there, period.
• At least two other couples came into the place while we waited, received their drinks, their bowls of soup or salad, AND their main entrees BEFORE we received anything after our cokes.
• Again, 40 minutes, no soup, no tuna on sourdough.  Really?
• Again, the place was not even close to full capacity.

I know what I want to call it.  And you probably know what I want to call it by what was just written.  What would you call it?

Needless to say, Winnberies in any town will never receive my business again.

The King (of) Pop(ped…pills).

*Snap!* *Crackle!* *JAHMONE!*

I’m a bit conflicted about Michael Jackson’s passing.  You see, as I’ve told everyone and anyone who would listen, MJ’s “Bad” tour, back in 1988, was my first major concert.  I was 12 years old and my little brother was 9.  My brother won tickets to the show in a local delicatessen lottery.  My mother had to work that day, so she sent us with two chaperones, old friends of hers.  The show was phenomenal, and not at all tainted by nostalgia.  Just the other day I was telling a friend that that show in ‘88 was the best show I had ever seen, counting shows in recent years.  With today’s technology, still, nothing has yet to top The Bad Tour.

I grew up listening to MJ’s music.  My mother was a fan of many different styles, and if I’m not mistaken, “Thriller” on vynil was my first record ever, purchased for me and my brother by mom.  I memorized the dance moves to both “Beat It” and “Thriller”, and proudly to this day, I can still pull the moves off.  But I won’t.

Later on in his career, growing whiter and weirder by the day, due to a claim of vitiligo and lupus, (none of which I know enough to comment on), I started feeling weird about the guy.  Then came the allegations of pedophilia, the confessions of sleeping with other people’s kids, and the subsequent payoffs to keep the kids and their pimp-moms from further pursuing legal punishment;  the marriage and divorce to Lisa Marie Presley, the marriage (never consumated) and divorce to the nurse who bore his first two kids, and the dangling of “Blanket” from a balcony, much to the enjoyment of the piranhas below (READ: reporters).

Preliminary reports on his passing, as you all know by now,  indicate he popped pills, and like many troubled stars, had his own personal doctor prescribing who-knows-what on demand.  Mix that with the supreme eccentric he was known to be, and you have a very deadly combination.  Practically a cliche.

Katt Williams had this to say about MJ, and I have to say, the funnyman made some strong points.

I’ll miss the ol’ MJ performing magic, and I guess I’ll leave it at that, to end on a not-so-negative note.

My condolences to his family.

A quick word on Hank.

Henry Rollins

Last night, for the second time in my life, I saw Hank perform. The first time was 16 years ago, standing in the mud, freezing in rain, as he worked his magic onstage — and it was magical! Last night, not so much. Instead of working his magic the way he did the first time, this time, he spoke to us.

It was my first, live spoken word show.  Perhaps I was expecting something else?  Perhaps I was waiting for the band to make a special appearance, to close out the show with “Spray Paint on the Wall” or “Disconnected”?  I don’t know what it was, but I wasn’t entirely impressed.  I was mildly entertained because Henry is well…Henry.  The 48 year old is still INTENSE, and it’s fun to watch.  However, it was kind of like when I used to go to church.

When I was a good, little church boy, there wasn’t anything the priest said that I didn’t already know and agree with — that is until I turned 16 and discovered beer and chicks.  I don’t know how the rest of Montclair, NJ took his views that night, but in my case, he was preaching to the choir.  I found it difficult to sit there and have fun while not really being challenged.  But I guess that’s my problem, and probably a silly one at that.

I mean, if I went to a Nirvana concert and heard Nirvana songs, would I still be bored?  Probably not.  I guess I’m not a spoken word kind of guy. *shrug*

Familiar Faces at a Funeral

Not as terrible as I had previously thought.

If there’s one “good” thing that can be said about the business of death, it’s the inevitable run into the second-cousin you hadn’t seen since the last wedding — or the last funeral.  There doesn’t necessarily have to be something preventing me, or you, from calling said cousin during the mundane times of our lives.  There isn’t need for a reason.  We just don’t call.  I know I don’t.  Then someone dies, and as is our duty, as is our tradition — based on our religious cults or not — we congregate;  we whisper politely;  we cry, or hold back tears;  we drink coffee and remember the good times.

This talk of the good times usually involve the deceased, who somehow kept us all in touch, but as this person grew closer to death, so the distance grew.  It’s not what you or anybody wanted, it’s just how things happened to work out towards the end.  This end I speak of isn’t a short period of time.  The variables of life usually take a matter of months, even years.

I usually feel guilty at both the wakes and the funerals.   I feel guilty for not keeping in touch with all of the interesting people there.  And throughout the process of our rituals, during the down times (so to speak), I try to play catch-up with these people (my family).  When we discuss how we should meet more often, not only at the deaths in our family, I notice the same feeling of guilt in their eyes.  Being that we have no one to blame but ourselves individually, the topic is prone to quickly return to that of our shared childhood.  The good times.

Growing up, my mother always mentioned  to me how she didn’t like the idea of laying out the deceased at a wake for people to come and cry over.  It isn’t all too rare for emotions to get out of control and some drama to unfold — something that gives the survivors another reason to avoid staying in touch.  I’ve witnessed a few firsthand in my lifetime.  I don’t wish to witness any more.  So my mother wishes to be cremated immediately, and I respect that.  I wish the same for myself.

At my very modest wedding ceremony, there were no second-cousins in attendance.  I don’t blame them at all though, as none were invited.  None of them knew I was engaged.  As a matter of fact, I doubt they knew so much as to my definite sexual orientation, let alone that I had a girlfriend I was serious about.  Again, I don’t blame them.  How could they know anything if I didn’t tell them?

Off the top of my head, I can’t really picture whom will be next to die in my family, nor whom will be important enough to garner full attendance in the event of their death.  But when it does happen, that is when my second-cousins and such will meet my wife.  It will be at this death of the last of the patriarchs and matriarchs that we will attempt to catch up on years of living.

As silly as I see these rituals of mourning, it’s nice to know that the business of death is good for something.

New (to me).

A married couple.

I am now a married man.  I have been so since a little before the Ides of March.  The tranquility of my life now I find very rewarding.  As of this post, I feel very fortunate.  However, life is not all peaches and cream.  We have obstacles we’re working our way through, and hurdles we must jump.  I suppose it’ll be like this for as long as we’re married – which in no way should be interpreted as a complaint.  I’m enjoying this new life.  I guess the purpose of this post is to point out (to myself) the pros and cons of leaving my old life behind.

I don’t miss my weekly club(s) visits, where I end up smoked out, drunk, and two-hundred dollars poorer.  I don’t miss having to be civil around some people I fantasized choking.  I don’t miss the fakeness of “scene-people”, clueless to the origins of said scene, oblivious to their own inanity.  I don’t miss the lonely nights, and I don’t miss the way I filled those lonely nights.

I do miss the loud music, the energy of a room full of people “marching” to the same drum.  Sometimes I even miss the freedom from responsibility that the abuse of alcohol shall always provide.  It was fun meeting new people, even if they would sooner-than-later shame themselves, or allow me to shame them.  Only the most carnal side of my character misses…

Reaching Golconda, in a sense, has allowed me to pursue other interests which are beneficial to my life and to my career.  When I’m not at work, I’m at the gym, burning off the poisons and the fat that I accumulated in my late 20’s.  Four weeks in, and I’m already starting to see a difference.  On top of that, the Chantix I’m taking to quit smoking is actually working.  The last couple of times I smoked, it tasted as if I were willfully inhaling burning synthetics.  I can honestly say (to myself) that I shall I not smoke again.

Coming from a total noob like myself when it comes to the subject of marriage, I still feel it imperative to say that the reality of marriage is rather stark, especially in these times.  Statistically speaking, we’re paddling upstream with broken paddles.  The numbers are bad;  I know more adulterers than I care to admit;  and people are just plain brainwashed MTV-style into living fast lives with no sense of integrity, duty, or honor.  With that said, I won’t pretend here (to myself) that I have the answers to a successful commitment.  Happen what may, and we’ll take it from there.  Or happen what may, and I’ll take it from there.

As it stands at present, this new life, overall, is pretty grand (to me).

April ‘09

This is the mental image I’m trying to keep in my head, as I make my second, serious attempt to quit smoking.  Non-nicotine addicts, my wife included, can not fully understand my plight.  I even have a friend who swears he quit smoking, having never made a habit out of smoking REAL cigarettes in the first place.  In my book he’s a non-nicotine addict as well.

To offset the eventual increase in appetite and weight gain, I joined a gym a few weeks ago, and have started to work at getting back what I have lost.  I wish I had pictures of me around the age of 23 so you kids could see why I was nicknamed the “Puertorican Adonis with a cock of steel and a heart of gold”.  Alas, I don’t have many pictures from that time depicting that image.  But who knows?  Maybe someday again I’ll be as strong as her:

That's a BIG bitch!

I’ll keep you posted.

Feb ‘09

Just an update, as I haven’t written anything in quite a while:

I’ve relapsed with smoking.  I went for four weeks clean.  It was a tumultuous time, what with the lucid dreaming, the cravings, and at first, the painful successes at denying myself a smoke.  But time passed and I lost my mind.  So, here I am back to smoking like a fiend…sort of.

I’m getting married next month to a wonderful woman who’s simply amazing.  I never thought this day would arrive, and perhaps part of me tried to avoid it for quite some time.  The stress over planning our nuptuals also helped to break me (with the smoking) but in the end, it was just a lack of willpower.  I vow to make a second attempt when my mind is more at ease, if ever.

Now that I’m in an LTR, I’m finding it difficult to do some of the things I did when single.  Namely, crash at the cafe, smoke, and talk shit the whole day through – on my off days, of course.  I don’t get to see people that I miss, but this is in no way my fiance’s fault.  She lets me breathe.  I guess it can be summed up to the fact that I don’t really feel like leaving the house much these days.

While she’s at work, I’m home alone, getting my solo time.  When she’s home, I like to be with her, even if we’re doing different things.  I feel a sense of comfort knowing that she’s only in the next room.

When the mood strikes, I hit my haunt with some ghosts, and party like it’s 1999, Bela Lugosi style.  But now, at the end of the night, there isn’t a hunt, or a ploy to acquire.  There is only the knowledge of knowing I have someone incredible to go home to.

Like all relationships, we have our ups and downs, but we’re smart enough to understand why a low is a low, and why a high is a high.  We’re too “old” and experienced to be silly about either feeling.  Nothing about us is close to perfect, but I enjoy our flaws as much as our merits.

On a low note and an unrelated topic, I lost an old friend this week.  Without provocation, I was insulted  by someone whom I had only tried to help for the past six or seven years.  But like my friend Reybee said and experienced himself with another person, you can only do so much for a person who’s personal tragedy is self-imposed.  So I’m done with her.  I, like you, have my own shit to deal with and always will.  At the very least though, I can say that I’ll always be true to my “type”, and will never feel shame about who I am.  Too bad she couldn’t.  Oh well….

Ch-Ch-Changes are afoot.  And they are welcome here.

“God fogs no bar.” (Nicoderm CQ Nightmare)

I quit smoking this morning.  Basically, after 9+ years of smoking, I finally decided enough was enough.  Every cigarette I smoked, and I smoked about a pack and half a day, tasted like trash and made me feel like trash, but I’m a nicotine addict.  So I asked my girlfriend to buy me “the patch” for Christmas, and she did.  I was going to wait until the first of the new year to start the program, but I honestly thought I’d be dead by then, as the anxiety of a set date made me smoke even more.  So after getting home from work this morning, I said to myself, “Just do it today.”

After a nice long shower and some relaxation, I applied the patch as directed to a hairless section of my body.  Being of Latin-Mestizo blood, this was a rather easy task (finding a hairless spot, that is).  Immediately, the spot where I placed the patch started to itch insanely so, but after a few minutes the itching subsided, and the welcoming wooziness of a morning cigarette set into my brain.  Having errands to run, I didn’t get to sleep as I usually do after a night of work, so I set about my tasks.  I didn’t smoke on the long drive before me, and I didn’t smoke after a good brunch after my errands.

Having to attend a meeting later on in the day, I decided to take a nap, as my fatigue caught up to me.  Then the Nicoderm CQ Nightmare commenced.  It started with my girlfriend dropping me off in my old neighborhood, to pick me up later after her own errands.  While on a familiar block from my childhood, I came across an old friend, and we decided to hit a diner for some snacks.  This is where it got a little weird.

The diner was located on a section of an avenue where there is no diner, but in the dream I didn’t seem to mind.  We took a seat but ordered no food.  We were just talking and joking, and I was talking very loudly.  Most of the other patrons didn’t seem to mind, and were rather amused by my obnoxiousness. However, there was one Fat Man who didn’t appreciate my loud mouth, and he made it rather clear in his own obnoxious manner.  The first two times, I ignored him.  I wasn’t looking for a fight.  But on his third attempt, I had enough, approached him, and invited him outside.  He gave me a stare and said nothing.  I bet him one hundred dollars that he couldn’t beat me in a fight, and at the mention of the money, he accepted my challenge.

As we stepped outside the diner, I took off my shirt and quickly rotated my shoulders to warm up, and the fat man quickly conceded before the first punch.  As he made his way back into the diner, I yelled behind him that he better have my hundred dollars when I got back inside.  Sure enough, he was counting out the bills as I again approached his table.  Then it hit me:  this fat man was not the Fat Man who insulted me earlier.  I quickly apologized for issuing the challenge and told him to put his money away.

At this point, my friend received an emergency call over his radio (he’s a cop) and he had to leave.  I couldn’t remember where I parked my car, so he offered to give me a quick ride after I couldn’t make out the gibberish he spoke when giving me directions to where I parked.  We jumped in his car and pulled off.  When he parked his vehicle, we were still at the diner.  That’s when I saw the real Fat Man staring at me from the diner window.  Suddenly, I realized that it must’ve been the Fat Man who stole my car!

Again I approached his table to confront him, when he and his female companion left the diner.  I didn’t follow the Fat Man because of what I saw crushed into the booth where they were sitting.  It was my car!  I stood frozen in shock.  I didn’t know what to do.  I asked my friend Josh to help me pull my car out from under the table.  With ease we did so, and that’s when I could see the total damage to my vehicle.  Immediately it hit me that I didn’t have the money on hand for the insurance deductible, and I wasn’t even sure if my insurance covered “car crushed into a diner booth”.

I reached for my phone to call the cops, when all of a sudden I recieved a text.  At first, the message made absolutely no sense.  But after a little thought, I remembered why this had to happen to me, and why the Fat Man hated me – I was a complete loud-mouthed jerkoff in the diner.  While I made a few people laugh, most were annoyed by my manner, and meals were disturbed.

If there’s a lesson to be learned by this nicotine-patch-inspired dream, it’s in the title of this entry, and the text that I received from an Unknown Texter:

“God fogs no bar.”

Think about it.