Dick Clark: New Years 2011

Watching Dick Clark last night was one of the most sad and devastating yet incredible feats in the abilities of human puppetry.

Thoughts at a Hipster Basement After-Party

Smoke your Dylan cigarette with your Dylan sunglasses on.
Wear your skinny ties and your skinny jeans as the work hour has gone.
Suns are dialing in the sky as they all run run run so high.
The wings would burn too soon.It was too quick.
They'd pick up my hands and then turn to tricks.


They hid underground to stay so secure.
They stayed and hoped they'd find the cure.
It was fun no more but nobody cared.
As he stood in their glare.
Time was a trick so they'd sit under stairs.
No more song and dance or else they would care.
Got the line coming in they were no more.


Hung in a lifeless nostalgia trip that doesn't get anything done.
Complacent, oh boy you sure are the one.
Instead of together you relish in one or other.

A time that had you amused.
As you help up your own as you sat after school.

A total interaction less than connected.
I had no other way to be alive than to be a little different.

The sun rose as time was nowhere to go.
Unlimited elation was available in a pill.
Unlimited stagnation was full of people's will.

Dwell in holes like rats and moles.
The night lights of the City weren't dark enough.
So they hid in a basement.
Rats seeking whatever nibbles they could find.

New York 2007

New York

As soon as I walk out of the Time Square Bus Terminal at 4:30 AM, gypsy cab drivers surround me. Asking me if I want a ride or where I am going.

New York

The shining lights of 42nd Street make night and day the same. You can only tell what time it is by the number of people and cars out on the street.

New York

Waiting for the train, a trio of Jazz-men are standing on the platform. Using their instruments as seats.

New York

Homeless people, handicapped in their wheel chairs. Passed out on their portable seats while college girls with bicycles are coming back from their morning exercise on the train.

New York

My kind of town.

"Trainspotting" (Brussels -- Day 1)

I guess vending machine hot chocolate tastes the same everywhere." I thought to myself as I sipped the more-water-than-chocolate concoction to keep myself warm in the freezing Brussels train station. It was almost 3:30 A.M.. I had probably been there for five hours, with another three hours to go before my train ride to Cologne. Everything had not gone to plan where I would have have made enough friends at a bar or club and raging it up. Unfortunately I overestimated how my body would feel after a few weeks of less than my typical amount of sleep. Perhaps I should have seen it coming after I knocked over the wine glass I drank from at this bar in London train station while I was waiting for the Eurostar. Perhaps it was an omen; but then again I do have a tendency to find meaning in things that are meaningless.

During my Odyssey of staying awake and waiting, one of the things that struck me were the bums in the train station. I gather that they all were homeless, disoriented junkies who went to this station at night to seek shelter (since what else is there to do on a weekday in Brussels?!?). It was interesting because each bum was quite unique in their own way. There was an old one who had long white hair and a white beard while if he ever got into an argument with one of the younger guys, he'd always have an answer which would either shut him up or get the young bum more upset. There was the duo of middle-aged bums who would look for discarded train tickets to give reason for why they were there if the security guards questioned them for being there. And then, there was the young guy.

Now this guy came towards the end of the night. He was wearing a white buttoned down shirt with some t-shirts layered below the buttoned down shirt; with a penguin-tailed suit coat with matching black trousers and shiny black leather shoes. He looked like a handsome French guy who knew how to pick up girls from the bars or clubs in no time. That's where I figured he came from, a night out, and he was taking a train early, just I was, and headed towards another town. He was carrying around a big, dirty and a pink roller suitcase. But, he was CRAZY--probably crazy enough to have picked up a girl from a club that night, gone back to her place and stole her suitcase.

At first I thought he was just drunk and high from a night out clubbing because he was constantly giggling to himself and saying things in French. At one point, a bunch of gorgeous blonds where walking across the station to which he start calling out to them "I don't like pussy! But I love pussycat! Pussy! Pussy! Pussycat! Pussy! Pussy! Pussycat!" And he just kept repeating these words out loud while the girls did a fantastic job of ignoring him. By the time they left, he said something in French to which i just shrugged and laughed at how crazy this guy was. It soon turned into a conversation between us--and by conversation I mean him saying stuff in French and me chuckling and responding "Dude, i have no idea what the hell your saying!" He maniacally laughed in response. In broken English, we shared what we were doing, to which I told him I'm traveling and he that he was staying/living in Brussels. At this point I still had on how before my train would leave, but I was beginning to shake uncontrollably from how long (eight hours) I had been in this cold, night temperature. So I got up with my stuff and decided to get my blood going again by walking around the train station. I said goodbye to the fella to which he declared that we were friends ("tu est mon amis...ma cherie...same thing!)--we shook hands.

As I was walking around, the station was back to its busy self with which I had arrived to it in thirteen earlier. I saw security officers forcefully detain and throw bums out of the station. When I returned to the area where I waited for 8 hours, the maniac was gone.

Random musings.

A projection of his hopes and fears that caused his tears and jeers. Whether or not they knew it, she was playing tricks on the mind all the time. For those who under her spell, knew quite well where it would take them. Though it doesn't matter what she knows or where to go; "whatever shows"--as they say while the man sitting his seat watches the play and doesn't want to stay knew along the way that the actors on the stage were simply an illusion.

__________________

The moon looked the same as they got on the train. There was nowhere to go and no one to blame. It just happens. It just happens, he thought as he looked out the window and up in the sky. He tilted his head and looked in his eye--though he didn't know why. He'd be lying naked in bed. Seeing with his naked eye, a naked moon up in the sky.

__________________

A hustle and a bustle in a town so loud. Get lost on the beach, where the rocks stand proud. You felt it coming, creeping. Though you looked, it had come. Be one in a town so loud and proud.

The Red Lion

I have recently discovered that the study in study abroad actually means something! As a result I have led a semi-miserable and stressful existence at least 3 days a week for a good 2 or 3 weeks straight consisting of reading a few whole books (Virginia Woolfs’ “To The Lighthouse” and Emily Bronte’s “Wuthering Heights”) and projects and presentations (Powerpoint presentation on “The Jeremy Kyle Show”—which is a brilliant show that will make you realize in great relief that white trash with ridiculous problems don’t solely exist on the western side of the great Atlantic pond!). Now that the long week is over, I decided that I had to go out and do something with my night. Have a few drinks; socialize with my wonderful local London friends (whom I love to brag about to my fellow American classmates—no wonder they may or may not hate me ;) ).

But tonight, all of these fellows were busy doing their own thing. Under a mild state of panic, I went online to find any open mic show that would be going on for the evening. I found one called “The Red Lion” over in Isleworth, which is far out in South West London (as I soon found out later, Zone 4—the furthest out I’d had been since arriving a little over a month ago). It took me about an hour to get there, and by that point, I was in the London equivalent of the eastern most part of Queens that nearly borders with the houses that are bunched together that almost looks like the opening credits of that British sitcom that’s on PBS every now and then that my mother, aunt and grandmother watch quite often (I forget it’s name).

Anyways, as I got off my bus I walked down Linkfield Road and was quite sure that I was in the wrong part of town as there was nothing but houses lined up. There couldn’t possibly be a pub in sight here. However, once that thought came along I passed a big red Public House that looked so out of place and that in a different life, time and place it must have been a saloon from the Wild West—I had reached The Red Lion.

As I was told later by the guy who ran this open mic/jam session, The Red Lion is a dying breed of pub—a neighborhood pub. The type of place where back in the day, before television or radio, the neighborhood would go to this sort of establishment and socialize. The entertainment every night would be like an open mic and neighbors would come on stage and play a standard either on a stringed instrument or piano—hence why the pub is surrounded by rows of houses. No wonder older folks tend to romanticize the past—I quite like the idea myself.

As I sat in the main room of the pub with tables and chairs, eating my cheese and tomato sandwich with a delicious pint of a local dark stout drink (none of that generic Guinness shite!) the crowd made me a bit sad as to how most of the men sitting and talking were older, bald gentlemen who were probably divorced left to hang out in this old fashioned Public House (don’t you love assuming the worst about other people just by looking at them?). There were only two women I saw in the main room, one was an older lady who served me my sandwich and looked as though she were the house/pub mother—since this place seriously looked like the type of establishment that was owned by a family who lived on the top floor which none of the customers can access. The other was a cute blonde who was sitting by herself with a guitar beside her, writing something down on a notepad. An older man, with grey hair and a dark blue business jacket approached her and chatted her up. I decided to go use the bathroom.

After relieving myself, I socialized with a few other older fellows who were regular performers at The Red Lion and talked about music and other random things. Soon the open mic got well under way and I was called up by the guys running the show, Paul and Simon (I’m sure you can connect the funny coincidence of that….). As I learned later both of the guys are old, seasoned session musicians. It certainly showed when I did an impromptu performance of Bob Dylan’s “One More Cup of Coffee” and Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer” and they played along astonishingly. Simon was able to fill the blank spots in between the verses of both songs with incredible blues guitar parts with his distinctive Fender Stratocaster that had chips of wood showing, indicating its age and giving the guitar even more character. Paul played a mean bass as he was going all over the fret board. We all followed the groove astonishingly well.

I truly regret that I didn’t bring my camera to record it because it felt amazing to perform with these amazing musicians—as the people watching seemed quite impressed by it and asked whether I had played with Paul and Simon before.

When I returned to my seat, people were offering to buy me drinks to which I declined in a secretly defensive manner—as I felt (probably wrongly so) that I’d be obligated towards them later. Though this reminds of when I was at The Market Trader pub, having a few drinks with my friend Spud and he explained that when people in England offer to buy you a drink they’re not doing it because they expect anything in return but just because they want to. So perhaps I should be less defensive and relax in those situations.

Anyways, after I sat down a strange guy who was sitting in front of me turned around and complemented me on my set and performance. He was wearing a gortex jacket with gym pants on and had a heavy stubble that was beyond even a 12 O’Clock shadow. He told me that he was from Sheffield and had done some work and busking up there but had just recently moved back to London because of the economic climate. He got up to get a drink from the bar and offered to me one—I declined.

For the next 45 minutes or so, quite a few of the guys whom I had met earlier got on stage and played a variety of R&B and Blues stuff. Eventually though I needed to get a breath of fresh air, so I walked outside to the Pub’s backyard. There I met up with the blonde from earlier who complemented me on my set (as well as my VINTAGE red corduroy pants!) and had a nice chat where she recommended I go to an open mic by where she lived that was further out west in Zone 5.

The 12 O’Clock shadow guy from Sheffield soon came out to smoke a cigarette and was more or less listening in on our conversation. The blonde commented on how cold it was outside and went back indoors and left the Pub.

The guy immediately commented on how cute the blonde was, to which I quietly agreed and nervously chuckled, nodding my head. He soon started talking about how the trend today is that English girls go for way older men and said how he is 40 years old and he has a girlfriend that is 22. He advised that when I go to a bar and am talking to a young lady, I should pretend I’m in my mid-30’s. The more the man rambled, the more creepy he appeared, yet I found him fascinating at the same time—in a dark way, of course. He told me about odd instances from his love life how a few years ago when he was training to be a teacher in Sheffield he had had a relationship with an 18 year old student and got fired as a result. He went back to the 22 year old girl, and went on how she has been married to some bloke since she was 18 and is unhappy. So at the moment he is trying to get her out of that situation. He soon went back to the idea of me pretending to be older and said “You’re like 29, right?” to which I chuckled and responded “Nope, just 20.”

Soon thereafter, Paul came out to have a smoke as well and commented on how much he enjoyed playing the Dylan and Young tracks with me. I complemented his and Simon’s playing. He went to tell me about he had played with country and blues bands in the States back when he was my age and had played and lived in Nashville, Memphis and New Orleans. He commented how disorienting it was to have these young kids come in playing these songs by Neil Young and Bob Dylan, artists that he grew up listening to and didn’t know them!

It was a nice chat though. Half way through it, the Creeper from Sheffield went back inside and left. After the chat, I went back inside and saw that it was a little past midnight and saw that the pub was dead. So I decided to leave. Perhaps I’ll go back.

Fortunately, a Night Bus was operating that took me all the way back to Trafalger Square. Since the bus schedule said it would take about an hour for the bus to get there, I decided to go to the top of the elevated bus and get a fantastic view of the streets I was passing by. While I walked up the stairs to the top of the bus there were a group of rowdy hoodlums making loud noises and cursing. I was alright though, I sat in the front and put my iPod on full volume.

Interesting Facts and Thoughts on the USA from a UK perspective

Yesterday, my "Freud, Fiction and the Uncanny" Classmates and I were supposed to have read Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights" and discuss it. However, my Professor got sidetracked and we ended up talking about the differences between British and American schools. This was due to a student protest being held right around the corner from the building we were in.

Apparently they were protesting a rise in their tuition fee from something around 3,000 Pounds to something that may have been a little bigger (3,250?--Just a random guess). But either way, us American/Syracuse students were shocked at how much of a big deal these students were making when we (or our parents...) we're paying anywhere between $30,000 to $40,000 for a years worth of schoolin'. This led into our Professor talking about the change in education costs in the U.K. (University used be paid for by the government; in fact if one weren't so well off the Government would actually pay for that person to go to school. However, the classes were more polytechnic and were more of a "trade school" situation where students didn't take "impractical" courses like History or Literature studies but more of a job training thing for after they graduate and enter the selected industry. I kind of understand the British perspective Roger Waters was coming from when he wrote the song "Welcome to the Machine"). I think my Professor concluded that topic by saying something along the lines of "the most valuable things you'll learn will be outside of the classroom"--which I can sure relate to. See ma' and pa', sounds like we're getting our money-money's worth!

There was more to it, but I forgot it. The Professor tried to veer the conversation back to "Wuthering Heights" but to not much avail; as a bunch of girls in the class were asking more and more questions which led to a discussion of how a lot of London houses and flats didn't have indoor bathrooms until the mid-to-late 1980's. This was due to the fact that a lot of the standing housing in London was just so old that it was too expensive for households to install and redo the plumbing for a toilet and that it was just cheaper and easier to just have a toilet "outhouse" in the backyard.
So you baby-boomers out there certainly had it better than these Europeans for living accommodations in the latter half of the 20th Century.

It makes me think about people back home in the states who go on how the United States is the greatest country in the world; in terms of infrastructure, technology, etc.(or at least used to say that, especially under the delusional mindset that were a little present earlier in the decade). When I think about that, it certainly seems like that people who say that are still living in the late 50's and early 60's who say that.

Somehow this conversation led to the most striking bit where my teacher said how a class system is much more in the consciousness of Europeans and Brits than in America. As (they get the impression, at least) Americans like to think that there is no such thing as a class system in the United States. He further added that there was a study done that said that 90% of Americans identify themselves as "middle class." This was followed by the point that if everyone thinks they're middle-class then nobody would revolt--they'd only ask for a pay raise.

Ah! The evil, ingenuity of American Capitalism!

P.S. All this talk reminded me of a fact JW pointed out to me regarding the U.S.A and the UN; which was the fact that the U.S. doesn't even pay it's UN membership fee. Isn't that hillarious? We are such a$$holes!