Talk About Luck....

So I bumped into this kid I used to play summer league baseball with, while walking back to my apartment earlier. We got to small-talking; you know, the usual "where do you work now? how's your family? the real world sucks, right?" bullshit that we all do with old acquaintances. Totally washes over you once you've parted ways, and typically amounts to nothing more than 5-10 wasted minutes of your precious time. Who hasn't seen an old face from high school at a bar once and decided to take the long walk to get a drink, circling the perimeter of the venue all while keeping tabs on this unaware nuisance's location? I sure as hell know I have, probably less than two weeks ago, even.

But what made this particular "reunion" of sorts register for me more than usual was a certain story dude brought back to mind. It's a pretty scary one, and I hadn't thought about in a long ass time but now I am and it still sends chills down my spine.

This must've been back in like 2001 or so, my last summer of playing baseball before I officially hung up the first baseman's mitt and concentrated on my writing thang. It was a particularly uneventful game, we were beating some scrub team by some runs. All was going well. But see, there was this lip of grass right by the first base bag that curled up, and if you didn't stand in front, odds were that a hard ground ball would shoot up at your face once it reached the lip. For some stupid reason, I was standing like directly behind this lip, and a lefthanded batter hit this frozen rope of a grounder my way. Before I could even react, the baseball jumped right into the left side of my throat, like less than a hair away from my Adam's apple. I fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, pretty much in shock. The game was stopped, I was rushed to the hospital, and I couldn't utter a word out of my mouth.

The ball had bruised a prominent vocal chord near my throat, and there was a visible burise even. I couldn't talk for like a day and a half. But the scariest part for me was when the doctor said, "You're one lucky guy. If that ball had hit you less than an inch to the right, directly on your Adam's apple, it would've been lights out." Meaning, in all of his sensitivity, I would've died. On the spot. And as I thought back on it, I remembered how I did in fact turn my head ever so slightly, as a reflex reaction.

Crazy, huh? At least I think so. It must've had some effect on others if the dude today brought it up without hesitation. So yeah, I came this close to buying the farm about seven years ago. If not for less than an inch, I'd have never experienced the wonders of the publishing game, Baby G & Lil Nicky, the many fun things I've done with family and friends, living in Hoboken, and other shit I've done since then. Sort of morbid, yes, but unavoidable to ponder. But that's the past, and I haven't even touched a baseball in eons. So all is right in my world.

Animal Instincts

Man, I really love dogs. I mean, how could you not? Which brings me to one of my ultimate pet peeves, a thing that a mere mention of sends me into a silent rage = people hurting dogs. You know the stories. Some asshole throws a dog out of a speeding car window because the neglected pooch is barking too much. Some jerkoff leaves his dog in a parked car, windows closed, for hours on end as the animal suffocates slowly and agonizingly. Or others who hit dogs, abuse them, etc.

Which, honestly, is why nine times out of ten, tales of dogs lashing out at humans put a tetched smile on my mug. Cujo-types, now, I don't condone, but those are the minority.

What leads me to this thought pattern is a seeing-eye-dog I was just sharing a PATH train cart with, a cute and extremely-well-behaved Black Lab. His owner, a middle-aged blind man, was a bit overbearing for my tastes, yanking at the dog's collar and yelling at it to "walk straight" even though the dog was walking as straight as an arrow. I get it: dude didn't want the dog to lead him onto an empty train track, and since he can't see, he was a bit more on the cautious side than you or I would be in the situation. But still, this dog clearly loved this guy, and is basically living every breathing moment of its life in service of him, wholeheartedly. Dude hopefully appreciates that shit.

Think about it---would any of us live our entire lives in the assistance of somebody less fortunate? Doubtful. But dogs do it regularly, and to me, that makes their species worthy of my praise and admiration. And if I ever happen across some jackass causing harm to a dog, a much smaller creature, I'm gonna let my dogs out all over their face. And by "my dogs," I mean the arm muscles I've been grooming with my trusty dumbbells sitting right beside me here in my room. "Oh feel the burn! It's so deep! I can't lift my arm because I've done so many.....watch out, they'll get ya. They'll get ya."

Monster Splash

I sincerely hope this beautiful rodent sea-creature isn't a hoax, and in fact swims the waters of Montauk....but my spidey sense smells a rat (get it? lil pun-nage for you there).

The news story attached with this, from Gawker, says how this thing washed up on the beaches of Montauk, and that, apparently, there's some sort of weird creature testing facility in the Tauk area. Sounds like a cool sci-fi farce to me, but I shall investigate further. For now, though, continue to feast your eyes on Rat-a-too-ee (spelling changed for copyright reasons, of course).

Oh, and I'll most likely be in Montauk in a few weeks, so please believe, my modus operandi the entire weekend will be to unite with Mr. Too-ee. BFFs, we shall become.

Spontaneously Combusted Thoughts, from me to you

Have you ever wondered how it'd feel if you just smacked a bitch? Not in the derogatory sense, of course, but like....okay, here's a scenario. You're sitting on the train, it's a perfectly quiet and mundane commute. But there's this dude sitting next to you, and for no specific reason, you just turn to him, wait for his eye contact with you, and then snuff him with a clenched fist so clenched that his head rocks back into the window, shattering it as blood flies from his dismantled nose? No motive or logic on your end; you just simply wanted to see how it'd feel.

Of course, I've never done anything even remotely in the ballpark of this, but shit, I'd be joshin' you if I said I'd never thought it.

Here's another to grow on: you're in an elevator, and there's two other riders in it with you. One of whom is a girl (or guy, if you yourself are lady...I'm an equal opportunity daydreamer) who'll you be kicking yourself in the tuckus later for not approaching, being that he/she is finer than a loitering ticket. Again, for no logical or sane reason, other than the perversity of physical attraction, you plant a mouth-introduction so passionate that he/she continues the act, resulting in a steamy makeout session in front of the old man in the elevator's other corner. Or, he/she acts like the hypothetical me on a train and breaks your nose with sledgehammer precision.

It's wild. I'd say about four, five times a day, there's this subdued impulse screaming at me: 'Do it. Do it," like it's Ben Stiller in Starsky & Hutch. Odds are that I'll never answer the call of the wild subconscious, but imagine if I did? You'd see me on the evening news, sandwiched somewhere between an Obama piece and Yankees highlights for being arrested on a breaking-and-entering charge, for holding an Outback Steakhouse cook at knife-point, demanding he whip up a Drover's Platter for me, stat. I fucking love that dish, but I'll be damned if it's $17 asking price isn't statutory rape. I'll take you outback, alright....

Yet another epiphany had....

I guess it's true: the simple things in life are sometimes the best.

Last night, while in very good company, I sat on a rather-uncomfortable bench in a Manhattan park (not Central....Madison Square, I believe is its name, its across the street from my place of business) from about 9:00pm to about 12:30pm, just talking. Aside from the rigid wooden bench----on which I struggled to find a comforting seating position the whole time, mind you, but it wasn't a deal-breaker----it was a great night, both weather-wise and enjoyment-wise. And oddly enough, I've been working at this location for almost five years now and this was my first-ever time sitting in this park, just to socialize. It was a joy.

Now, I'm sure a large debt of this good time is due to my partner in conversation, a lovely and engaging lady friend whom I hadn't seen in over a year. I must admit, speaking with her for nearly four hours flew by like the breeze, and I could've honestly chatted with her for hours more. The only reason we broke it up was that the park manager (I guess that's his title, it sounds legit, no?) came and told us that the park was closing. Otherwise, we could very well still be there now, talking the night away....

But it had me thinking, while taking the PATH train back home, sitting next to a group of transvestites (no shitting you...about five or so, boarding the cart on 14th Street, I think two of them were whispering sweet-nothings about me too while seated across from me....flattering, but still quite "yikes!"). I don't take advantage of the city's many simple wonders enough. Such as sitting in parks, or just walking around with no clear destination, exploring. Granted, if I had a co-pilot as great as the one I had last night who was always down for the cause, I'd do it every night possible. But now, I'm vowing to do such things more. Maybe one of these upcoming weekends I'll recruit some heads and hang out in Central Park all day. Or perhaps I'll risk my own life by ice-skating in Rockefeller Center once the temperature drops some. Those who've seen my left ankle recently know how my last ice-skating adventure turned.....a slashed-up ankle left with a Italy-shaped scar the size of tender strip of bacon. And that shit is as permanent as a black marker. Another lesson learned.

GOOD Music

I've had this shit on repeat for like over a month now....simple yet dense beat; actual lyricism; no frills....I fucking love this. Just wanted to share it with anybody else in need of some straight-forward rap.




....and then there's this one. Good god, man. The production on this one still fucks my head up with every listen. And then there's the full-out lyrical bitch-slapping by both involved parties. Good googily mooily!

it's a dog eat dog world out there....

[that's an old-ass picture, excuse it if you could be so kind....and the shitty quality is due to the camera phone I used to snap it with]

There's something I can't shake out of my mind. It happened late last night, as I was returning back to my parents' house at about 1:00am, where I spent the entire weekend to watch my dog, Zoey, being that my 'rents were out-of-town for the weekend.

Some backstory: in her younger days, Zoey would be there waiting by the front door, tail wagging and tongue flapping, impatiently jonesing for my arrival back home. Sometimes, she'd ba lying against the door, and in my drunken and/or tired state, I'd fling the door open, banging it into her back and waking her up unceremoniously. Yet, she'd be far from angry; on the contrary, she'd be ecstatic, knowing that her big homie is finally back in the pad safely. It was pretty damn reassuring....Zoey has been my righthand for 12 years now. Yes, it's like that.

So fast forward back to last night....things didn't go as just described. And really, they haven't for some months now, but I guess it registered a bit louder last night than on past evenings. I opened the door, but she was nowhere to be found. I searched the house far and wide, and I finally happened upon her sleeping in my parents' bed, upstairs and yards away from our old meeting spot: the front door.

Reality is, she's an old lady now. She needs her sleep, and her hearing is at about 30% now. I basically have to scream bloody murder from like 10 feet in front of her, at the least. Like I said earlier, she's 12 years old now, not young. Oh, btw, she's a German Shepherd. Full breed. And from what I've been told, G-Sheps live to be around 14, 15 years old. Well, maybe that "15" is me engaging in some wishful thinking. If I had my way, she'd live to 30 in human years, and be a canine vampire (a "bloodhound," if you will....womp womp wooommmmp!). But this isn't an Anne Rice novel, it's the real cruel world. And Zoey isn't going to be around forever.

Last night, this became more painfully clear than ever before. A large part of me wishes I still lived back at my parents', just so I could spend more time with her, rather than two or so times a week I see her now that I'm residing in the 'Boken. She's the greatest thing to ever happen to the canine community, and I hope I can show that more in the near future. I see a bright, gleaming box of fresh Snausages in her immediate future. She sure loves that shit.