(the worst year of his life (so far))
a 6-day stint in the county jail (for an assault charge), the destruction of his homemade temple, and not a single willing woman. 28 years old and not a dime to his name. constantly in fear of a probation office in a faraway state (not to mention his hometown cops). 60+ hours of mandatory “alcohol education” (not to mention levies, fines, and court dates). increasingly dependent on the generosity (and cigarettes) of fellow skid-rowers despite his wounded pride (and notably raspier voice).
28 years old. his heroes would’ve been good and dead by now. he hadn’t even started (nor did it seem he ever would…or could…or should). his old man and young girl had long since forgotten about him, and he was rapidly fading fast in the memories of his other formerly loved ones. his physical fitness (not to mention hygiene) was utterly abysmal. the boyish charm he had meticulously cultivated and relied upon for so long was wearing thin on all those around him (save those sorry souls with similar prospects)
he’d chug cheap vodka straight out of “bed” (actually two mattresses stacked on a hard floor) and chase it with tap water. any minute now the phone company would shut off his cellular service, but this would only come as a relief. who called save collections agencies, probation officers, and the occasional spammer? he’d long since given up chasing tail…once a girl connected his name + face with the 10 digits on her phone, his carnal cause was immediately lost. he hadn’t enjoyed so much as a date all year (not that he could afford to take a girl anywhere anyway). his car finally broke down for good and his bicycle was subsequently stolen. his roommates were always loudly arguing about money because none of them had any. and that was all they had.
the two parrots in the kitchen cycled five jingles ad nauseum. and as soon as he worked up the energy to masturbate in the privacy of his bedroom, his shirtless fat landlord would barge into his room with a butterknife offering shots of black velvet whiskey. and so he drank…
he drank shots of whiskey until he stumbled into the landlord’s thousand-dollar television set (another 1K in the hole). he collapsed into his “bed” not remembering he’d left his bass guitar by the pillow. he’d wake up with black eyes and a body covered in blisters. he smoked cigarettes in his bedroom until his hard drive died of secondhand smoke. his cheap jew landlord refused to let him run his air conditioning unit in the room (he alleged it’d run up the electric bill). the jew was just jealous that he had no AC unit as respite from the summer heat. and when he got drunk, the jew would often homoerotically collapse into his bed (allegedly to reap the cooling benefits of the AC).
despite his ill health, he managed to secure a “job” as a fitness trainer a gym 3.5 miles from home (the same gym he’d worked at 6 years earlier). before this (and while his car was still running), he worked at the same music store he’d worked at 6 years earlier, peddling guitars to obnoxious amateurs, commuting 1+ hours for minimum wage ($7.25/hr).
after his friend bailed him out of jail for $200, he spent the night in the childhood home of his oldest friend. from there, he headed to the basement of a guitar shredder protege 8 years his junior. next came “family court”, where the jealous old man demanded he receive “psychiatric treatment” in exchange for the “temporary restraining order” to be lifted on him and his younger sister (it had already been lifted for his mother). he had not been charged with any crimes against his mother nor sister, but the old man still attempted to corral the females of the pack in his corner via the legal system. the old man’s fat irish lawyer (a fellow worshipper at the local cult) convinced him not to move forward with a “final restraining order” or else he’d be placed on some sort of “national registry” (much like a sex offender).
new year’s eve 2011–>2012 began with a performance @ the bowery poetry club in manhattan. he’d spent the entire month of december 2011 sending out e-mails to NYC venues to book performances for the upcoming year. one such venue was manhattan’s sullivan hall (an alleged homo hangout). the booking agent nicki camp offered an 8pm slot @ the bowery instead. unfortunately his trusty drummer roboray would be in the midst of a cross-country road trip that night. so it seemed he’d be solo once again. though not quite solo…he’d be accompanied by machines. his little cousin’s fender g-dec guitar amplifier with a variety of rhythm track loops (plugged into the venue’s public address system). the sole attendee of the concert was james chou (his reliable pal from governor’s school).
and so from the bowery, they headed to the east village for drinks at the cafe orlin on saint marks + 8th. with james’ encouragement, he returned to the cafe to request the cellular telephone number of their server (a wide-eyed waif named catherine mullen, an oklahoma transplant). she claimed to have a “boyfriend in chicago”, but she still gave up the digits quite readily. from there, he and james hit up a local hookah bar (the first time he’d ever been to a hookah bar with another dude). hookah bars had always served him well (sexually if not respiratorially) (*see ‘sara padua’ / ‘nora salim’ / ‘kerri green’ / ’emma wolin’ for more on this subject*)
james, an advertising executive @ manhattan firm “tribal DDB”, happily footed the bill. it was fast approaching midnight and the blonde russian server at the hookah bar didn’t seem worth pursuing. and so the two former gov school geeks made it to the parkside lounge 30 seconds before midnight. james’ fellow “ron pauler” emily richards was tending bar (as her boyfriend shane smith jockeyed discs). and so they enjoyed “drinks on the house” for the first hour of 2012…
(disclaimer: he’d actually performed @ parkside lounge with the fragnito brothers in may 2010)
after a photobooth session with james and emily, he and james taxied from the lower east side to tribeca (“triangle below canal street”) to meet ‘champ’ and his ‘wall street lite’ cronies @ puffy’s tavern. miss mullen didn’t respond to text invitations, so he proceeded to collect several more feminine digits. by then, champ + crew had already left the tavern. so after several more drinks, james caught the last train from new york’s pennsylvania station to his familial home in edison NJ. our ‘hero’ hailed a cab back to his mother’s honda accord (parked several blocks from the bowery poetry club). he mingled with cute tourists from maine @ the local mcdonald’s as he chowed down a cheeseburger. then he went to sleep in the car before driving back to jersey early the next morning…
(now he’s headed to princeton NJ to start again)