Nonito Donaire easily retains his WBC/WBO Bantamweight titles at Madison Square Garden (couple Saturdays ago):
Ring girl at Nonito Donaire fight:
Moronically named "Freedom Tower" about 3/4-of-the-way complete, as seen from Jersey side (2nd from right):
Legendary W. 4th Street Courts in West Village (End the lockout NBA!):
West Side (R.I.P Peter!):
Union Square:
Can't remember where:
Crosby Street (Bronx):
West Village:
Hugh Cornwell (formerly of The Stranglers) at The Mercury Lounge, October 26th:
w/ punk music pioneer Richard Lloyd of Television (center) and my man Vintage (right), backstage at The Mercury Lounge:
Halloween Parade (today):
Zombies dance to Michael Jackson's Thriller:
Zombies dance to Michael Jackson:
* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak except those in which I appear. All rights reserved.
"A man can tell a thousand lies,
I've learned that lesson well,
Hope I live to tell these secrets,
I have learned,
But 'til then,
they will burn inside of me*"
* NOTE: Madonna's lyrics have been slightly modified for my own purposes. Any issues--have her give me a call! Photo of Madonna stolen off Google and is likely copyrighted by the owner.
"I have a tale to tell..." 
This Halloween I’ll be 45 years old. When I was young the world was nothing but possibilities and open windows, but as I’ve grown older the windows have begun to close and the choices I didn’t make have been relegated to the trash bin. For good. I know I’ve only got so many years on this planet, and how much of that time I’ll actually be on my game or fully operational is an open question. So without sounding too dramatic, the decision to commit myself to Green Room during what should be my peak earning years wasn't made lightly.
You made a commitment, I told myself when I’d hung up my phone last Monday. Even if these guys turn out to be totally cool, you’re a writer now. Everything else is everything else--’til March.
Right. Those were the thoughts that rebounded round my head as I rode the train into Manhattan, stood in the elevator as it ascended to the 21st floor of the downtown skyscraper; and still later--in the recesses of my mind, as I pretended to give this guy Greg my full attention as he explained his company and the nature of my assignment.
“My partner couldn’t be here to meet you,” he told me when we met last Monday. “We’re so busy right now he had to handle some things in Queens. In fact, I’m going upstate in a few hours. But when you finish your field-work, email him your pics and statement, and call this number to dictate your report. There’s no rush on the actual reporting, our client just needs someone there within 48 hours since this is a special insured.”
As it turned out, I accepted the assignment since the location was just two train stops from my house and the hourly pay was at an inflated rate. Because of the urgency. The insured himself was somewhat of a local celebrity (he owns several popular restaurants), which was why the company was so anxious to get someone over there.
Of course the fact-pattern wasn’t quite as simple as I’d been led to believe (they never are), but our insured was well organized and I was able to secure his statement as well as the needed documentation that same evening. I phoned-in my dictation before I went to bed, so not only had I turned the whole case over in less than 6 hours, but my bill totaled just below the threshold that would disqualify me from my unemployment.
Nice work Lodo, now lets wake up early tomorrow to work on Green Room.
Next morning (last Tuesday), I awoke at about 9:30. As usual I got my coffee, fired-up the old computer, waited for it to boot-up when suddenly...
Ring,..ring.
Ring,...ring.
The caller I.D. read Number not Available, but I picked up the phone.
“This is Lodo.”
“Yes is this Lodo Grdzak?”
“That’s right.”
“Hey!--this is Martin _____ . You met with my partner Greg yesterday.”
“Oh, okay. Sure,” I told him as I pulled Green Room up on my monitor. “Did you get that stuff I sent you? That should be everything.”
“Yeah we got it, that’s why I’m calling. Listen Lodo, this is a hot report. My client’s gonna love this. And there was actually a lot more to it, eh? I’m impressed with how fast you got this thing out.”
“Good,” I replied absently as I read the portion of Green Room I’d written the day before. “And there’s no problem with my bill?”
“Well, its a little more than I’d like; but I mean, no complaints. You turned that over really fast.”
“Good. So,..I’ll keep an eye out for that check,” I said, anxious to hang-up and get back to writing.
“Okay Lodo, sure...,” Martin responded as though he’d expected me to say more. Only when he realized I was ‘bout to hang-up did he continue. “...Hey!--listen, Lodo. Geez, before you hang up. I’ve got something else you can handle if you want it. In fact, I’ve got a bunch of stuff I can give you if you want. Beefy stuff. Good billing. And clean--no gypsy cabs or any of that nonsense.”
I still didn’t stop proofreading or give him my full attention since investigations were in my past. I was a writer now.
“Naw Martin, “ I told him as I pondered the grammar of one of my sentences, “don’t get offended, but before I’d even consider it you’d have to agree to pay me that RUSH wage all the time.”
“I could do that,” he answered without hesitation.
I laughed as my fingers pecked away at my keyboard.
“Wow, well, I appreciate that--I’m flattered. But really, my days of traveling out to Queens and the Bronx and all those rough places are over. I’m getting old for that kind of thing.”
“Lodo, I’ve got a half-dozen cases right in your neighborhood. You want Brooklyn stuff, I’ll keep you in Brooklyn.”
I stopped typing.
“Well,...that sounds pretty good,” I answered hesitantly, “but...I mean; I’d have to get paid right away. Or, you know, within a week or two of my bills. I’ve had a lot of issues with getting paid on time--particularly at my last job. I can’t lay out...”
“Lodo, you want to come into the office right now? I’ll have a check for what you did yesterday on my desk. I’d like to meet you anyways. Maybe take you to lunch.”
I sighed heavily into the phone as I stared silently at the type-written paragraphs on the screen. I don’t know how long that lasted, but suddenly I heard Martin’s voice.
“...Geez Lodo, I’m trying to offer you a job here, but you act like you're getting the death penalty.”
EPILOGUE:
So long as I can have things my way, I don’t mind being an investigator. It’s a good match for my skill-set: I get to work alone, outdoors. Take lots of pictures. Write detailed reports. And by today’s diminished standards the money’s pretty good (had I not got this new job I could have stayed in New York ‘til March and still had some bank in my account).
With this new job, I work where I want and when I want. They tried to put me on straight salary, but I insisted on being independent. At 45 years old, my days of answering to a boss are over. Now we’re all just partners. Equals.
Still, New York’s New York. Rent isn’t cheap, I pay for my own health insurance, and if you don’t go out 2 or 3 nights a week, New York’s just a lonely, expensive place with high taxes and dogshit weather. So while no one can tell me to work 40 or more hours a week, reality is reality.
Last week I accepted three new assignments as I reluctantly put Green Room on the back-burner. An intermission you might say. The first case was at a well known bar in Red Hook, the 2nd was at a nail salon that employed about a dozen Asian women, and the third was at a yoga studio in Manhattan. They were all pretty simple; but there were a lot of instructors and students at the yoga studio and I had to take a lot of statements.
Course whenever you have three or more witnesses to an event there’s bound to be discrepancies in their stories, and this case was no exception. So as the studio owner sat with me throughout my interviews, convinced that she knew the whole story as to what had taken place, she was both amused and awed at the new information we uncovered in a few hours.
But eventually I completed my last interview and it was time to leave. I gave the owner another blank business card with my handwritten number, along with a checklist of things she should be prepared to produce. Then I loaded my cameras, recorders, and paperwork into my backpack.
“...You do this everyday?” the owner asked me as she watched me zip my bag and retrieve my Xootr. “You know, talk to people like us.”
“Pretty much,” I told her with a professional smile.
“You must know the city by heart, huh?” she asked with wide eyes as we walked down the stairs toward the exit.
“I doubt anybody knows it by heart,” I answered modestly.
“Well,..I bet you’ve got lots of interesting stories to tell, eh?” she asked as she extended her small, feminine hand to shake goodbye.
I had to laugh at that comment as our hands embraced,
“I suppose I've picked-up a few along the way.” 
Take a break. I’m a big fan of that idea. Think of the number of tragic instances and sad endings that would have been avoided if the last line of the story had been...and then I took a break, as opposed to whatever actually took place.
So yeah, last week I took an intermission. Not from work, which I’ve been doing since June; but from writing and the computer, which I haven’t done in a long time. Not only an attempt to liberate my imagination from the worn out muscle memory of past writings, but to prepare my herniated discs and carpal tunnel in my wrists for that moment of inspiration that I hoped would compel me to sit at the computer for an extended session of writing Green Room. I was prepared to wait on that moment, like Wayne--not push for it; so long as I was prepared when it came.
So okay, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. This was last week so the Tigers were still in the playoffs and the Hopkins/Dawson fight was that Saturday night. The autumn weather was beautifully cool and I was taking things real easy. In fact, a new...calmness began to take hold of my temperament. I can’t say I was fully aware of it at the time; but now I see it. That was the day of my final post--or what was supposed to be here at this site, which of course is the subject that’s brought us here today.
But as I said, I began to first feel a subconscious transition on Sunday. My final day of intermission. I still didn’t recognize my mind-set or have a label for this change in perspective; but come Monday morning I woke very early--8:00 or so, and walked right to the machine with my coffee. As the computer booted I felt like I’d awoken from a deep dream. Not a dream remembered; but a dream that had cleared-out all the gunked-up shavings and little gear particles that had jammed the transmission of my mind. I jumped right into Green Room: 400, 500, 1500 words. When I read it back, the shit was dead-on tight. Clean. Fluid. Poignant as it oughtta be.
1500 hundred words is a good-sized blog post for me, but that’s why I was excited to keep going. The story was coming to me pure and now I felt like a real writer--not just a blogger. I could feel myself getting past that plateau. Writing at a higher level. With larger, extended ideas. This was what I’d hoped to achieve and now I was doing it. It’s a satisfying feeling and I easily wrote for another hour without distraction before I got up to take piss that stunk of pure caffeine. It was the first time I’d stood up in a couple of hours and as I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, I told my reflection he was a good writer.
I knew that.
I washed-up a bit, brushed my teeth, then ran back to the computer. I was still eager to write since I’d given myself until March to finish the book. So I got situated in my chair, located my mouse, placed the cursor to the proper side of the screen, took a deep breath, and...
Ring, ring. ...Ring, ring.
...Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
(We have cheap effects here at Long Intermission, but that’s supposed to be my cellphone).
My first inclination was to ignore the call since I was on such a good roll; but I inspected the caller I.D.
Number Not Available.
Hmmm. Had they called ten minutes earlier I probably would have just let it go to voicemail. I like to work hard when I’m motivated, like Ray Charles. But they caught me at a break. And I like a nice lazy break too. So I picked up.
"This is Lodo."
"Yes is this Lodo Grdzak?"
"That’s right, who’s this?”
"Mr. Grdzak my name’s Gregory ______. You answered an ad we posted on Monster. I was just wondering...do you still live at _____ in Brooklyn?"
"Yeah, I’m still there."
"You are? Great. And your resume says you have an independent New York license, is that right?"
“That’s right, I’m licensed to work New York. Why?”
“Well, my partner and I have a case near you that we might like you to handle. ‘Course we’d have to meet you first. Are you available to get together?”
“When, today?”
“Well, preferably today. Today or tomorrow. Its a bit of a rush, but its just a few scene photos and a statement. I’d do it myself if I didn’t have to be out of town tonight. Its right down the street from you. You could meet with us today and take the assignment with you if everything goes well.”
That God-damn Monster ad.
“...Mr. Grdzak, are you there? ...Mr. Grdzak?”
“(heavy sigh)...Sure,” I told him as I put my computer into SLEEP mode, “I can meet after 3:00 if you want.” 
"...to thine own self be true."
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into anther part. Part 3 should be here in a few days. ** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics used above (that don't include me) we're stolen off Google Images.
So last week I started to work on Tales From the Green Room for the first time. Well, not the first time, I had the introduction already finished. And if you count the time I spent conceiving Green Room, I’ve spent hours on it. In my mind.
But last week marked the first time I’d gone on record to the world and in print saying I’m a writer. This is what I do and this is my stated project. So now I had to actually write it.
To that end, I started on it last Monday morning. I woke up early to create a little structure to my unemployed day. Got my coffee, turned on the computer. Avoided getting sucked into the internet and went right to work on Green Room.
...Yep, right to work. And we’re startinnngggg...
..Now.
...I mean,..now!
...Nope, I mean right...
...
...Oh come on. What’s the problem?
I don’t know, seems like some kind of writer’s block.
'Writer’s block'--what? That’s just a made-up thing. When did you ever have writer’s block?
I don’t know, I’ve got it now.
Bullshit, you’re just lazy.
Well reader, I am kind of lazy; but not about things that matter to me. I actually have a strong, soldierly work ethic when motivated. It’s just that no one in my family’s ever been an artist. Or a writer. My blogs are the most ambitious artistic achievement of any Grdzak that I’m aware of. And there’s a big difference between a 1,000 word blog post and the fleshed-out memoir I envision Green Room to be. So the immensity of the project began to set-in and I wasn’t really confident how or where to start.
If you have to ask yourself how to start you’re gonna be a pretty shitty writer.
Don’t say that.
Its true. It should just be there. It shouldn’t be work at all. If it’s pure it should just flow. Like Wayne would say.
...So writing isn’t work? These great writers don’t take time to contemplate what they’re gonna say? Or how? They just jump right in?
I don’t know.
I don’t know either.
So I thought about it for awhile.
...I think an artist would get high. That’s what Ray Charles would do. You think you’re a better artist than Ray Charles?
Okay, so I proceeded to crumble a bud of weed and vape it; after which I returned to the computer. Only I screwed up ‘cause then I went on You Tube to watch Ray Charles videos which sucked me in for a long time; then I checked my email and went on BBC before going to Monster which really made me upset since I’d promised myself I wasn’t responding to anymore ads and was committing myself to writing Green Room for the next 6 months. That’s supposed to be my life until March of next year.
So when I returned my attention back to writing I was mad that I’d answered that ad and that my buzz had led me down a dead end.
But eventually I got back to business. Settled down. Let the words and ideas flow.
Then I read back what I’d written.
Oh man it was so bad! Laughably bad. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t expect each paragraph to be right-perfect on the first draft. But I soon realized that I wasn’t exactly sure of my direction after my intro. I had about a half-dozen options--all of ‘em great; but the plurality of possibilities left me stuck as opposed to liberated. So my high ass was left in front of the computer with dull eyes and blunted senses 'til well into the afternoon.
You know what? I eventually told myself. Artists are always out and about. Contemplating things. Like Woody in Midnight in Paris or Tolstoy in the Russian woods. You should go for a walk and really think about where you want to go with this. That’s just as important as the writing. No difference really.
So I got out the apartment and went for a walk. A brisk walk as I mumbled to myself. ‘Til eventually I formulated an outline and plan of action, then proceeded to walk home when I was stopped on the street by my bartender Todd.
“Hey Lodo, you gonna watch the game tonight? Tigers are on you know. First drink’s on me.”
Course I can care less about baseball, but I’m emotionally invested in Detroit. All my friends from back home had been calling during the Tigers/Yankees series, and last week it looked like the Tigers could actually go all the way. So I agreed to stop by Todd’s later that night.
I returned home reinvigorated, with plans for the night and some definite ideas for Green Room.
Yet no sooner had I sat down when once again I lost confidence in my direction. I’ve got all the important sections of Green Room down in my head--intro, climax, ending; but now I see the little connecting sections are still vague and in need of proper formulation. So for the second time I was lost at my keyboard.
You know what? I eventually told myself. Artists are always enjoying their free time. That’s why they’re so inspired. I know you’re a hard worker, but you can’t approach this like you're still an insurance investigator. You just have to live and let the story come to you. That’s the way you’ve always done it, so why are you fucking with yourself now?
Right.
I made some dinner then went to Todd’s bar to watch the game. It was a good time despite the Tiger’s loss and I got really, really drunk on free drinks.
Next morning (Tuesday) I didn’t wake up til close to 11:00, and my head was screaming! I poured my coffee like the day before. Diligently. Sat in front my computer with heavy eyelids and clouded vision, as my dehydrated body informed my sour mood. I read back what I'd written the day before, cut about 80% of it, then stared at the one line I really liked for about 20 minutes. Then I said to myself,
Artists sometimes take long breaks from writing when they’re in transition.
They do? Who said that? Wayne? Ray Charles?
I do. 
"Sure I was getting high. And naturally I was not denying myself the pleasure of female company. But none of this kept me from working. I always put first things first. On the other hand, smack didn't decrease my productivity or stimulate my creativity. I doubt if anything outside of myself really helped or hurt my music. ...I've never been one of those dudes who got so strung out or fucked up that he didn't know where he was or what he was doing. Grass, booze, heroin--it didn't matter. I never did more than get my buzz. Then back to work."
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into a second part. Part 2 should be here in a few days. * ADDITIONAL NOTE: Pics of Ray Charles stolen off Google Images. Quote from Ray Charles was taken from Brother Ray by Ray Charles and David Ritz. Probably copyrighted.
"Leaves are falling all around,
time I was on my way,
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged,
Such a pleasant stay,
But now its time for me to go,
The autumn moon lights my way..."
Much to the disappointment of my sister and family, its become clear that I'm no investigative journalist. My problem isn't writing skills so much as the fact that I just don't care enough about the human race to aggressively pursue or market a story. Can't take what we do that seriously; nor am I particularly ambitious.
That said, as I review this blog's posts from its origins, I realize that I've been on,...well, a long intermission. I should have begun writing Tales From the Green Room right after I quit my job at the insurance company a little over a year ago. I was never going to get a better investigative position than that, so when I quit I was really saying goodbye to the industry. Or should have been.
But then I got a new job right away--seemingly out of the blue. Considering myself lucky in this economy, I grabbed it; and maybe I was. But all it really did was set me back a year. An intermission you might say, 'til I got laid-off in June.
But now I know I'm going to write Green Room. That's my goal for the next few months, though in fact there's no rush. I don't know if its gonna be a blog or a book; or if its just going to sit on my desktop for my own amusement. Don't really care either. I'm not writing it as a commercial endeavor and if I never finish it I wont lose any sleep. Its not really about finishing so much as its about working on it. Tales From the Green Room will be my own meditative space. My personal prayer-book of my own creation that will document both my being and becoming. And lead me into the future.
Now.
"I knew that this human revolution thing would take awhile. I couldn't rush it. Then I got to a place where I didn't worry about music at all anymore. I became more confident about the inner resources I was building. The stuff that can't be seen."
"...I made a life choice that transcended profession, position, or station. Everyone talked about the onslaught of my partners--Jaco and Joe, but that's wrong. It was something I was going through myself. Other aspects of my life were developing. I was going through a metamorphosis...parts of myself that had been stunted for a long time started to grow, and they met resistance. A lot of resistance came in the form of 'Hey, you're not taking care of your music, you're not the 100% musician you're supposed to be.' But I let everything go, I didn't try to do some forced music, which would have been catastrophic, to commit that kind of suicide." 
"...Wayne didn't want to influence the other musicians. He wanted to wait and see what happens. Because a lot of Wayne Shorter is about waiting. I have never seen a musician who could wait more than Wayne Shorter." --Miroslav Vitous
*NOTE: All pics of Wayne Shorter were stolen off Google Images and are probably copyrighted. All quotes stolen from Wayne's biography Footprints by Michelle Mercer (which is also probably copyrighted).
In an effort to fuse my investigative and writing backgrounds into something commercially viable, my sister suggested that I drag my unemployed ass to the Occupy Wall Street Protest to dabble in a little journalism. Seemed like an idea.
Course by the time I got to Zuccotti Park there were already a couple hundred reporters and news organizations on hand. As many as the protesters themselves. After 5:00, a lot of union workers showed up and joined in the actual march from City Hall to Wall Street; but before that, it was just a small crowd of hippie protesters.
Much as I tried to take an interest in the protest, I'm just not that political a person. I've got no wife, no kids, no house, no car payment. How emotionally invested can I be in the future? Which isn't to say I don't side with the protesters, 'cause I do. What?--you think I'm siding with the bankers and brokers? Its just...
"Fall mountains, just don't fall on me."
Spoken like a true blogger Jimi.
One thing I learned today was that I was at Zuccotti Park on 9/11. I mean--I always knew where I was that day, I just didn't know it was called Zuccotti Park. Maybe they didn't called it Zuccotti Park back then. Or maybe that was too obscure a piece of New York trivia for a newcomer like me. Regardless, as I sat at the park this afternoon and watched the construction workers erect another story to the Freedom Tower, I couldn't help but recall the whistling of the jet-liner and the explosion that emanated from Tower 1 that morning. By comparison, today's protest just seemed like kid's games and I didn't bother to write a thing.
9/11 has had its bunghole thoroughly pimped and fucked-out by now, so I never post about it anymore; even though I wrote the best thing I've ever read on the subject. I was a real journalist that day--and all week as well.
For last month's 10 year anniversary of the attack, I planned to do a re-write of my article. In fact, I'd planned to post the re-write and the original. Kind of go back to that day with the added perspective of 10 years. Except that this year marked the first time we began to finally see some restraint on the whole business of 9/11 mourning, and I certainly welcomed that. So the time's come and gone and...whatever. Guess I won't be a journalist.
But I am a blogger, which means that all posts here at Long Intermission still come free of charge.
As long as we're on the subject of social justice--wow! If this performance (below) had its audio and vid sync'd properly, it'd probably be the best music clip on You Tube: 
Aung San Suu Kyi
* NOTE: All photos taken by Lodo Grdzak with the exception of Aung Sun Suu Kyi, which I stole off Google Images. All rights reserved on my pics.
