"What they need to do is crack some heads..." 
w/ my Grandma:
I don’t like to go more than a week without a post--that’s just not blogging! But the holiday threw me off schedule, and the weather here in New York’s been so freaking great that I couldn’t waste these balmy days in front of computer. So this post won’t be much more than a check-in with my readers and and an attempt to get back in the swing of things.
Sooo,...lets see. Well, first of all, I finished On the Road by Jack Kerouack; and I have to say at no point did Kerouak write, “Today I had a beer. Tomorrow,..I’ll have another beer.” So I don’t where you got that line Rules! He also failed to mention a three-way between Neil Cassady, Alan Ginsberg, and Cassady’s wife; so I don’t know where my buddy Catfish read that.
We don’t write book or movie reviews here at Intermission. That kind of dead writing’s for college students and professors; but I have to say I really liked On the Road. In fairness to Rules, I think I’m a better storyteller than Kerouack; but he’s a far better writer. And way more original. Half my life philosophy--if not the whole damn thing is spelled-out within the pages of On the Road. Only now its 2011, whereas Kerouak’s book was published in 1957.
Course Henry Miller has all the Beats beat in terms of originality, freedom of expression, and prolific accomplishment. And On the Road only occasionally approaches the greatness of Ken Kesey’s Sometimes a Great Notion. But I like a lot of things Kerouack does in On the Road; particularly his jazz descriptions--both of the musicians and the music itself. And when he talks glowingly of Neal Cassady I can’t help but think of my old buddy Jake. The drunken Denver nights, the manic episodes of crazed genius, the boundless energy.
And of course the love of a great friend.
“You see, man, you get older and troubles pile up. Someday you and me’ll be coming down an alley together at sundown and looking in the cans to see.
“You mean we’ll end up old bums?”
Why not man? Of course we will if we want to, and all that. There’s no harm ending that way. You spend a whole life of non-interference with the wishes of others, including politicians and the rich, and nobody bothers you and you cut along and make it your own way.” I agreed with him. He was reaching his Tao decisions in the simplest direct way. “What’s your road, man?--holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. Its an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?...I’ll tell you Sal, straight, no matter where I live, my trunk’s always sticking out from under the bed, I’m ready to leave or get thrown out. I’ve decided to leave everything out of my hands. You’ve seen me try and break my ass to make it and you know it doesn’t matter and we know time--how to slow it up and walk and dig and just old-fashioned spade kicks, what other kicks are there? We know.”
That was Jake and me. In Denver. And New York. I realize now it literally killed him to have to go back to Denver with his tail between his legs. Scrounging through trashcans at dusk as time suddenly closed-in on him.
But I know he got his kicks.
After I finished On the Road, I started The Art of Racing in the Rain. My mom gave it to me last month when I was in Denver. She knows I like the talking-animal genre and that I’m a huge dog-lover; so the book seemed a perfect fit. But within the first few pages I knew it wasn’t for me.
Because the talking-animal genre is only funny when its animals that talk. Baloo in Jungle Book; Donkey in Shrek; Ferdinand in Babe. They’re hilarious ‘cause they’re animals with human qualities. But the dog in The Art of Racing isn’t a dog at all. He’s just a regular person.
“Gestures are all that I have; sometimes they must be grand in nature. And while I occasionally step over the line and into the world of the melodramatic, it is what I must do in order to communicate clearly and effectively. In order to make myself understood without question. I have no words I can rely on because, much to my dismay, my tongue was designed long and flat and loose, and therefore is a horribly ineffective tool for pushing food around my mouth while chewing, and even less effective tool for making clever and complicated polysyllabic sounds that can be linked together to form sentences...”
Polysyllabic? Melodramatic? Horribly ineffective? What dog talks like that? Stupid book. It’ll probably sell 10 million copies, but I chucked it within a hundred pages--and only read that far cause my mom gave it to me.
The Art of Racing in the Rain is written by Garth Stein. Based on the characters, as well as the little author description in back, I’d say he’s gay; but that’s just a guess. I don’t give a shit one way or another since I know a lot of very cool gay people. I only bring it up cause it ties into the only exciting part of my Thanksgiving weekend.
The holiday dinner was down in Atlantic City, which is kind of Detroit on the Atlantic Ocean. Real bad with no hope. But I’ve got relatives down there, so that’s where we met.
These are relatives I don’t see often. Due to the lack of familiarity--as well as the fact that most of my relatives are Jewish (and as such, don’t drink adequate amounts of alcohol), I had to bring a flask of my own. And it was a good thing I did since--as expected, when I got to the hotel there was no bar. Just a lot of overweight people noshing on cookies and other B-list, sugary treats.
“Anyone got any chocolate?” I asked.
“Sure,” my Aunt said as she dug into a plastic bag and handed me a bite-sized Three Musketeers. I accepted out of politeness, but didn’t bother to unwrap it.
“I thought you said you wanted chocolate?” she asked a short time later when she noticed it had gone untouched.
“That’s candy,” I told her with a dismissive wave of my hand, though I don’t think she got the distinction.
Nothing against my other relatives, but I only went down to AC to see my grandmother. She’s 95 now so I whenever she’s close, I take the time to see her. I love my grandma and share a lot of her qualities; but on this visit she kept haranguing me about the flask.
“What’s that?” she asked as I unscrewed the top and took a pull, “alcohol?”
“Yep--you want some?”
My grandmother curled her nose and frowned.
“You’re so much of an alcoholic that you need to bring that?” she asked. 95 years old and she’s still sharp as a tack.
“I don’t think a half-pint of scotch with three football games and Thanksgiving dinner is an alcoholic grandma.”
But she wouldn’t leave it alone. My cousin Mark (from Detroit) was kind enough to ask for a taste so I wouldn’t have to drink alone, yet this still wasn’t good enough for Grandma.
“There he goes again with another shot of that...stuff. Terrible. Terrible!”
Eventually I had to leave to sit at a different table and that’s when the real trouble started.
At this new table were Tango and Cash. Two guys who always come to these parties together, live together, and who are obviously...well, together; though apparently this is a fact that has always gone unacknowledged by the rest of the family. They’re in the closet as the saying goes, which is fine by me. No need for the world to get in their business.
Only like Roy Cohn or Herman Cain, these guys seem to hide their homosexuality or self-hatred behind a veil of ultra-conservatism. They openly espouse their Republican leanings and color every conversation with political overtones. Not that I’ve ever cared--I’m not political. And everything was fine ‘til we somehow got on the topic of Occupy Wall Street.
“What I don’t get is what these people want,” said Cash, who appears to be the pitcher of the pair. “From what I see they’re just homeless trash.”
“You’ve been down there?” I asked, as I neared the bottom of my flask.
“No, but I’ve seen it on TV. And from what I’ve see...”
“Well maybe you should go down there before you draw your conclusions,” I responded.
Cash smiled one of his Newt Gingrich, professorial smiles to Tango.
“Uh oh, I think we’ve got a liberal here,” he said.
“I don’t buy into liberal or conservative. And I can care less about politics Cash. I’ve got no wife, no kids, no house, no car payments. I have no stake in anything. But when you call people ‘homeless trash’ you might want to check yourself. Especially when you admit you haven’t been down there.”
“Okay Lodo, then what do they want?”
“First of all, if you’d been down there, you’d see there is no ‘they,’ since there’s all kinds of different voices down there. Half of ‘em probably are just homeless anarchy types; but then there’s a whole separate section made-up of environmental activists. Then there’s a group of old-school hippies and religious types concerned with social justice issues; and another group of union organizers. There’s a lot of old people concerned about cuts to Medicare and Social Security; and lots of young people concerned about their college debt and lack of job prospects. There’s all kinds of different interests. Its not like the Tea Party that’s just about low taxes and less government.”
“Well they’re gonna have to decide what they stand for soon.”
“Why?”
“What d’ya mean why?” Cash asked.
“I mean why?” I answered. “Why can’t they just say 'we’re not happy, we don’t like things, and we want things to change?' As long as they’re peaceful aren’t they entitled to freedom of speech?”
Here Cash gave another one of his smug, didactic grins for the table.
“Well if you study your history Lodo you’d see that this is how revolutions actually get started. You can’t just let these people huddle and plan and agitate with no purpose or you could have real social upheaval.”
I had to laugh at that.
“No offense Cash, but if enough people identified with the movement to risk social upheaval then that’d serve Democracy wouldn’t it?”
“Not rea...”
“The cops oughta go in there and bust a few heads. That’d put ‘em in their place and end this nonsense,” Tango suddenly interjected as he stroked his closely-cropped red beard.
Now I began to get angry.
“You just said you haven’t been down there Tango. There’s a lot of old people there. And real young one’s too. There’s a whole mixture of people and agendas. You can’t just categorize them as one thing. You wouldn’t like it if someone said gay people were all pedophiles and whatnot just because of that Penn State guy.”
“Why would that bother me?” Tango asked.
“Oh come on,” I said as I addressed both him and Cash, “you and Cash are obviously together. You don’t need to be an investigator to see that.”
All side-talk at the table suddenly stopped. Forks fell on plates. Tango became beet red as his eyes darted from side-to-side; while Cash let out one of his stifled, smug laughs which I now know is a defense mechanism. That was no issue, but then he suddenly and most purposefully knocked over my flask, spilling my last shot of Johnnie Walker Black to the floor and on my best suit, at which point I immediately and instinctually crammed the bite sized Three Musketeers bar I still (for some reason) had into his forehead. That set-off a whole series of events too numerous to mention, except to say that I ultimately found myself eating turkey with my grandma in my hotel room as we watched a re-run of Kung Fu Panda on HBO.
“I didn’t like that flask of yours the moment I saw it.”
“Just leave it alone grandma. ...And pass the sweet potatoes.”
* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images except for # 2, # 3, # 7, # 8, # 9, # 10, and # 12. All rights reserved on my pics. ** ADDITIONAL NOTE: Excerpts from On the Road and The Art of Racing in The Rain were used w/out the permission of the Kerouak Estate or Garth Stein. I'm sure all rights are reserved on their stuff.
As I'm about to hit the road for my aunt's house, it occurred to me that regular readers of Intermission may not have anything to do during halftime of today's big Lions/Packers game (except maybe converse w/ family--Oh hell no!). I mean, my readers are a fairly sophisticated lot, so I know Nickelback isn't gonna hold their interest. And I hate to see the NFL or the Ford family or whoever's responsible humliate my hometown of Detroit by presenting avergae (or sub-average) music during halftime. That's just...not acceptable. So in an attempt to right the wrong, here's some real Detroiters to properly represent our nation's most important cultural city.
Happy Thanksgiving y'all!!! Sweet Pea Atkinson and Was (Not Was) cover Otis Redding: The great Betty Carter totally Kills!:
Anthony Kiedis and the Red Hot Chili Peppers cover Stevie Wonder:
Alice Cooper does...what he does! (1971)
Iggy Pop has a Lust for Life:
The legendary MC5 play my old alma mater--Wayne State University (1970): Enjoy the day everybody!
I’m a huge fan of the drums. I could never play ‘em well since they require not only timing (which I have), but also a somewhat mathematical sense of time (which I don’t). So long as a tune’s in 4/4 I’m okay; but once you stray from that I’m half-retarded, if not full-out. I think I ate lead paint as a kid.
Used to be I was all about the heavy-hitters on drums: Billy Cobham. Dennis Chambers. John Bonham. Elvin Jones. Guys that could really thump the funk and kick the guts out of a bass drum. And now featured on drums Smoking Joe Frazier!
When I first moved to New York I saw great drummers every week, if not 2 or 3x a week. Guys that could seriously throw down, each one better than the next, in an endless stream of different lineups and venues. 16 year old kids from The Bronx who could tear your head off and old guys from Senegal or Ivory Coast who could maintain breakneck tempos without a sweat. Everyone comes to New York if they’re a real musician.
After my first few months in the city it became apparent that drummers are a lot like football wide receivers--there’s a lot of good ones. In fact, after awhile even a moron like me began to become more discerning. More knowledgeable.
Paul Motian was a name you heard everywhere here in New York. He played with Bill Evans, Keith Jarrett, Joe Lovano, Bill Frisell (more legends than that, but you get the point). Plus he had an Electric Be-Bop Band that had a steady Monday night gig at The Village Vanguard.
When I first caught Paul it was with that electric Be Bop Band at The Vanguard. I watched that show with high expectations, but at the end could only shrug my shoulders. Paul who? I was still all about the double-bass pedal and aggressive attack; whereas this guy just laid back and kept time. Least that’s all I saw.
But that was almost a decade ago.
A few summers after that first show I was on my way home from work. It stays light out late in summer so it was perhaps 9:30 or so as I walked past The Vanguard and noted Joe Lovano, Bill Frisell, and Paul Motian on the marquee. I was tired. Alone. Somewhat sour since I’d just finished haggling a claim settlement with two Puerto Rican homos on the west side. I’ve got nothing against gays reader--I hope you know that. Or Puerto Ricans. But these guys were so gay and so Puerto Rican and such a pair of assholes! Really tried my patience. My next appointment wasn’t until 11:00 next morning, so I threw myself a reward for the shit day that had run long and said Come on, man. Lets go to The Vanguard. That’s why you live here.
It wasn’t crowded and I got a nice seat close to the stage. Could even spread my legs out a little bit which you can’t always do at The Vanguard.
Maybe it was the superior line-up, or just a better night for Paul. Maybe I was in a different place by then. Older. More New York. Whatever it was, this time around that Paul Motian...he didn’t just sound good. He sounded genius behind the kit. Now I recognized how he didn’t just bang, bang, bang, on the drums. He played them. He drew melodies out of the toms and subtle, abstract splashes of color with the cymbals. And for the first time in my life I appreciated a drummer using the brushes. Man I must have been tired!--but tired in that exalted way Kerouack talks about. To the point of clarity. To watch the man behind the drum kit--it reminded me of that line by Kate Bush. I put this moment,...here.
I put this moment,
...here.
I put this moment,
...over here.
R.I.P to New York City legend Paul Motian!!!!!NOTE: Bottom pic of Paul Motian at Village Vanguard taken by me (but not on the day mentioned in the post). All rights reserved. Top pic stolen off Google Images.
"...he talks about Denver, and being drunk, and being on the road. I like it." 
Catfish: "...who's gonna outlive us all with his mountain bikes and heart-rate monitor." 
Dual connect in Pacquiao/Marquez III:
25th Anniversary of Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame Show:
Meatloaf (right) pays respect to Jeff Beck (left) at the Les Paul After-Party (about a year or so ago). 
Julio Cesar Chavez at The Garden:
So yeah reader, last week I was in Denver. I flew back to Brooklyn early Monday, but even now don’t quite have my bearings. I changed the clocks just before I left, then had to deal with the two hour time difference between Denver and NYC. It kind of messed me up. Plus the thin Denver air forced me into the hospital after I passed out in front of Benny’s Mexican Cantina. Altitude sickness. Even know I don’t feel that great.
But I’m alright.
On my way to Denver I started On The Road by Jack Kerouack. A book I’ve heard about for 20 years, but never got ‘round to reading. Always one of those I assumed I’d get to. In time. But the time wasn’t ‘til now.
If you never read On the Road, it begins with Kerouack’s roadtrip from New Jersey to Denver. While en route, he stops in Joliet, Illinois; former hometown of my old buddy Jake (may he rest in peace).
Jake’s been dead a good number of years now, but I can never shake him. I still run with the same circle of friends here in New York, and everytime I go back to Denver I’m reminded of the wild-ass times we’d had. At all the places. We met in Denver, and it was Jake who’d dubbed me Lodo. Jake or his brother Catfish.
Anyway, that story’s for another time.
Jake was a big Kerouack fan--or at least, was very aware of him; and may have even introduced me to On the Road all those years ago in Denver. Yet I also recall him making several derogatory comments about the book; and certainly didn’t encourage me to read it. Neither did my friend Rules, who’s opinion I hold highly. So its taken 20 years for On the Road to climb my chart high enough for airplay.
I started it at JFK as I waited for my flight out west, and when Kerouack mentioned his stop in Joliet, Illinois, my heart began to race. There was Jake all over again. And when I got to Denver, I passed all the stomping grounds where we’d shot our movie. But now they weren’t just ours. They were Kerouack’s. And Neil Cassidy’s. And my man Catfish who’s gonna out live us all with his mountain bike and heart-rate monitor.
Jake, Catfish, Morrisey--those are the three brothers. Actually there’s another brother I haven’t met--Shockey, who’s still allegedly in Joliet. So that makes four.
But Jake’s gone now, so I guess three’s right after all.
When I saw Catfish this time around he looked a bit haggard, but still wore a smile and had good news.
“Come on freak,” he said to me, “lets go to Morrisey’s. He’s got a bunch of those Cheeba Chews.”
“Where’s he live now?”
“He’s at The Colburn, where Alan Ginsberg and Neil Cassidy had a threeway with Cassidy’s wife. You’ll see if you keep reading that Kerouak.”
“I guess I haven’t got to that part yet. But how serendipitous that Morrisey lives there! We’ll be almost connected to greatness.”
“Well,” Catfish said as he handed me a bike off his wall, “I don’t know about that.”
While in Denver I caught the Manny Pacquiao/Juan Manuel Marquez fight on cable. I’m a big fan of both those guys and after this last fight I think its safe to say they have a legendary trilogy to their names. I thought Marquez won this last one by a round; but in fairness to Pacquiao, I root for the protagonist. And it was Pacquiao who pushed the fight more. Either way it was a great match, and I'm sure we'll see these guys again somewhere down the line.
The day I left Denver my friend Rules noted On the Road on top of my pile of clothes.
“Why’re you reading that?” she asked me.
“I don’t know. Guess its time had come. I like it--he talks about Denver and getting drunk and stuff. Its good.”
“Oh God Lodo! That book is so stupid. ‘Ugh, this morning I had a beer. Tomorrow,...I’ll have another beer.’ Geez--you’re a better writer than that guy.”
“Really?” I asked, taken aback by her comment. “You think maybe there’s some greatness in me?”
Rules took a moment to consider it.
“...You’re better than that guy, that's for sure.”
As I mentioned, I returned to Brooklyn this past Monday, and Tuesday night caught Buddy Guy at BB King’s Blues Club. Last time I saw Buddy was at the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame Show two years ago, which is about as close to timeless greatness as I’m ever gonna get. Buddy performed with Jeff Beck. Sting was there. Aretha Franklin. Lou Reed. U2. Springsteen. Ray Davies. Metallica. Mick Jagger. A few names you might recognize. Course I was in the upper deck--about 300 yards away, but what’d I expect for a show like that? Front row? Its not like I’m special.
But Tuesday night was a whole different story. In some ways it was like my Jeff Beck moment at the Les Paul After-Party, only much easier since Beck’s kind of aloof when it comes to people and fans, whereas Buddy eagerly and fearlessly engages an audience. Here’s a picture of him (below) as he walked the perimeter of the crowd with his wireless electric guitar.
Sure its out of focus, but I never claimed to be a great photographer; and every drunk in the place jostled me for position. But when Buddy passed me I gave his trapezoid a little squeeze and yelled Go baby, go!!--just like I did to Jeff Beck at the Les Paul party, and for a moment I felt genuinely connected to a timeless legend.
Course between the flight to Denver, the pay-per-view Pacquiao fight, and the Buddy Guy show I blew all my money. So despite it being Saturday I’m just gonna stay home tonight and watch Julio Cesar Chavez, Jr. fight on HBO. Unlike his father, Chavez, Jr. isn’t particularly great--at least not yet; but I still root for him since he was kind enough to take this picture of me (below) at The Garden.
I didn’t even know who he was at the time. Just asked him if he’d take the pic and he agreed with no attitude whatsoever. And I think its awesome.
Only when his father suddenly showed up did I learn who I’d been next to all night. And what did I do? Why pop a flash in his dad’s face of course! I probably deserved a smack for that bonehead move--if not worse; but those guys didn’t have time to bother with a flea like me. I mean, after all they’re great.
And who am I? 
* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak, except: # 2) The Colburn Hotel; and # 4) Pacquiao/Marquez. Those pics stolen off Google Images. All rights reserved on my pics.
Sure reader, plenty of time to talk later. Talking’s over-rated anyway. A chick thing. I was an atomic bomb of pure energy on a night the whole of my half-life was coming to an end. I didn’t need words to approximate or label my experience. I wanted to feel free, free, free.
So with the exception of the techno music that blared incessantly, the three of us sat silently in the booth and stared at the various costumed partiers.
“...Where’d you go before?” Ata eventually asked me. “I didn’t see you dancing.”
“Some girl gave me a blowjob in the bathroom.”
“What?!” Ata asked as she whipped ‘round to face me.
“A girl gave me a blowjob in the bathroom. A butterfly girl. Or maybe she was a firefly--I’m not really sure. It was nice.”
“Not that girl with the lights all over her?” Ata asked.
“You mean the green ones? The flashing ones? Yeah, I think that was her.”
“Oh no Lodo--really?”
“Yeah, why?” I asked.
“Ugh, Lodo! That girl fucks everyone at these parties.”
“What d’ya mean--everyone?”
“ I mean everyone--she’s crazy,” Ata said as she stood up to scan the dancefloor. “Her?,” she asked as she pointed off into the distance.
And sure enough there was my butterfly girl leading another guy into the bathroom just as she’d done with me. Only now there was a whole train of guys standing in a line outside. At least a half-dozen of ‘em, in various costumes that only added to the debauchery of the situation. Smoking and fidgeting impatiently in anticipation of getting their rocks off.
God damn talking.
“Well,” I said, “if I get H.I.V I suppose we’ll know where I got it.”
To this we laughed momentarily until Ata’s eyes suddenly got wide and her jaw dropped open as though she’d seen some kind of ghostly apparition or sublime vision behind my eyes that required her to grasp the table for support.
“What?!” I asked, scared by her expression.
“My God Lodo!” she said as though in the midst of a great epiphany, “Before we were born we were dead a billion years!”
A bizarre comment so out of character for my sweet, simple Ata that I knew that acid of hers was worth scoring.
But Ata still seemed somewhat unsure of her experience.
“When I go to these parties I always dance and dance Lodo; but now I don’t even feel this music,” she said dejectedly.
Course the problem (at least in my mind) was that the music sucked. On Ecstasy you can dance and sway and feel groovy to that techno crap. It’s a fun, shallow drug. But on acid or mushrooms you need something soulful. Something real. I’m not saying it had to be Jimi Hendrix, but I’d have killed for a live drummer or just one horn player.
But all we had was the dee jay and and I was tired of sitting round. I was officially on the opposite side of 45 and possibly already dying of H.I.V, so all this feminine passivity began to rub me the wrong way.
“You know what the problem is?” I said to Ata as I grabbed her arm and proceeded to pull her out the booth, “you’ve gotta dance to this music. This isn’t stuff to just sit here and listen to.”
“No!” she screamed as she anxiously tried to shake from my grip. But I wasn’t having it.
“No to you!” I responded. “You were the one who told me I had to get out tonight. Let’s go, and we’re even taking smacked-out Nikki here with us.”
“Nikki--are you kidding?”
No I wasn’t kidding. I felt like Robert De Niro in The Deerhunter as I pulled Ata out the booth and scooped Nikki up over my shoulder. She offered no resistance whatsoever and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. With the two of them I stormed out onto the crowded dance floor where I placed Nikki down like a bowling pin. She wobbled on her rubbery legs, but was packed within so many people she could never entirely fall over. By the time I turned ‘round, Ata was already dancing and twirling with beautiful abandon, lost in her beloved techno.
And she never did stop. At least, not til the sun came up. All of us at the party greeted it together as the first rays of the new dawn split thru the dirty window panes of the old Brooklyn loft. It was only die-hards by now, which isn’t to say there weren’t a lot of us. Maybe 50 people. So over-tired from dancing and drugs that a kind of exhausted, beat clarity set in that made you feel part of something bigger. The dee jay continued to spin records, and Ata--who’d sat out much of the night, was one of the few of us with any juice left.
Still, there was one gal I noticed out the corner of my eye. She was dressed like a tiger and wore a sign that read I’m one of the 99 purrrcent! We exchanged a few meaningful glances over the course of about half-an-hour, and at some point found ourselves next to each other on the dance-floor.
“I like your hat,” she eventually said to me. “That’s hot.”
“So are you,” I said as I playfully stroked her tail. She didn’t seem to mind.
“...Well, I guess one thing leads to another,” I said as I grabbed her round the waist and tried to led her into the bathroom like the night had started.
“Hey!” she said as she swatted my arm away, more shocked than angry. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “One thing leads to another is all,” as though somehow that meaningless statement answered all questions.
“One thing hasn’t led to anything,” she answered. “In fact, one thing hasn’t even happened yet. I’ve known you for 2 seconds.”
I had to consider her comment.
“Yeah, I see your point. ...But someone has to take the initiative.”
* NOTE: The top (5) photos were taken by me and may or may not have been from the party described herein. Also note that I did not receive oral sex from any of the women who's images I've used in this post. Their pictures have been included simply to enhance the story. Thanks for reading!!
"You mind if I tell you something?" she asked. 
"Never get off the boat. Never get off the boat." 
So I’d written something 'bout my birthday last weekend, but I’ve held off on posting in hopes that my friend Ata would have sent me some pics by now. I think my posts lack a certain impact without pictures, but fact is we weren’t allowed to use cameras anyway since (as Ata put it), “it was a total underground sex-drug party.”
‘Course I love an underground sex-drug party; except that last Saturday New York experienced some freaky global-warming snowfall that left me inclined to just stay home despite it being both Halloween and my birthday. I need a large crowd and snow like a hole in the head; but Ata was having none of that.
“Lodo, are you crazy? Its your birthday! And its underground party. Sex-drug-costume party. You must go with me. You need to be more outgoing if things are going to happen.”
So I took the train up to Williamsburg feeling rather moronic in costume at 45 years of age. Adding to my self-consciousness was the fact I’d eaten a bunch of mushrooms before I left the house that had kicked-in faster than expected. So my train ride was filled with morphing goblins, giggling college-age bunnies, and prismatic light trails that left me a little unstable ‘til I got out to the crisp air of the street. There I found Ata waiting for me in her sexy Avatar costume with a bit of excited news of her own.
“Guess what I did before I came here?” she asked as I stole a kiss and a quick squeeze of her silky niceness.
“That drug you like to dance to,” I responded, “the molly’.”
“No!,” she answered mischievously, “I took your drug--acid!”
“Acid?!--Holy shit! Where’d you find that? I can never find that out here.”
“I found it,” she said with a laugh as we began to walk to the party, “I have a connection. He’s gonna be here tonight with a bunch of my friends. You’ll like them.”
Wow reader, acid. You just cannot find that here in New York. Here its all coke and booze. Asshole Wall Street drugs or real hardcore smack. But acid, man I wanted to score some of that!
Only you’ve gotta be careful with that stuff. Until the government creates some standards (which I’m sure is at the top of Obama’s priorities at the moment) you’re at the mercy of the guy who’s made it. There’s good acid, but there’s also speedy acid and sometimes there’s just bad acid; so when we got to the party and Ata began to look a little spooked and unsure, I steered her into a dark booth toward the back.
“How you feeling?” I asked her.
“I can’t feel my teeth or my mouth. They’re numb. Is that supposed to happen?”
“Not really,” I answered somewhat disappointed--not just because my empathy for her was heightened due to my own altered state; but because I really wanted that acid to be good so I could score.
“Listen, you stay here. I’m gonna dance for a little bit ‘cause my booms are kicking in, but I’ll just be over there,” I told her as I pointed to the dance-floor. “Any problem just come get me.”
I left Ata in the booth and proceeded out to the dance floor where I danced and danced and danced by myself as waves of mushroom-induced energy pitched and rose inside me in conjunction with the moronic donkey-beat of the famous New York dee jay.
Periodically I checked on Ata who seemed committed to the safety of her booth. Never get out of the boat. Never get out of the boat seemed to be her mantra, though I must say she was calm and consistently looked at me with a wide-eyed wonderment that; if nothing else, wasn’t terror. I tried to chat her up a bit. Keep her connected, but I myself was peaking hard and after several minutes of what I thought was charming banter Ata began to literally cry tears as she put her hand to my mouth,
“Lodo you have to shut up now--you just keep talking and talking and talking!”
Okay reader, I know when I’m not wanted. I returned to the dance floor and went back at it again for who knows how long when I suddenly felt a tap at the small of my back. I turned ‘round to see a cute brunette gal dressed as a fluorescent butterfly, with lights that glowed green and real wings affixed to her back. She handed me a joint, which apparently belonged to a circle of people behind her.
“You mind if I tell you something? she asked with a little pixie smile.
“Sure,” I said as I took a big drag of the joint and handed it back.
“You’re rocking that hat,” she said as she pointed to my fedora.
“Oh thanks. I’ve had some good times in this thing.”
“I bet,” she said again, “you look gooood.”
“Thanks,” I told her as I tried to encourage her to dance with me.
“You mind if I try that on?” she asked.
Fact was I did sort of mind. Like I’d told her, I had some great times in that hat. It’s expensive and molded perfectly to my head. And if you’re not careful with it you can damage the fabric and the perfect crease in the top. So I was hesitant.
“Come on,” she said, “I’ll be careful with it.”
But still I was hesitant, much to my own surprise. My instincts told me to hold out.
“...What if we went in there?” she asked as she pointed to the bathroom. “Could I try it on in there?”
“In there?...” I answered as I looked toward the open door to the bathroom.
“Umm hmm,” she said as she moved her body from side to side like a bug on a flower.
“...Yeah, okay. In there.”
So she took my hand, led me into the small bathroom, where I closed the door behind us. There was just a single toilet with a mirror and sink affixed on the opposite wall. She dramatically removed my hat, placed it on her head and inspected herself. Once satisfied, she turned back around.
“Now that it’s on my head I’m gonna give you head,” she laughed as she made a bee-line for my pants and proceed to give me a blowjob.
I was really tripping by this time so it took a few moments for me to get my junk up properly, but once I got going I was all-in and my gal was really invested. Shortly before I popped she handed back my hat,
“Here, I want you to wear this while I finish," she said. "You should always wear that.”
As instructed I put the hat back on and allowed her to finish me off. To my surprise it didn’t take long, and when we were done--or I was done, I prepared to leave. But she wasn't ready.
“Wait!” she said as he slammed the door closed with a kick of her foot and proceeded to hop on to the ceramic sink. Then she put a hand up the bottom of her skirt, and began to frig herself really aggressively ‘til her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her body began to spasm.
“Oh man!” she said when she’d had her fill. “Doing that makes me so crazy!”
Both of us done, we left the bathroom. The gal returned to her friends and I went to check on Ata who was still where I’d left her. I thought she was alone, but when I got to the booth I discovered a cute, pig-tailed Asian girl dressed like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. She slouched on one side of the horseshoe shaped couch with a blank expression and a drop of spittle on her bottom lip. She appeared ‘bout to collapse face-first on to the nearby table in cartoon fashion.
“You know her?” I asked Ata.
“Yeah, that’s Nikki. You should talk to her, you’ll like her.”
I looked at Nikki’s unfocused, blunted eyes. With each passing moment she pitched more and more forward as she approached an inevitable gravitational tipping point. I placed a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her into the booth’s seatback. She made no response or gesture except to slowly pitch forward again at glacial speed.
“Well, you two can talk in a little bit,” Ata said.
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into another part. Part 2 should be done in a few days (hopefully I'll have some pics!). ** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All women's images contained herein were stolen off Google Images and were used simply to enhance the story. I did not receive oral sex from any of the women you see herein.
