Ms. Lulu in Cold Spring:
Todd Rundgren (left) w/ Vintage (right): "I always assumed Vintage's favorite bands were Rammstein, Motorhead, and Eric Burdon. But..." 
"Klitschko was so big that even when he didn't connect cleanly he'd nearly knock Adamek off his feet." 
This past weekend I went hiking with Ms. Lulu. Regular readers may remember that she’s the ex of my old buddy Jake (may he rest in peace).
I’ve known Ms. Lulu a long time now, which I guess means that she knows me too. At least a little bit. On the train ride up to Cold Spring she told me that she’d read my last blog post and laughed when she saw my Planet of the Apes reference.
“Do you remember talking to me that day?” she asked as Sing Sing passed outside the window.
“No.”
Lulu began to laugh.
“Oh my God, really? Maybe I just thought it was funny. But you called me up to have a drink after work and I was like 'What’d you do today?' And you said 'I went to the movie,' as though that explained everything. Even though we live in New York and there’s a thousand movies playing. But do you remember--I knew, ‘cause I know you Lodo. So I said, 'Planet of the Apes, right?' Oh I laughed so hard at that!” (here Lulu had to catch herself from laughing), “That stupid planet of the apes and Lodo in the audience all high, counting the days before his drug test.”
Guess I’m glad I could make someone laugh. Nice to bring a little joy to the world. Like that Todd Rundgren--man, do people love him! Don’t get me wrong, I think he’s great too. But here in New York he’s got a rabid fan base and has sold-out every club where I’ve seen him. For certain people, Todd’s the man.
My buddy Vintage is one of those people. I never would have taken him to be such a Todd Rundgren fan. Up ‘til 6 months ago I assumed Vintage’s favorite bands were Rammstein, Motorhead and Eric Burdon. But no--its Rammstein, Motorhead, Eric Burdon,...and Todd Rundgren.
Go figure.
Before the Todd Rundgren show, I last saw Vintage two weeks ago--when Vitali Klitschko fought Newark’s own Tomasz Adamek for the heavyweight championship of the world. I assumed Vintage liked boxing ( maybe ‘cause I’m a boxing fan), but now I know better.
But I didn’t know two weeks ago when I called his cell.
“Lodo, what’s up?” he asked.
“Vintage! What’re you doing tomorrow afternoon?”
“Uh, loading my truck for work. Why?”
“Come on over, man. There’s a a heavyweight championship fight in the afternoon. On HBO. I’ve got some beers. ...You should stop by.”
“...Boxing?” he asked. “How much is it?”
“Nothing. Least, not for you. Its on HBO. Just come by is all.”
“...Well, what? Is it anybody good?”
“Yeah man, heavyweight championship of the world. You’re not into that?” I asked somewhat surprised.
“...Not really. What?--is it somebody good?”
“Its the heavyweight champion man! Klitschko. Yeah he’s good!”
“...Wellll,...I don’t know. ... Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll see.”
We’ll see? Really? I couldn’t believe Vintage was on the fence. Probably didn’t want to take the PATH out to Brooklyn or drive his truck since it’d be loaded. It was gonna take some salesmanship to get him to come out. But I understand human nature--and Vintage’s mind in particular. So I knew which buttons to push when I called him the next day.
“Vintage, what time you coming out?”
“Oh, I don’t know Lodo. I’m still loading up the truck. Plus its a bit of a hike to get to you... Maybe we should...”
“Vintage come on man! You know this guy’s Polish don’t you? And he’s fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world!”
“He’s Polish?” Vintage asked with sudden interest.
“Yeah man! And the guy lives in Newark--did you know that?”
“In Newark? Really? How could I not know this?”
“It’s true. And he trains in Jersey City--right by you.”
I could hear Vintage’s heavy breath over the phone.
“You’re telling me there’s a Polish guy that lives in Newark and trains in Jersey City fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world today?”
“Yeah man! And listen to this...they’re fighting in Poland!”
Needless to say Vintage came out and I didn’t have to watch the fight alone. Course once the fight started and Vintage saw how big Klitschko was his enthusiasm dampened a bit.
“That’s who my guy has to fight?” he asked.
“Well, yeah. That’s Klitschko.”
“How come he’s so much bigger than my guy?”
“...I don’t know; he’s Klitschko.”
Klitschko was so much bigger than Adamek that even when he didn’t connect cleanly he’d nearly knock Adamek off his feet. That happened in the 2nd round. The 4th round. On each occasion I’d look over at Vintage who rocked anxiously in his seat, wringing his hands with worry. I couldn’t believe Adamek made it to the 9th, but you could see his mind was determined. No way he was gonna quit in front of his countrymen. Guy was gonna die in the ring before he’d do that.
“He’s gonna get knocked-out,” I said as Adamek ate another huge jab. “His corner ought to stop this.”
“You know Lodo, why don’t you shut up!” Vintage abruptly responded with real anger. “You said that in the 2nd round, and later on too. But look--he’s still there. Still trying. You never even thought he’d make it this far. He’s doing good!”
Ah Vintage. I could have got upset, but I know when a man’s been converted. He wasn’t mad at me so much as emotionally invested in the fight. In his Polish champion. The human mind’s not so difficult to understand--especially his. So when the referee stopped the fight and Vintage stood up to wipe the sweat off his haggard brow, there was no need for an apology. We just clasped hands. Shared a laugh.
“Sorry ‘bout that Lodo,” he said to me as he folded his handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. “Its just that guy was so much bigger. It didn't seem fair.”
“I know. ...You want another beer?”
Vintage flashed a hang-dog, sheepish smile.
“Come on man, I'm not mad,” I told him.
“No?”
“Naw. I think I know where your mind was at.” 
* NOTE: Planet of the Apes is obviously copyrighted; and all images of the Klitschko/Adamek fight were stolen off Google Images.
"...there were three of them on one side of the long oval conference desk; whereas I sat alone at the opposite end in my suit and tie..."
w/ Todd Rundgren this past Tuesday:
I haven’t done any writing in awhile. My mind’s been unfocused and a bit lazy these last few days as the heat’s suddenly returned to New York. A certain sickly, heat-laden humidity that encourages mold in my A/C and behind the walls. It grows within the sills of my small bedroom and I snort the spores up my nose in my sleep. Deep into my dreams where they usually morph into a sinus infection.
I’d stopped smoking weed for awhile this summer, and when I did my dreams became really vivid. I’d laid-off weed once before in my life, so I was prepared for the very intense REM sleep. Still, even a nice dream can leave you emotionally wrecked when you awake. Its disturbing to be in one state so intensely, and then another. Especially when the direction is from dream to consciousness.
Because I’ve been smoking weed for so long (so consistently); it was kind of a perception change to go a week without it. Time played out differently. I followed people’s words in a different way and was more cognizant of the energy I projected.
The first day I stopped smoking weed was...awhile ago. I don’t keep track of the days, but I know it was around mid-July. I had a job interview at what turned out to be a really big company. The position was listed as a Paralegal on the internet; but actually proved to be something very different. More of an investigator's position of the kind I’ve been doing this past decade. Not that I’d have any problem going back to that, but I was surprised as I listened to the employer’s questions. And the types of questions. After short while a voice in my head said, I’m getting a drug-test vibe here.
Course I’m pretty sure they’re going to test. Not entirely sure. How do you bring that subject up at an interview? Instead I waited for one of them to bring it up--which I think they’re supposed to do; but they never did. And we went over a lot.
After the interview I sat on the train home and ran it back in my mind. Their questions, my answers. It was stressful. There had been three of them on one side of the long oval conference desk; whereas I sat at the opposite end in a suit and tie that had hung in my closet for a year without use. They asked a lot of anatomy-related questions and a lot of personal background questions from way back in my resume. Only a bit of legal stuff as it related to court procedures and vocabulary. I’m fairly certain I answered a few of the anatomy questions wrong. Or a lot of ‘em. I know I was anxious when I walked through my front door, threw off the suit and tie; grabbed the old one-hitter, prepared to turn the flint-wheel of my Bic when...
Hey!--You can’t smoke any weed, a voice told me before the lighter achieved a flame.
What? I asked myself, though I already knew.
If you get that job they’re gonna drug test you. You gotta stay clean ‘til that test.
...Well how long is that gonna be?
How long indeed.
The first time I smoked weed after that interview was about 10 days later. I wanted to see Rise of the Planet of The Apes, but knew I had to burn a bit of herb to do that properly. So I called my Human Resource contact where I’d interviewed and asked him if he had any news for me.
“You the guy who needed two more credits to get his degree?” he asked me over the phone.
“No, I’ve got my degree. And a paralegal degree. Grdzak. G-R-D-Z-A-K.”
“Ah yeah, here it is. I I must have got you confused with the other guy. Naw, man, you’re still in the running. Its you and three other guys. I’ll call you either way when they make a decision.”
Okay, so they hadn’t reached a decision. The day I saw the movie was a Thursday,
...so if I stay clean Friday, Saturday, Sunday...they won’t call ‘til Monday at the earliest and they’re not gonna make me piss in a cup first thing. Hell that’d just be a 2nd interview. Drink a lot of water. Sweat it out.
I got high as hell for Rise of the Planet of the Apes, which was definitely the right call. The apes could have talked more--and I’d have liked to have seen them kill a few more people; but in the end you can tell the human race is gonna die-off, so it’s nice.
After the movie I stayed clean. Again! I don’t know for how many days--it wasn’t about days. All I know is that eventually Hurricane Irene came around and you didn’t know if the world was gonna end or if you’d ever get high or fuck again or anything. A whole bunch of stuff happened to me that night, that I don’t want to get into now. My point being only that I smoked again on Hurricane Irene night. And the day after.
After Hurricane Irene came Labor Day Weekend. I forget the exact time frame, but I called that Human Resource guy again, and again he told me I was still in the running.
“Like I said, I promise I’ll call you and let you know either way,” he told me over the phone.
“I appreciate that,” I responded. “Obviously I don’t want to irritate you, but...you know, I wanna demonstrate that I’m enthusiastic about the job. I want it.”
“I see that,” he said with a laugh, “I’ll call you or email you either way.”
Okay, cool. Except that yesterday--September 13th, my man Vintage and I were comped tickets for Todd Rundgren over at BB Kings. You know I wanted to catch a buzz for that show, and the reality was that September 13th is a long time past Labor Day. And way past mid-July when I’d done my sole interview. They’d told me they wanted someone right away, so...
But that damn Human Resources guy still never called.
So let me ask you--what would you do reader? Would you have called that Human Resources guy again? Or left him alone?
Well, I called him and was sent straight to his voicemail. So I immediately felt I’d made a mistake. Then I left a message on his machine and can’t help but feel that was a mistake. Not that I’d left a bad message, but in retrospect I feel I should have just hung up. But worst of all, I didn’t get high before Todd Rundgren--which was so damn stupid cause he was freaking great! And a really nice guy to Vintage and me.
Anyway, this morning, I woke-up hungover with nothing to post. No writing anyway, which is how its gone for the past two weeks or so. Maybe its cause I’m not working; or perhaps my experiences have simply become redundant. Whatever it is, I’ve been somewhat uninspired of late; and when you have no wife, no kids, no house, and no job, you’d better be popping-off in the inspiration department or life ain’t much.
How come you don’t want to write?
What’s to write about?
But I know myself well--after all, I am a blogger. Like a morning commuter knows they need their cup of coffee or that corporate exec instinctually heads to the gym before work; I knew enough to reach into the cupboard,
pull down my one-hitter,
thumb the flint wheel of my Bic,
take a big pull...
And wait. ...Until suddenly I heard:
You dumbass, you never wrote about that Indian kid you met over Labor Day. Or finished your Russian Streams series. And every post over at Stays Put needs at least one re-write. What about that night where you watched the massage parlor? Or the story of how you and Jake made Tough Brothers? Don’t forget that soap opera star you banged. Or that night when your car got stolen. What about that crack whore out on Coney Island? Or that building superintendent up in the Bronx? Don’t forget when the cops thought you...
* NOTE: I'm sure readers know that Planet of The Apes is copyrighted.
Somewhere in Brooklyn:
Brooklyn:
Bushwick (Brooklyn):
Upper West-side Manhattan:
5 Pointz:
Williamsburg (Brooklyn):
My man Mitch from Smalls:
Gotta be 5 Pointz:
5 Pointz:
And a special dedication to our # 1 reader and definitely one of our favorite people of all-time Rules!, who may have to go to the hospital. Feel better girl!!!!!
* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. 5 Boroughs of NYC. All rights reserved.
"...You know that famous painting of the gypsy Arab traveler sleeping with his mandolin and the lion gazing on him?" 
Regular readers know I lost my job in June; but I don’t know if I’ve mentioned how much I love being unemployed. Fuck work. I read these articles about unemployment and how people are so desperate for jobs and I have to ask why? Why do you want to work? You hate being alone with yourself that much? It’s that uncomfortable? If so, maybe you should work on that. Course most people need money. Got that wife and house and kids and car payments. All those bullshit American symbols of alleged adulthood which induce a man to sell-out for a bi-weekly paycheck. Or monthly. And can you really live on what they’re paying you? Get ahead? Or just getting by?
Here’s a news-flash for you reader. You don’t need to work to make money. There are other ways. For example you can steal it. That’s what they do here in New York. All those Wall Street CEO’s and Bernie Madoff’s. Cash-in on other people’s ambitious greed and in doing so satisfy your own. How many bank CEO’s went to jail after Madoff? Or after the financial collapse of 2008? I’m unaware of a single one* (*might want to fact-check that).
Or you could go into politics. Seems to have worked well for the Bush’s--how’d they make their money again? And Obama should do fairly well for himself once his term’s up. And good for him, I like that guy. If he’s anything like me he probably never realized how many sour peckerwoods; unemployable minorities; and middle-class dullards make-up this country ‘til he got to actually meet and represent ‘em.
But don’t worry Mr. President, take it from me. Once you quit working you’re gonna love life again. I sleep-in as late as I want. Nap in the afternoon. Respond to a few ads on Monster before going to the gym or the beach. I’m down to my high-school weight of 146 pounds and ripped-up like like a kid half my age. With a nice tan too.
And to have time to read--what a humanizing pleasure! This summer I’ve read: Sexus by Henry Miller; Augie March by Saul Bellow; White Tiger by Aravind Adiga; and Death of Artemio Cruz by Carlos Fuentes. Big, wordy, fiction books. Stained glass books (as John Barth might say) as opposed to the clean, no-nonsense histories or autobiographies I’d normally read.
These books really speak to me. Like my own voice, only so much more insightful and original. For example from Sexus*:
“...I realized the world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment I stopped being a serious member of society and became--myself. The State, the nation, the united nations of the world were nothing but an aggregation of individuals who repeated the mistakes of their forefathers. They were caught in the wheel from birth and they kept at it ‘til death--and this treadmill they tried to dignify by calling it life. But if you asked anyone to explain or define life, what was the be-all and end-all, you got a blank look for an answer. ...Those in the thick of life, “the plugs in the harness,” had no time for such questions.”
Almost like he was talking directly to me reader.
And from Augie March*:
“...She had the power achieved by those who lie still. ...You know that famous painting of the gypsy Arab traveler sleeping with his mandolin and the lion gazing on him? That doesn’t mean the lion respects his repose. No, it means the Arab’s immobility controls the lion. This is magic. Passivity plus power.”
Course the best lines are always the simplest. Like Carlos Fuentes when he says, “We’re all the children of fucked mothers.” If that doesn’t nail the human condition I don’t know what does.
I’m telling you reader, to hell with work. With jobs. With the nation-state and obligations. This Labor Day my suggestion is to stay put and watch the world go round. Take a Long Intermission from the work-week and avoid the deluge of human mediocrity that presently totals 7 billion (and growing everyday). If you’re not a farmer or a doctor; a great artist or perhaps an engineer then all you’re doing is busy-work anyway. Busyness to keep you occupied. ‘Til the next inevitable war. And any reader of mine should be smarter than to get involved in that nonsense.
So do yourself a favor and enjoy the freedom of Labor Day!
“I did a fair amount of research in literature and among modern thinkers. The first conclusions were obvious. Boredom starts with useless effort. You have shortcomings and aren’t what you should be? Boredom is the conviction that you can’t change. You begin to worry about loss of variety in your character and the uncomplimentary comparison with others in your secret mind, and this makes you feel your own tiresomeness. On your social side boredom is a manifestation of the power of society. The stronger society is, the more it expects you to hold yourself in readiness to perform your social duties, the greater your availability, the smaller your significance. On Monday you are justifying yourself by your work. But on Sunday how are you justified? Hideous Sunday, enemy of humanity. Sunday you’re on your own--free. But free for what?...
--From Augie March, Saul Bellow. 
* NOTE:
All text stolen from the great writers is copyrighted, yet used without permission from any of 'em (since they're all dead). Any issues from their Estates, you just let me know!
* *ADDITIONAL NOTE: Photos of Henry Miller, Carlos Fuentes, and Saul Bellow were stolen off Google Images and may be copyrighted.
