Archive for August 2013

New York Mag and Phd Swag   Leave a comment

Made a pit stop at a party hosted by the New York magazine at uber cool location Phd, at the Dream Hotel.

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Posted August 27, 2013 by marcusbird in Uncategorized

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Osaka Storia and Bina Memoria   2 comments

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I smell Osaka in the wind tonight.

Osaka was where she lived, and I’d take the train from the small sleepy town I lived in, somewhere in the middle of Japan, and I’d hop off when I reached Osaka Station, my heart beating with anticipation for the moment she’d come into my vision. I don’t know why it was on the wind tonight in Jamaica of all places, but it was there; the smell of the trees and flowers around her building, mixed with the sweet  touch of the inside of her apartment. I stood there, in the dark nighttime looking up to the sky, frozen in place. I had somewhere to go, I had something to do, but I couldn’t move, because I smelled Osaka on the wind, and I smelled her.

I saw us, walking together from her place to a small market nearby. She had plans for dinner, and I was smiling as she spoke, telling me what vegetables she needed to make it taste just right, and the twinkle in her voice as she told me she wanted me to enjoy the food. I watched her roaming through the supermarket, eyeing this ingredient and that, her eyes focused on the task, while I, a lingering shadow, observed from some distance away. The dinner was great that night as we smiled and chatted about nothing in particular, our heads light with the touch of red wine. It was cold, and that night she kept me warm in our embrace and I lay there, not wanting to leave forever.

I take a few steps forward, and I take a deeper whiff of the air around me. Yes, it is there. That sweetness that was both the smell around me and the moment; times we walked around a canal by a huge overpass near her place, watching trains streak by like illuminated snakes in the distance. There is an image of her that comes to mind. It is a cool windy September evening, and she is standing in front of me, in a summer dress, the wind blowing her hair around, her eyes comfortable with the promise of what we might have. In the background, green grass stretches as far as I can see into the distance. Around us, people walk and jog, children throw baseballs and people sit on blankets, but all I see is her, the summer dress she wears and the way she looked at me as the wind blew.

Now my mind is flashing to images of us in Tokyo, laughing as we run to catch a bus. We are late, and the bus is almost ready to go. I’m awkwardly holding my backpack, and she is lugging a small suitcase. I hear it clack clack on the sidewalk as we cheer each other on. She tells me we will make it, and I respond in a huff, agreeing with her. We make it to the bus on time, and laugh at each other constantly on the way to our destination. The bus ride is about two and a half hours, and I watch the evening grow into darkness through the window with her hand in mine. I can smell her against me, and feel her breaths against my shoulder. We talk sometimes, and sometimes we don’t. The bus dropped us near to a quiet inn, a Ryokan where an old lady gave us our room keys. We had a private room, outside in a quiet garden in front of a quiet enclave of tress. If you listened carefully, you could hear the running water of a river somewhere nearby. The room was cold and she kept me warm again, her hair spilling onto my chest as she held me, the laughter and memories of the evening before echoing throughout my consciousness as I vanished into her aura. I remember feeling there was love there, but I also remember feeling weak. Tokyo had me on edge, with its demands that left bank accounts near empty, and my mind a swirling maelstrom of doubt.  Her smell, her warmth was one of the few lights out there. This trip was one of those escapes, a drift into the outskirts of reality that was just us.

We went to a museum the day after arriving at the Ryokan, and I remember getting annoyed with her as she walked around taking pictures. She was so dogged in her determination, so intent on taking pictures of everything, I felt ignored. At the time I didn’t realize that I was observing her being lost in everything around her. She was lost in the trees and time and space, lost in the beautiful artwork and the sun’s rays bouncing off the trees branches around us. Lost she was, in the slightly shaking blades of grass, silhouetted by a backdrop of the Japanese mountains. I felt she was ignoring me in these moments, but now I know, I wanted her to be lost in me.

The smell is still there and I’m standing on a series of large outdoor tiles that lead into my house.  I take another whiff and I see her in her kitchen in the morning, laughing at me as I tell her she can’t always eat bread and coffee for breakfast. Just watch me, she says, and serves me the same thing. That was a day, a valentine’s day I think, when I was on the edge of reason for other reasons. Something was happening to me, I was feeling sick all the time. The stresses and demands of the Japanese life seemed to be getting to me. I had seen a few doctors and all of them simply told me I need to relax. You are probably depressed, one doctor said after I told him about some chest pains I was experiencing. I told her how I was feeling about her. The strength of my passion, and what it might mean for the future. That day I felt like a piece of meat on a chopping block, with the butcher’s hand held high, waiting for a customer to tell him which piece they liked best. My revelation made her quiet that day, and as we walked through some quiet back street after breakfast, she didn’t say much. I didn’t know what this meant. I always felt like I was putting myself on the line, but she was worth it, in my mind. Her silence was painful, and as we spoke later I—

My feet squelch on moist grass. I’m on the lawn, looking at the clouds. The garden is dark and the white walls look dull. I hear a car drive by somewhere in the distance. There is something I need to do, somewhere I need to go, but I still can’t move. The demands of a Kingston night are being drowned out by a smell I can’t touch, and by the memory of a woman I haven’t seen in a long time.

Then I remembered the panic attack. It was a night in Tokyo before I lived there, and I was with her, on a weekend excursion. We were with some friends at a large restaurant. They were nice people, but I was feeling a bit tense. Something was boiling inside me in a strange way, something I couldn’t place. In the middle of the meal, I suddenly felt hot, and I couldn’t breathe. Excusing myself from the table, I walked through a small entryway to the front of the restaurant, unsure of what was happening. On a balcony outside, I took in several deep breaths, and tried to stop my heart from racing. I didn’t know what this meant or why. Maybe it the demands of my new life were overwhelming, maybe it was something, else, I didn’t know. The touch of an arm on my shoulder let me know someone was there. It was her. This was a time before we really knew each other very well, and I fought with my mind as she looked on me with concern. I don’t want to lose her, my mind said. I told her the truth, and I wasn’t sure why I felt so panicked. She smiled and gave me a hug, and told me not to worry. Take your time, she said, and went back inside. Tokyo felt like such a raging beast at the time, with its circuit board architecture, bright lights and endless stream of people. I felt a little better sometime later, and thanked her for being so patient with me.

Our hotel room had an interesting retro theme and this was a talking point each time we went back into the room.  We were in that moment feeling each other out, testing the waters and trying to understand it all. Waking around the city the next day, I let her know that seeing the constant stream of people around me was unusual. You’ll get used to it, was her gem of wisdom, and she was right. With her hand in mine, we drifted through faceless crowds on quiet streets and public parks. In one of these places, a shiny sculpture of a crocodile was on the ground, and I, not one to ignore a moment to capture on film, decided to sit on it. Take a picture, I said, gesturing to her while sitting on the object. Then, I fell to the ground, because the surface of the crocodile was so smooth, as I sat I simply slipped off. There I was, my long legs up in the air, with her in the distance laughing uncontrollably at me. She was laughing with her hand over her mouth, but it came loud and clear over the calm summer air. I told her to take the picture anyway, and laughed along with her.

The yard is dark and empty, and the occasional rustle of a bird flying in the night is all I can hear. I can still smell Osaka on the wind, but it is fading now. I take a few more steps forward, and I can feel it drifting away. I can’t taste that touch of her on my tongue anymore; the strong visuals and the flood of memories are getting harder to hold on to. The invisible cloud of Osaka that was hanging over my house is moving away to its next destination. I pace about a bit more, trying to hang on to the smell, to remember her, feeling so close to me in this moment. Then, it is gone, and I’m standing in the dark on a cool Caribbean evening, wondering where she is.

Massive exhaustion and Book review Caution   2 comments

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It’s about 3 a.m, and I hear a door open. Squinting in the dim light of a lamp beside my suitcase, is Ron, whose couch I’ve been sleeping on for the past week. He shuffles past me, his eyes thick with sleep. I hear him mumble something unintelligble under his breath, before he vanishes into the bathroom. I’m doing my “travel check protocol” before heading to the airport. While staying at his place, I devised a nice little system of staying as organized as possible in the small pace. A few minutes before, my little space was chaos, but now everything is almost packed away, and outside New York is quiet and dark. Ron comes back out from the bathroom and gives me a bro-hug. “Travel safe man, and good luck,” he says. I tell him likewise and he shuffles back into his room.

The kind of tired I’m experiencing is palpable. I can feel it in every part of my body. I’m overextended in terms of energy, finances and everything else I can think of. The last few days I’ve been walking long blocks to get to meetings, figuring out directions (badly) to meetup with people at night while trying to make stuff happen with my book. In the Lincoln Town Car i’m taking to the airport, my mind runs briefly on Jamaica, where in a day I’ll be delivering a speech at this year’s edition of Anime Nation, a growing Cosplay event put on the by a group called the JA Cos Playaz. The time spent in the states running around on buses, planes and trains has gotten to me; I feel weak and winded. Some sort of Bachata music is playing on the radio, and I watch Brooklyn disappear in a blur of black as we head to JFK. I have a large duffle bag and a backpack.  I feel like I’m being dragged into the earth itself as I walk the fifty feet or two to the American Airlines check in counter. I happily hand over the duffle to the check-in lady, but my backpack is worse. Two minutes after having it on my shoulder, I start to feel light-headed and I kneel on the ground, taking in a few breaths. This is when I know I’ve gone close to my limit. I regain my balance and go through the major security checkpoint and head to my gate. The waiting area is so cold it would scare an arctic wolf. I try to pass the time rubbing my arms and walking around. I’m listening to the last few CDS of an audio called The Power of Intention on my ipod,  nodding in agreement with different parts as I ruminate about serious “coincidences” that happened in the previous week. The fat backpack is on the ground some distance away and I am wide awake. For some reason I buy a large cup of coffee, which adds to my growing state of disease. I sigh again after buying some morning McDonald’s (an egg muffin without bacon) and I can’t eat it. I’m too tired to chew it, and something about it tastes off.

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The first flight is three and a half hours long, but before we took off I felt a little woozy. The plane felt as if it was moving before it was moving, and outside, the bright sunlight was garish and made my head hurt. I fell asleep for about two hours then woke up, feeling as if I was in a refrigerator. As man who has endured twenty-two hour flights to Japan, a nightmarishly uncomfortable thirteen hour train ride in Egypt and climbed a mountain the evening after a day of teaching six English classes (ask people who live in Japan what that means) I was annoyed at my weakness. I was annoyed I was so cold, and so tired.

With sleep seemingly not going to be my friend, I resumed rubbing my arms and floating in that grey area of being asleep and awake with the occasional feeling that my head is spinning. When we land in Miami I feel relieved. I have a six hour delay and at least that would give me time to get back to normal. I was wrong. The Miami airport felt even colder than JFK and my backpack felt like ten drowning men pulling me into a whirlpool. Only a minute after putting it on as I exited the plane, I started feeling light headed again. The bag was way too heavy. I groaned as I paced about, looking for somewhere, anywhere that would have sunlight. I found a spot adjacent to a Friday’s in plain view of everyone walking by. There I sat, unapologetically leaning on the huge transparent window for warmth. I felt like a traveling reptile author, on his rock, lazing the day away. When people walked past I could feel the cold air in their wake hit me like punching gloves, and in that mental mix of fatigue I drifted off to sleep.

For twenty minutes.

The sun had disappeared and I felt a little better, a baseball team of energetic young men chatting Spanish was near my location, I got a few more minutes sleeping crookedly on a chair.

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The next few hours were just like this, and the one hour flight back to Jamaica was brutal. Everywhere was stuffy,  and I felt like I was in a hot little box, unable to breathe. I’d never experienced throwing up in the air, and I felt close. Even after I came off the plane things felt wobbly and uncertain.

In this state I ended up going to a friend’s goodbye party briefly, mentally trying to figure out if I would be ready to deliver a speech in a day’s time. This was a very brief, but surreal re-entry back home. My friends (from Germany) excitedly gave me passionate hugs, congratulating me on the book and what i’ve been doing so far. I smiled and laughed with them, enjoying the moment but heavy with the need for sleep.

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It takes a while when you are this exhausted to regain your equilibrium, but time wasn’t on my side.

I did the Anime Nation speech (people told me it went well) and instead of heading home, I snapped photos of the event. The previous year I covered the event in a video, and I remembered I was frustrated at the time I wasn’t able to document people in their costumes. I ended up staying the rest of the night, taking pictures of almost everyone in costume and went home wiped out and tired, falling asleep fully clothed.

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I wake up, still feeling somewhat exhausted and remember that I need to get these photos online quickly so I can start focusing on some book stuff. I shoot out a few reminder e-mails and plan some follow up calls. The day starts off with a bang as usual, and I’m already thinking of fifty things I need to make happen. Then I notice on my Amazon page that I have a new review up, and it is terrible.

Whoever wrote it didn’t like the book, my writing, they didn’t like my use of similes (this is mentioned in the review) and if I knew them personally they probably wouldn’t like my cat either. Sitting there on an early Sunday morning, I wondered, “what should I feel?”

The progress I’ve made in the last two weeks has been incredible relative to the previous five. In New York I had meetings with people telling me parts of the book they could relate to, and I briefly had a flashback to my book reading, when someone in the audience spoke at length about the suicide of a friend and how a part of my book  made them relate to that. So I looked at the review one more time, feeling a flash of discomfort travel through my body, and nodded to myself.

I don’t think you can be an author and not have someone hate your book. In fact, you can have people dislike your book, but most writers talk about the people that “spew vitriol” about their books and how these people must exist. I mull this over in my mind as I start selecting my top picks from the photos I took the night before. As it relates to the negative review, I briefly wonder who this person is, if they actually read the entire book, are they an academic or a writer, but then I realize it will be impossible for me to know this, and also impractical to ask. Maybe this person likes paranormal romance novels or historical fiction. Maybe they don’t, and as I start editing the photos, I realize it doesn’t matter. I realize that this one review could unravel me, it could make me question all my progress and wonder if I really have something. It could become the dark angel on my shoulder, whispering negativity into my ear canals. But I also know it can’t. I get more focused on the task at hand, and thoughts of the review slowly go away from the forefront of my mind. The image below is one of the favourites I shot at anime nation. (To see all the pics, click here )

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With regards to the book there is work to do, there are people to call, there are print revisions to make, there are proposals to write and there is not enough time in the day. I don’t have a loft in Manhattan. I’m not figuring out which book deal I want as publishing houses battle for me to be their new darling. I’m not there yet. I’m a guy who had an idea for a book and wrote it.  I’ve been on the nigh edge of burnt out for almost two months and I see that something is starting to happen, and I can’t stop now. Sleeping on my friend’s couch and getting all dressy to go to meetings, schmoozing with people at magazine parties and taking trains around town is for the moment part of an illusion, I am in the present, and dead certain what it means. The future can hold promise and many things, but each night coming back to that couch reminded me that I wasn’t there yet. So exhaustion, bad review or not, I know I’m not there yet, and that I need to work harder, and i’m just getting started.

Aussie Punches & Chipotle Munches   Leave a comment

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Traveling for extended periods of time tire most people, but not hardy strong-back Australians apparently. This statement comes after I explain to my friend Vera, a tall, fit Australian girl whom I met in Tokyo during our mutual training sessions for an English teaching company we both worked for two years ago. At the time I found her quite impressive; the accent, her ‘do whatever’ vibe, and her playfully harsh ball-busting. In true form, only minutes after hanging out with her, my balls were busted.

“I had a book reading to do in Washington D.C,” I started to explain. “But I was in Martha’s vineyard, which is pretty far away, so I ended up having to buy a cheap flight to get there, because taking the bus would have been like twelve hours, and I didn’t think I could do a reading after twelve hours on the bus.”

After I said this, Vera looked at me with a funny expression. “You are such a girl,” she said. “Twelve hours is nothing.”

In one way, I took her seriously. Her body language reflected that sensibility; a go anywhere, sleep-on-rocks kind of vibe. I’m not a softie, but twelve hours in a bus for us average folk is quite taxing if we aren’t of Australian stock.

Meeting up with Vera is interesting because a few weeks ago I had a very enlightening online conversation with her. I told her I found her intriguing and that it was cool meeting her in Tokyo. She said likewise about me, and I didn’t expect to see her again for quite some time, if ever. Before I went to the states, I knew she was traveling around somewhere in  California, but i had zero idea she was in New York when I was on my way there.  I sent her a message  at some point saying we should chat on the phone, and it turned out she was doing some Jujitsu training in New York, with some five time world champion god-type dude. Naturally, after the shock of knowing she was in the same city as I was subsided, we made plans to meet.

Meeting her falls into the continuing theme of things feeling right. I’m not sure how to explain this to people, but sometimes when you make certain decisions, things just add up rapidly. People you haven’t seen in a while pop into your life, opportunities arise in almost fairy tale like ways, and you are left each day with a big question mark over your head wondering…

What the hell is going on?

But these days, for me, when stuff like this starts happening, I just roll with it. I take it one step at a time, I puzzle each opportunity logically and i try and see what the universe is giving me. There are long, dark moments in life when all you see is nothing, and then there are moments when so much happens so quickly, you don’t have space in your pockets for all the goodwill being thrown at you.

So Vera and I have dinner at Chipotle, where she’s never eaten. “I don’t know what’s good here,” she tells me.

I remind her I always eat the same thing (chicken burrito) but ask her if she likes bowls versus wraps. She gets a wrap and we sit on high stools and talk about life. I still like her vibe; her hair, streaked with purple and blue highlights,  is pulled into a short ponytail. She’s wearing a loose fitting tanktop and whitewashed jeans shorts. There is something very adventurous about her energy, and she occassionally looks around, as if looking for something to do. She asks me about my book, and i give her the brief update on progress thus far (book reading, meetings in New York, etc). She nods while I talk, eating her burrito and dipping unapologetically into a bag of salsa chips I bought.

Her eyes are piercing and questioning and whenever she asks me a question i’m immediately reminded why I found her so fascinating initially. To me, she’s one of those people that lives life, takes steps and does interesting things. I like being around people like her.

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After we finish our food, she tells me about a Yogurt place that we both have to see. I dont’ eat Yogurt or Ice Cream, but i say i’ll tag along. “Your loss,” she says with her usual bravado. We walk from Chelsea up to Madison Square gardens, where her phone says the Yogurt shop is on the fourth floor of Penn Station Four. We keep seeing Penn Station two for a while, and then walk inside.  In the lobby, all I can see are construction signs. “Are you sure this place is open after nine p.m?” I ask. “It’s probably closed,” she replies. But we linger around for a bit and snap some pictures.

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During this entire time, I’m filming random clips of our search for the yogurt shop, laughing at her increasing dismay at not being able to get what she wants.

We pop into a Haagen-Dazs somewhere and she looks at the menu. “I’m coming back here on Sunday,” she tells me. “I can get two for one.”

We keep walking around and talking about nothing in particular. It’s a great vibe, a welcome break from the self-imposed stress of self-actualization i’ve put myself into lately. We end up browsing through an H&M store where she calls me a “girl” at least three times. Apparently for her, men don’t wear tank tops. She likes guys in collared shirts and nice pants. “Guys in those outfits (tank tops and jeans) are so Bogan,” she said.

“Bogan?” I ask.

“Bogan is like… ghetto in Australia,” she explains.

I chuckle at this. I’m not really looking for anything in particular, but browsing through H&M is always fun, especially with a tall, jujitsu savvy Aussie girl. We exit the store, and before she heads back to where she is staying, she gives me a long hug and tells me she was happy to see me. I can tell she really means it, and it makes me feel good. My feet are hurting and i’m feeling tired, but I had another New York moment with a friend and it made me smile.

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Etro Jackets and Photo Packets   Leave a comment

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I’m sitting in a nice Mexican eatery in Washington heights–the kind where both the people serving me speak no English. I’m hanging with Jacob, the fashion editor for G Caribbean magazine, who recently styled international superstar Machel Montano for the cover of their premiere issue. He will also be styling me for a photo shoot today.

I dive into a huge broccoli and cheese omlette while Jacob tells me about his career in fashion, working for brands like Hugo Boss, Etro and Canali. This whirlwind New York life is starting to mess with my brain because I’ve only been in New York since Sunday, and i’ve done more in three days to push my book Sex, Drugs and Jerk Chicken forward than i’ve done in two months. But the nature of how this happened relates to what i’ve been doing the last two months either way. Everything is adding up. I’m a bit tired as i’m writing this, because I haven’t fully adjusted to what I call “New York” rhythm. The constant walking, loud trains and diets that seem based solely on expensive sandwiches and sodas isn’t what i’ve been used to the last few years. But either way, the journey is getting more interesting. I meet the rest of the team, a cool photographer named Marko and my makeup lady slash co-director Mauricia. We run through the shoot, with everybody buzzing with high, friendly energy.

“This is the author of the book,” Jacob said to Marko at some point.

Something about that statement felt a little strange. I still just feel like me, Marcus Bird, the dude with a few crazy ideas he put on paper and brought into the real world. But in New York i am an author, creative and seemingly more. People here are excited by things and interested in things. This is a far cry from the more chilly, rummy vibe of sunny Kingston. I’ve been chatting to my little sister lately about the idea of “walking value” as a means of showing people a better side of yourself. This walking value could be a project of some kind that highlights more of your talents, or that encapsulates strong aspects of you related to your field. When I decided to really go hard with the novel, I felt that i’d be connected to it even more because I did the formatting, the cover design, all the graphics, the launch push, sent all the e-mails and so on. I am the product, and the product is me… and I can talk about it. It’s also great that I made some hardcopies of the book because they have been instrumental in putting a face to what i’m trying to do. On Sunday I had a meeting with the same people from G Caribbean that set up the photo shoot. One of them, a svelte fashion designer named Mikaila with a great head of hair peppered me with questions about the book.

“Where do you see this book going?” she said.”Where do you want to take this?” she asked. “Do you know know what you have here with this book?”

It wasn’t just her questions, three other people associated with the magazine hit me with similar questions. The questions were all about stuff relating to the novel that had been hidden in the back of my mind, in that dark upper attic that few people ever venture to. But this was New York, and people in magazines don’t just pat you on the back and say “Good job buddy!” No. They ask questions, they probe, they are interested, if only for the moment. The dialogue spun around the book, the magazine and ten other topics at once. At the end of it all, some plans were hatched, one of which included a photo shoot which would be happening in a day’s time.

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So now i’m at the shoot, trying to get my swag on. (Big props to full time models, this stuff ain’t easy)

I can’t see where all of these various things will take me, but I honestly haven’t had time to think about it. In three days i’ve walked more than i’ve walked in a LONG time, made tons of connections and i’ve been constantly busy and going, going, going. Even today I have three meetings and i haven’t figured out how i’m getting to the airport for 5 a.m yet to catch my flight to kingston.

Something is tingling in the back of my mind, and i’m not sure what it is. I’m not the sort of guy who gets excited very quickly about things. I watch patterns, I double check things, I try to make confirmation on top of confirmation before I make heavy decisions. I want things to feel right; i want to make sure they make sense, but in the last three weeks in particular i’ve been throwing myself more into the wind, letting go of certain aspects of control, taking bigger risks, and stepping to closer the edge. At the meeting on Sunday, Rae, a research contributor for the magazine asked me, “How invested are you in this project Marcus?” I thought for a second, and said, “I’m on the edge.”

Geoff, the editor-in-chief of the magazine, immediately said, “Just dive.”

I thought for this for a moment, and nodded. I guess its time to dive.

Bedford Cruisers and Lex Losers   Leave a comment

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I’m standing outside, somewhere in East Williamsburg. “This is like, the outer rim of Williamsburg,” my buddy Ron tells me. We are standing outside Don Pedro, where Ron and a few friends are having a smoke, and i’m chatting idly to a girl named Kit who works in fashion photography. The conversation is light and simple until the door opens and a girl holding a box of surgical masks and another box with gloves opens the door and proclaims, “THE MAD DOCTORS ARE COMING ON STAGE NOW SO GET F*CKING READY!!” For a moment, the group pauses at this random display of blatant band-promotion until the girl goes back inside. My curiosity is peaked, because earlier the bassist for the band, a chill Asian dude with a massive beard spoke to me.

“You should really stick around for our show,” he said.

There was a certain insistence in his eyes, but it was somewhat subdued.  “I’m here supporting Wizard Sex, ” I said.  (Wizard Sex is the name of another band that played some time before)

He nodded and then replied, “Well since you are here, you might as well see the show,” he said. Both I and Ron acknowledged this statement with sincerity. Ron fiddled on his phone for a bit and I floated back inside after twenty minutes or so. Don Pedro, the bar where the event was being held, was now a madhouse. A girl wearing a horsehead was dancing near the stage and people were throwing toilet paper everywhere. The Mad Doctors were raging on stage, playing fast rock riffs with the lead singer screaming incomprehensibly into the mike. It was awesome. A girl in a Pig mask was fist pumping like mad, and everyone was jumping frantically. I needed my mask, and grabbed one, plus another beer.

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The members of a band I chatted with earlier, Lex Loser, were hanging around, giving support. This was how I spent my first night in New York, dancing beside a girl with a horsehead, a pig throwing toilet paper and chilling with people in a band called Lex Loser. Later, there was another bar, with more beers and music and random conversations. Our group mingled with a group of gorgeous Russian girls, a few Domincan ladies and some girls from Detroit. It was a whirlwind of rapid conversations, noise, and music. I was back in New York.

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This is what I have always loved about the city; that unpredictability that can happen in a night. The lingering eye you might get from the cute, dark haired girl in the corner, or the heartfelt conversation you might have with a guy who barbacks and still chases his dream of being a rockstar. I had woken up early in D.C after being super tired from traveling and walking god awful distances in D.C, took the bus to New york, and with only minutes to freshen up, had hit the road. Let’s see what the next few days have to offer.

Washington Places and CreateSpaces   Leave a comment

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It’s been really interesting being back in D.C for a day or so. Doing the book reading for Sex, Drugs and Jerk Chicken, walking around Chinatown for a bit, having dinner with a few friends and seeing old faces and places was an exercise in remembering what’s out there. Whenever I travel I tend to get this “reset” where I remember that out there in the world, there are entirely different ways of being and living. People I run into are doing things they want to do, whether it be at a non profit organization, or working for a big film company. I feel more and more like i need to be in a place with enough creative flux that I can meet and see the people I want. Either way, I got my books today and they look pretty cool. Hopefully I can offload them in the good old NYC if I do a reading. But i’m trying not to worry about it all, i’m just gonna hop on my bus and see what happens.

SDJChardcopies

Presently I’m not sure how to feel about the books. I mean i’ve made that step into the real world of publishing, but the way my mind works i’m always processing and nitpicking so I’m reserving judgement for the moment. BUT… at the very least, the cover design came out okay, and i’m pleased with the eye grabbing nature of it. The pages feel “okay” and i guess with time they will get softer with exposure to heat and air. The formatting seems to be okay as well, though the text is a tad smaller than I expected. I might have to adjust that somehow when i do my next run of books. Either way I have a tangible product that I can do stuff with like giveaways and show them to people, etc, so it’s an interesting step. I mean, as i’ve said many a time on this blog i’m not a person who gets easily excited by things, but i’ve been practicing more and more how to feel like what i’ve achieved is “something.” It’s hard to rejoice all the time when you are figuring out all the details about marketing, public relations, interviews and so forth at the same time. Anyhoo, this is step one to hopefully a much bigger step. Next destination is New York!

meholdingbook

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