Ah. I feel it—the cold wind sneaking through the windowpane. The leaves turning brown on the trees, rustling across deserted sidewalks, and the people, bundled now in their fall coats, draping scarves around their necks and pulling skullcaps over their ears.
Couples hold each other a little closer, the cafes are packed, and, of course, the bars are full with people warming their hands with “Hot Toddy’s” and warming their minds with “Fall-Mosa’s” (a drink my bar South 4th here in Williamsburg invented, apple cider and Prosecco, delicious).
There is such a difference in life when you have the seasons. They remind you of time passing, of the past, and the hope of the future. Remember Summer 2010? Okay, I don’t really. I was too busy living some kind of Bacchalian bohemian shirtless, jean shorts-doning alcoholic frenzy, hanging out in the actual McCarran Pool when there wasn’t water in the structure but instead hundreds of sweaty hipster fucks watching Sonic Youth and The Yeah Yeah Yeah’s drinking free Brooklyn Lager.
Remember winter, 2004? Oh Christ, deeply embedded in Boston’s snow emergency, trudging across the Mass. Bridge in a triple fat goose like a drunk Eskimo trying to get to my shitty bar in Harvard Square to serve a thousand frozen margaritas an hour all while wearing a bolo tie. Yes, a bolo tie. Nothing screams ‘please fucking kill me using razor wire and lime juice’ than wearing a bolo tie and an oversized button up white shirt. How anyone wanted to have sex with me that Winter 2004 is beyond me (many thanks to the 2 people that did).
The seasons help us define what our lives are, and what they are going to be. How many of you exclaimed at the first 80 degree day “this is going to be the best summer ever!” on the way to Coney Island? Answer: Every motherfucking last one of you.
Spring tells us we don’t have to kill ourselves anymore. God, come around March 23rd, I look around at the flaming embers of my self-esteem and the blackened ash of depression around my feet and say to myself: “Oh, right, it’s just the end of another New York Winter” (which is more brutal in general malaise than in vicious snow or storm).
Summer time? Oh, it’s on. Everybody fucks everybody, roof top parties, barbeques, rock and roll shows, outdoor screenings; New York is teaming with energy. Funny enough, I get the most depressed in the dead of summer. I think it has something to do with my rebellious nature of not following the lemmings down the hill into happiness. Usually fall’s my favorite, and winter as well (as long as there are no days when the icicles fly in your face with rapid speed sideways, trust me, that happens sometimes). Yes, I trust you more if you’re out drinking on a Tuesday in the dead of winter. Yes, if you are a woman who does this you immediately earn my respect. Yes, I dislike ‘drinking’ tourists. I like those who live their life unafraid, living out loud, and not letting the elements decide just what you should do with your day.
Museum trips in the rain. Brunch in a snow storm. Coffee date in 100 degree heat (yes, not iced coffee, hot coffee, learned that shit in New Orleans).
Maybe I love the seasons from the years I spent in Southern California. They have no seasons whatsoever, freak out when there’s rain droplets on their windshields driving down the freeway, and start complaining that it’s cold when it drops past 65 degrees. Try a New England winter, suckers. The only changes that happen to people in Southern California is a strange leaning to conservatisms and an odd susceptibility to Born Again Christianity.
Either way. I love my Cali peeps. I do love California. The Pacific Ocean is the most beautiful sight ever. I love the Redwood Forest. I don’t love car culture. I don’t love bars closing at 1am. I fucking hate the Orange County Police Department.
So now here we are. Fall, 2013. I’m 36. I’m single. Since moving to New York I have shot 6 short films, 2 music videos, written 3 novels, finished 1, completed a poetry chatbook (not proud) and a stage play (am proud), written 13 short stories, 61 blogs, and played 13 rock shows this year with my 90’s black tar heroin, sweater rock, riot grrrl 4 piece band. I’ve met agents, all of which have turned down my work (including The Bartender Knows memoir, which if you’re a fan of this blog, you’ll definitely love that book. Find me an agent please. Call your friends). I’ve been with some beautiful women, some horrid ones, dodged several demonic types, the kind that put a man in jail, and made some life long partners.
I’ve been through 32 seasons here in New York. How do I feel? A little worn, a little ragged. Suffering slightly from neurotic paranoia and creative borderline schizophrenia. Yep. All in all, I’m just another New Yorker, typing away at a café in Williamsburg with free Internet, trying to make you laugh/think/date me.
The Bartender Knows. It’s true. For now. I’m still broke. Yes, accepting donations.
So as you make your way out there this late October day, let me wish you a fine fall season, and gloriously romantic winter, curled up with whoever made it through the summer gauntlet season of dating, and ask for a Hot Cider with some Bourbon in it. We’ve got plenty of bourbon, no matter what season it is.
Until next week’s blog, follow me on Twitter. Yeah, I’m that asshole now. Fuck it. It’s 2013, kid. Here’s the magic code: @AdrinkpleaseBK.
I will attempt to be funny. Or if not, cat pictures, people.
Fucking cat pictures.
NO BARTENDER SHOULD EVER HAVE TO WEAR THIS SHIT.
FUCK YOU 21ST CENTURY DIGITAL MEDIA PLATFORMS TRYING TO SELL BOOKS!
...AND KITTY PICTURES!