Friday, October 25, 2013


            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.






  1. I used to get kinda depressed in summer too. But this year it wasn't so bad. I just went with the flow, and accepted the heat and the sweatiness and all the frenetic energy. I think I got down in previous years because there were so many events, that it was inevitable I would miss the majority of them. But with my antenna a little more out, I could sift through all the event postings, find a few I really wanted to go to, weed out ones that had a lot of hype but would probably be depressing, and just have fun. It also probably goes back to 12 years of diabolic torture at the hands of the state, of placing too high hopes on the summer weeks to squeeze in three seasons of hoped for escapes. And the midst of that supposed blissed out summer time, you are supposed to not get a little down at the thought of the approaching school season, with its ubiquitous and useless homework, boredom, performance stress, judgement from cruel and idiotic elders, etc. Nonetheless, I don't think I could be a winter person, or a beach/ocean person. I've always dreaded the ocean for the most part, aside from a nice short sail in perfect conditions. Winter...just too bittre kalt or however the norse called it. Too many midwestern ancestors screaming at me to appreciate my subtropical climate. I fancy the northwest, but I don't want mosquito swarms like in Hawaii. No thanks.

  2. But still I want to live with the sound of the ocean someday. I stayed for a few days with fam in a house on the beach in Carlsbad--dad's side. It was great! Even with the toddlers running about, you just gotta love kids. they are like therapy. It was like a year of therapy in a few days. And our next door neighbor was this international body surfer--has the world record for the highest wave body surfed--40 odd feet, and he was with this yoga teacher/guru who toured with Andy Weil. She did yoga lessons with strangers on the beach, and others did fire dances on the beach at night. Too bad its so damned expensive to live down there. The sound of the therapy.

  3. I hope you'll allow a little bit of constructive feedback here. You have a lot of keen insights on human behavior, but you wax sometimes too far into the harsh hypercritical. I think this may be in part because of your work environment. Booze makes people kind of discontent to a fault. Maybe deep down you aren't really satisfied. Why not take a break? I know its incredibly hard to get away from booze. I'm still struggling. I go for lengths and then get a bottle. But I finally realize that I have to either quit or drink like normies do. Booze creates a kind of insular microcosm, and that kind of comes across in your writing, which may put a lot of people off. A lot of people are weary of drink. It would be nice if everyone were perfect drinkers, but we aren't. And your humor would still be strong if you sanded the harsh edge off. Just refine it, and make sure your final copy on the web is free of spelling errors. Your writing may appeal to an east coast niche out there, uninhibited and temperamental, but out here on the west coast people are interested in all kinds of crazy shit--transhumanism, mysticism, new atheism, spirituality, kabbalah, you know. Not the new age snake oil shit. Instead of giving a line or two to the political climate, go further. Say how vile all religions are, and how we must overcome them, but in a proactive and non-shaming way. Anyway, that's just my two cents. Peace out.

  4. But your harsh edge is just so damn funny. Maybe...pick out people, like cops who taze people to death, or others, and rip them up. Get political maybe. I dunno.

  5. Keep up the funny edge, but tone down mentioning your accomplishments, and keep in mind some folks may be hurt by your humor. Some people may deserve it, but the best humor is not really cruel. Balance your disenchantment and malaise with positivity. You could get people hooked on a kind of roller coaster of negativity and positivity. Like a typical script. Denouements and all. Add some futurism. Mention someone you heard of that you really admire. Don't make it sound like desperate self promotion. And you can delete these comments--they probably should have been sent personally.

  6. You don't want to come across as scarred, wounded, spiteful, vengeful, etc. But powerful. But paradoxically with power can come candid self-admissions, which you have demonstrated, which is endearing and really helps people. You have this helper in you which shines at times, but seems to withdraw like a wilted bouquet.

  7. The new mysticism is amazing. Like the Science and Nonduality Conference. I think people are happiest when they consider many metaphysical viewpoints but return to a kind of happy stasis.