The Dreamer Unleashed (An Ode To Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

There aren’t many moments cemented more in literary memory than witnessing in my mind’s own cinema those white feathers falling from the arid sky over Jose Buendia’s funeral procession lumbering below down the dirt Labrynthian paths of Macondo, a ‘mirrored’ city just as mysterious and wrought with strife as the Buendia family's 100 years of struggle.

As a fourteen-year-old writer (yes, I was writing even at that tender age), I was haunted by the elder father Jose Buendia in One Hundred Years of Solitude bound to a monstrous tree, plauged by the phantasma of the man he had to kill to win the love of his wife--Ursula. She, the matriarch soothe-sayer, holding her grieving generations in her arms, becomes the progenitor of a literary legacy as none ever conceived in the history of writing. Yes, even in the annuls of the Dostoyevsky legion of saints and sinners, so rife with the open nerve honesty of an angst-ridden 1890's St. Petersburg, Fyodor, despite his genius, still left the lid on the oil paint box closed.

Mr. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an immediately natural magician, painted entire families, cities, and regions with his brand of supernatural rules. I remember carrying the book through the halls of my vacant high school; the dull peach walls devoid of art, the classrooms rumbling with adolescent talk--emptiness everywhere. But there in the back corner desk, I smiled, like I carried a special secret. 

I did. Writing was more alive than it ever had been before.

All because of this very odd Colombian journalist, who was still in 1991, denied Visas to travel to America because of his close ties to Fidel Castro (they drank together). 80's covert war hungry America would have none of it.   

Least to say, staring at the blank page in my spiral bound journal, my mind raced with images, both real and not. I wrote a story of these elixirs transforming the imbibers into the animals they truly were (no doubt an earlier experiment in writing about drunks).

The rules had changed; the written world was flipped upside down. Anything was possible. I dove more into this land, reading Love in The time Of Cholera during a train ride across the Pyrenees Mountains in Spain ten years later, earmarking the corners of a page as we pulled into the train station in San Sebastian.

Innocent Erendira, spoke to me in a used bookstore in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 2003. The 1972 soft pink cover of the strange woman, head in her own lap, surround by laurel leaves, attracted me from the isle. I knew of his major works, but like any treasure, the discovery of it on your own changes the read. Another secret acquired. 

Inside this collection of short fiction (actually titled: The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Erendira and Her Heartless Grandmother) lies Death Constant Beyond Love, hands down a favorite short piece—again filled with characters facing their mortality. Marquez, the lyrical acrobat, Death Constant Beyond Love in other hands would never grant atonement for the philandering politician Senator Onesimo Sanchez. Neither would the audience gives him any sympathy, as he laid beside his scandalous relationship partner Laura Farina, a ‘moss’ smelling peasant girl given by her father in exchange for proper citizenship in Sanchez’s regime.

Oddly romantic, when the Senator lays near the young girl, in a sad embrace wryly smiling, he tells her:

“We are both Ares. It is the sign of Solitude". You cannot feel anything but an unexpected romanticism.

The last line is the killer: "Six months and eleven days later he would die in that same position, debased and repudiated because of the public scandal with Laura Farina, and weeping with rage at dying without her." 

This is Marquez’s spear in the body of literature, less than inventing the widely embraced ‘magic realism’ style he is crowned, Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s real talent is in making his characters, townships, and mythologies a stronger reality than our dull parade. Through brilliant colors, a total denial of physics, (as well as cynicism) and a keen gypsy understanding of the supernatural and cosmic world that surrounds us—in dreams or consciousness—made the literary universe more real than real.

Now 23 years later, I can think of no other living author who possesses this kind of insurgent shamanism in their work (save for Marquez’s Czech counter part, Milan Kundera, who is still scurrying around Parisian street at 85). The literary canon has undergone serious changes in the past 50 years, and still we wait for the new voices that will emerge and challenge this present status quo as much as Mr. Marquez had challenged his in his time.

As Samuel Johnson once wrote: “Men are generally idle, and ready to satisfy themselves, and intimidate the industry of others, by calling that impossible which is only difficult.”

THAT'S SENOR MARQUEZ TO YOU.

NOBEL PRIZE WINNERS HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR TOO.

THIS GOT ME.

  

HEY AMERICA. GO FUCK YOURSELF!

THE REAL JOB

I’ve been thinking too much since I’ve turned 37. One of the things I’ve been considering is deciding on the age I will lie to other people for the next 5 years.

Is 35 pretty good? That says ‘I’ve been around” and also simultaneously “I’m not 40, so it’s still okay to date me”. I got too many grey hairs in my beard to go younger.

            I wouldn’t be the first person to lie about my age. Actresses have been doing it for years—I’m sure some fellas too. And I understand that ‘40 is the new 27’ or whatever (as all the people around say to make me feel better about this whole ‘adult-transition’ thing) but I don’t fucking buy it.

            The change has already started. I feel it. There’s already new paranoia, neurosis, physical ailments, all while staring at my empty wallet (cue cartoon fly buzzing out from my opened weathered wallet).

            Choosing the art path (if there could be one specific path) was a bad move. What is cute and charming about the artist life at 22 (squalor, greasy long hair, nihilism, a vagabond, ‘tortured’ nature) becomes tedious, dull, and plain sad when you are pushing 40.

            I remember being very young, thinking of my life at this age, and I just plain could not see it. I had visions of creating an amazing piece of art that would move the world (yes, I was 14 once too, you know) and I would be lauded for my genius and I suppose I believed a fanciful lace carpet would float down from the sky and pick me up. I would sail around the world, respected by many for my inspirational works that changed the hearts and minds of the inhabitants of this fine planet.

            Or that’s how my little 14-year-old mind envisioned. Exactly what sort of ‘work’ this would be is beyond me. I still don’t think I’ve created it (or even have the ability to do so).

            Now, sitting alone at a bar pushing 40, listening to the drunken babbles of wanna-be dreamers, half measured men, and blubbering philosophies of coke-addled women—all lost to the drink—I wonder:

            Why didn’t I just go for the regular job? Why did I decide upon a 20-year ‘adventure’ of serving people? From barista, to waiter, to finally, dive bartender—what was it I thought I was doing? Couldn’t I have picked a ‘real job’? Joined the ‘real world’?

            But what the hell is a ‘real job’ anyway. There are a few that escape the ‘golden handcuffs’ career of this lifestyle.

            Some have gone into the weekly paycheck world. The biggest complaint I hear, nursing a vodka and tonic: “Oh my God, I make no money! The government takes everything.”

This is the sad reality of that world. There is no cash out. There is no tax-free money stuffed into your beer soaked pants pockets.

Let’s go through the ‘real jobs’ I have considered over these whiskey-filled years. 

DOCTOR:

Years upon years of school and work, only to start at the bottom of the food chain, harassed by insurance companies and state issued ‘health care’ plans. There was the psychologist option. After all, how hard could it be? Listen to other people’s problems all day: Check. Analyze already present issues in the person: Check (Note: Alcohol is the greatest solvent between reality and truth. After consumption of many beverages, people get real honest.)

What ruined this option? Schooling. Money. Competition. My age. I believe this ship has passed for me. By the time I would be ready to go into my own private practice, I would be at least 45 years old. Not old, but I would have to drastically alter my current lifestyle choices. And leave New York City just so I could concentrate.  

LAWYER:

Everybody knows this is a nation of lawyers. The only way not to eventually get fucked by one of these broods is to fight back with the same rules, and becoming a barrister is the greatest defense. Plus people always need a lawyer to protect themselves from other lawyers, so the want is strong.

But, again, the schooling, the years, and my current age again place this late stage game change a little far fetched. Knowing me, I would become a lawyer and consistently fight for the weaker party, which means I would become one of those bleeding heart liberal types, broke and squeezed into ill-tailored suits. I would start some class hatred shit (I have that terrible leaning) and probably become a pariah in the legal world.

Also the only place I would want to go to law school would be in New Orleans at Tulane. There would be a whole new slew of problems eventually, I can already see it. But that is a whole other blog.

BAR OWNER/MANAGER:

It is a known fact I know everything about bars and the operations of them. But then I would become the enemy, since we of the bartending community know that most bar owners and managers are the worst power hungry, control freak types of people. I could do it, sure. But then I would be like them. And since I have a distinct hatred for all authority, I myself, would become the enemy. It would be a shameful day.

I was a manager once, and quite beloved of my staff. Because I knew the honest truth. The customer is always wrong. To serve people feeds into some kind of aristocratic need in people to be waited on like a Marseille King, although they lack the bloodline, the class, and the money befitted for devaluating someone by asking for that extra ketchup. I can’t even sit at a table in restaurants anymore without feeling guilt rage up my spine. The “Hi, welcome to blah-blah, hope all is well, have you guys decided on drinks?” makes me shudder. Please don’t treat me like a human. I’m not. I’m like you.

Servant Class.

I don’t know people. Maybe the cash that day golden handcuff lifestyle has finally grabbed me by the balls.

Like my mother told me when I was a kid: “Be careful, Matthew. What you choose to be part-time now may be your full-time future.”

I know, Mom. You were right.

But what now?

Where do I go from here?

This week, The Bartender doesn’t know shit.

Till next week.

                      HI GUYS. DR. MATTHEW HERE.

      HI GUYS. I'M YOUR PUBLIC DEFENDER.

YOUR FUCKING FIRED!

THE GREATEST BARTENDERS IN THE WORLD!

So my mother (the lovely lady she is) was visiting New York City recently and, as usual, we must find a bar/restaurant immediately. It’s a family tradition, the whole dining/drinking thing. Our clan sees it as an essential aspect to living--the communion through food and drink an absolute must in any day. This no doubt stems from our European ancestry, these desires for great wine, great food, and great company.

            Someone asked me the other day what my ‘heaven’ would be like. I told him:

            “A bar where the drinks keep coming, the morning never comes, and the conversations never end.”  

My mother walks down 2^nd Avenue next to me, chiding me as always: “You walk too fast for your poor old mother. Slow down and show some

respect.”

She’s right, but it’s mainly because she’s 5’2” and 66 years old. Also, I’m a total spaz and have a hard time slowing down for anybody. She also taught me never to walk out of a doorway in front a woman. She would slap me in the back of the head: “Hey tough guy, show some respect. Never walk out of a bar or restaurant in front of a lady. Be a man.”

And people wonder why I’ve got such odd ideas of gender and our roles within them.

There we are, walking down 2^nd Avenue in one of the greatest cities in the world and we stumble across a bar that has something to do with ‘rochelle’ in the title of it. My mother, thirsty, looks up at the strange neon sign.

“What about this place?” She asks.

“Sure,” I say.

We saddle up to the bar. Already the place just reeks of what’s failing hard in this city. When I say failing, I mean what’s ruining this town. The whole gastro-pub, lacquered wood, frosted mirrors, horseshoes on the wall type of thing. You know what I’m talking about. Rot iron chairs, The Black Keys on heavy rotation, the menu graphics done in a 1920’s prohibition style, drinks with fancy combinations of Sazerac and Blueberry Bitters. It’s not just a bar, it’s a style choice.

I’m not hating on aesthetic, I love creative beautiful things. I just hate unoriginality. The place looks like every bar that has opened in the Williamsburg / Bushwick /Bed-stuy in the last 10 years. Artisanal everything. Other than being ragingly pretentious, it’s also a major drag for the bartender profession and the casual drinker looking to simply wet their whistle after a long day.

For the bartender, it takes twice as long dealing with the myriad of vials and herbs to make these drinks that frankly most people don’t give a shit about or could taste the difference in the end. The bartender will only receive the usual dollar a drink.

More work, less pay.

For the layman drinker, you can be assured when you see all of those lovely titled cocktails, the bill at the end of your stay will be just as bulbous and fat as the ego of the ‘cocktailer’ that made the drink. This is not just happening in New York. This sort of mentality has no doubt invaded your fair hamlet as well.

It’s bullshit and an insult to proper drinking. When did everything become artisanal? Who are these bourgeois fucks who spend money on these sorts of things? Don’t they have bills and shit?

That’s just the drinks and the décor. The workers already begin to make me feel sick.

They, of course, all have sleeve tattoos and well-manicured moustaches /beards. They are obviously all ex models/skateboard pros/ inheritors of wealth. They all have very good posture and pegged jeans and tight flannels shirts on. Each of their faces reek of some sort of superiority. They dress like ‘outsiders’. I say more like ‘poseurs’.

My mother, the kind soul that she is, doesn’t really care. We sit up to the bar. Of course, a deeply cleavage’d teenage hostess places menus in front of us. She is vacant and beautiful and surely hired for her charming personality. Then the bartender strolls up, looking like a Mark Maron advertisement.

He’s very excited.

“Hey you two! How are you?!?” He asks, let me say, very excitedly.

“Fine,” I mutter.

My mother, the angelic non-judging creature she is, smiles and briefly mentions she might be interested in some bourbon.

Big mistake. The bartender guy waves his hands to the 70 bottles of different whiskies (all obviously expensive as fuck). He’s hit the jackpot.

“Well let me tell you something! You are in the right place! We have a fine selection of some of the most original batch…local, single barrel, hand crafted…organic…artisanal…”

I’m lost in his adjectives. I feel like he describing car engine parts. It gets worse. My poor mother, working class to the bone, is confused. I’m confused.

He continues:

“I have got to say, I am very excited about whisky and bourbon. I am. I wasn’t really that interested before, I don’t know, say, a couple of years ago. But once I started drinking with the owners, they wouldn’t let it go. Well whiskey. Oh my God, it was like a crime! So I started getting really excited about whiskey about two, say, three years ago…”

Fortunately, one of the owners signaled him over just then. I take a breath and whisper in my mother’s ear:

“You hear that Ma? He’s been excited about whiskey for three years now. Shit, I’ve been excited about whiskey since I cracked the bottle at 12 years old.”

She belts out a laugh. “That guy is kind of a tool.” (Yes, my mother called him a ‘tool’).

The other bartender, exceptionally less ‘excited’ and well-polished comes over. “You guys need something?”

“Yes, please, sir,” I say, “Give us two Bullet Bourbons with a lemon slice and water back.”

“Cool,” he goes to poor the drinks. Then ‘excited’ guy comes back.

“So, what’d we decide?”

“Bourbon.”

“That’s great, that’s great!” He stares over at the bottle being poured. “I love that stuff, but you know what, I much prefer ‘---‘, it’s really got a fantastic oak maple finish with…” and the adjectives come and I space out. He’s like a used car salesman running after dissatisfied buyers through a parking lot.

My mother and I are both frightened. The other bartender, the reasonable one, looking ashamed because he gets it, places the drinks down.

“Thank you, man,” I say to him, nodding in understanding.

Then the boss comes over, the one who uses Castor Oil to wax his Fu Man Chu facial atrocity. “Which one you guys decide on? He asks, hands on his hips, nodding. The ‘excited’ guy is there now, also nodding, with his hands on his hips. These two are like Barnum & Bailey Circus performers. The embarrassed bartender goes to stand off to the side.

Boss guy nods: “I like the Bullet! But I gotta say my fav is ‘----‘! It’s got a real meaty, bold hand crafted…" now his adjectives are making me go deaf. My poor mother has a sad, glazed smile across her face. We both put the whiskey down hard and order two more.

“Do you guys wanna try ‘---‘?” the excited guy asks. The boss man nods next to him and grins. “Yeah,” he says, “or maybe this other one, the ‘---‘?”

“No, it’s fine. Two more of the same, thank you,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Are you sure? I’m a big fan of ‘---‘. It’s got a real bite, a classic thick…”

“Bro, I’m a bartender, I get it. Two of the same, thank you,” I repeat, as if speaking to a mentally retarded person. They finally scamper off.

My mother looks at me with wide eyes.

“What’s wrong with these people?” She asks.

“I don’t know, Momma. The world is going to hell in a hand basket,” I say.

We drank our drinks fast. Food was offered, you know, 15 dollars for a hot dog and fries, that sort of shit. We declined.

This is just a small example of what has happened to our drinking world. Just remember folks, as a barman, you will never be given more then

what you ask for at my bar.

Just like life—you get only what’s in front of you.

Not organically, artisanal, locally fresh, handcrafted whatever the fuck….

As always, follow The Bartender on Twitter! @ADrinkPleaseBK

Till next time.

OBVIOUSLY, COCKSUCKERS...

MARON, YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU. SOME DUDE IN THE VILLAGE IS STEALING YOUR LOOK. LET'S GO WHOOP HIS ASS.

IT'S CALLED WHISKEY. DRINK IT.

HOPE 'SPRING'S' ETERNAL

             Every time you start to feel the sensation of emptiness, that all rivals amassed in your life have revealed themselves to be your enemies, and the thought of cleaning a razor and slipping into a bubble bath sounds super sexy, I want you to immediately look over to your calendar hanging in the kitchen (like the Norman Rockwell painting I know all of you live in). If the date is February and any number in the 20’s, I want you to sit down calmly at your wood carved, placement adorned kitchen table, and breathe out deep.

Slowly.

            The world is not coming to an end, aside from the feeling contrary.

No, friends, it’s just the tail end of an East Coast winter, and any one who has lived through some know that irrational and often fatalistic thoughts are common during this glide into March. An everyday reality. And the City Of New York doesn’t help either. There is gleefulness in tragedy, like some dark season in a Dostoyevskian novella, that allows the human mind to feel that depression, sadness, and betrayal will be our only daily bread.

            No kids, you just need a beach day.

            The thing is that this is the most depressing time in NYC: snows been falling for weeks, the sun is replaced by a London Fog of grey doom, and the people have hidden themselves indoors OD’ing on House of Cards and True Detective.    

            Even Alec Baldwin came out to say he’s so depressed he’s going to move to Los Angeles (you’d have to be to move out there).

            But as your bartender, I’m here to tell you everything is going to be okay. This is only a phase. Your friends are not out to get you. Your boss is not going to fire you. The girl/guy you have a crush on probably does like you back. You don’t have to spend all of your time on Tinder.

            There are just a couple of things I want you to remember as we edge, slowly, through each unbearable degree of freezing cold (I think it was 3 degrees this morning out here).

            Don’t buy that gun. Avoid abusing Percocet. Put the bottle of whiskey down. Stop polishing the blade. Try to remember these fun facts about these last weeks of Winter 2014:

            S.A.D.

            This is a proven psychological affliction. Seasonal Affected Disorder. It means that the human mind and mood is ‘affected’ by the weather. Not in some paranoid ‘chem trails’ sort of way. It’s simple. Look at England. Want to know why the best music (rock and roll, especially) all comes from the British Isles? It’s grey as fuck (like Seattle) and the only thing left to do is lock yourself in a room and learn every Leadbelly song you can.

            Or take Southern California. Why is everyone in such a chill and good mood? Easy: no seasons, endless skyline, and the most beautiful beaches in the world. It’s very difficult to be depressed on the sandy beach watching the dolphins swim together before the silhouette of Catalina Island. Of course, being a pale-faced, scrawny New Englander freshly moving to Surf City U.S.A. from Rhode Island, I certainly tried my best to be depressed about it. I just listened to a lot of The Cure.

            S.A.D. is real. So if you’re balancing on the edge of a building right now—stop. It’s too cold for that shit. Yes, people are meaner in this season. It’s because their insides are freezing cold. Give them a sunny day and watch the ice melt.

            BEACH DAY

            Oh. Yes.

            Here’s my foolproof plan each Spring/Summer/Fall day that clocks above 80 degrees. Get up at 9am, immediately head to Union Square. Send out a mass text of those that would join the adventure (yes, I’ve gone solo before and will do it again). I go and purchase two bottles of Prosecco. They go right into the cooler (ice can be acquired at destination). Then I grab one of the yellow lines all the way to Brighton Beach. It’s no more than a 40 minute (proper train jumping is key) ride for $2.25. Before you know it, you’re in Russian town, buying ice and chilled bottles of Vodka from the bodega.

            We walk down the beach (which is never crowded at that hour) and set up camp. Towels are spread, umbrellas are dug in, and the weed is sparked. Nobody gives a shit about what happens out there as long as you keep a low profile. Then, after food, talk, several drunken swims, and other expressions of odd beach behavior, we walk down to Coney Island and watch the sunset drinking a Coors Light at Ruby’s, a nasty old glorious biker dive bar.

            Don’t you already feel better? Whose on my list!?!

            BACKYARD BBQ’s

            I don’t care if your grilling 25 pounds of ribs or sweetly charring heirloom mushrooms with chipotle butter. Any time the sun is shining, friends are drinking, and the music is pumping out in the afternoon light, times are great. Think of all those kids in Syria who don’t get backyard BBQ’s! It’s cheaper than a bar and far more intimate. Conversations abound, a blunt passed happily around, maybe even some dogs and cats running around our feet, these types of parties bring warmth to me, that’s for sure.

            Y’all feel me on this one?

            So buck up, buttercups, and ride this goddamn Winter out. So much more to come.

            Till next time.

OH HUMAN SADNESS. I JUST CAN'T QUIT YOU.

WHO'S COMING TO BRIGHTON BEACH?

                 

YEAH, FUCKERS.

TO COUPLE OR NOT TO COUPLE, THAT IS THE QUESTION...

            Now this topic is incredibly apropos for our celebrated day of love: St. Valentine’s Day. We all know from the myriad of Facebook posts that in fact, St. Valentine, the honorable saint that the day was commemorated for back on February 14^th, 269, was beaten and clubbed to death when he tried to get his buddy, Emperor Claudius to follow the teachings of Jesus Christ. Claudius, not digging religion, demanded Valentinus to rebuke his faith in Christ. Valentinus refused. Then Valentinus got beat to death.

            Why in the world this lovely holiday ended up the day in America when we give each other roses and stress out waiters during dinner rush hours, I will never know. But I made a pact with you, dear readers, I would address a serious issue I (and many people at my bar) want answered this week: to Couple, or not to Couple. That is the question.

            We all know by now that New York is a city made and constructed for single people. Maybe it’s the endless parade of the ‘better’, that illusion that people are merely interchangeable objects that can be replaced much like items on the shelves of Wal-Mart. If something is broken, just bring your receipt to the counter and get a similar version without those annoying aliments such as depression, borderline personality disorders, undiagnosed anxiety, or rampant narcissism. And still despite all of the common opinions that New York is a place of sex Olympians, Don Juan’s, and Jezebels, there are still plenty of people who decide to shack up. I’m sure it’s just to get a better deal at rent or the existential abyss that is New York Winters. Or whatever.

            Let’s try, for the first time in The Bartender Knows history, to be even-handed in my judgments of the couple/single thing. I’ll give a series of episodes and we will apply the couple/single filter upon what happens when these life-moments happen.

Here we go.

  

            You Get A New Job

            Single:

Finally you have more money to go out and meet people to talk to/fuck/ build intimacy with. Now you no longer have to troll Craig’s List ads at bars (because you don’t have/ can’t afford Internet in your house) and bitch to everyone you know about looking/not finding work. Now both your time and your money is yours. Until you meet someone. Then you have to spend it on them. A lot. On everything from drinks to movies to dinners (or what ever people who don’t know each other do).

            Couple:

            Change is death. Time schedules must be re-arranged. The patterns, the ultimate mark of any couple, now must be altered. Sometimes this is a good thing. Most of the time, change, of any sort, is a cause of serious friction. After all, you bought the person as is when you say the words: “I love you”. The three words stipulate: 1. “I” means you know what you are: 2. “love” is the expression of these feelings: and 3. “you” meaning that you know all there is to know about the significant other to ‘love’ them. However, if any change comes to the structure that you ‘love’, there is a threat to the security of that ‘love’. That’s when the arguments start. And we all know how fun those are.

            

            Somebody You Love Dies

            Single:

You are fucked. Yes, some people will give the gratuitous head-down bow and say: “I’m sorry,” but there is no one in the darkness of the night that will hold you when you weep on your pillow. Only alcohol, binge eating, and narcotics will help you through these dark times. Or a true friend, and if that friend is hot, you should probably try to have sex with them. Nothing is more erotic than death-sex. Try it. You’ll see.

Couple:

Best thing ever. Now any where you go, from bar to restaurant, to shopping mart to dry cleaners, if you start to break down, someone will be there to hold you and comfort you through these trying times. Mourning sex is better with someone you know, and things grow in wildly intimate proportions. Try it. You’ll see.

You Get The Opportunity to Travel

Single:

This is perfect. Nothing is better in this world (other than death-sex) than wandering around God’s Green Earth alone. There is a huge world out there, and you are obligated as a human citizen of the world to see every part of it before you bite the dust. Not only do you learn about yourself in ways no yoga class or psychologist could teach you, the utter ‘dizziness of freedom’ is as intoxicating as a bottle of good French wine. No one can explain the feeling of being ‘on the road’ alone, especially in places where you do not speak the language. The utter ‘aloneness’ that washes over a person in this scenario, albeit scary at first, is a revealing experience you will never forget.

Couple:

Drag. A fucking total drag. If anyone has ever traveled with a partner, unless one person is as passive as a porcelain doll, there’s always the push and pull of where to go, what to eat, where to walk, and how to stay in a foreign city or land. Admittedly, I am a great traveler. I just don’t give a fuck about where I go, unlike my personal life when stationary where I become tense and edgy. I have gypsy blood, so freedom (and others freedom) is essential to my being. But most others, under the time restrictions of ‘vacation’, are caught in a funnel only leading to both peoples unhappiness. Now, if you just want a ‘lover’s getaway’ I can get behind that. You can fuck, drink, and ignore the world together. But when you are exploring another country, there must be no rules. Ever.

You Just Moved To New York City

Single:

Good move. Truly. The only way to understand, experience, and actually become a ‘New Yorker’ is to be ALONE in New York for several years. That way you can experience by yourself the ups, downs, lefts and rights that is this fine city (which is unlike any place in the world). And when I say, by yourself, I mean it. Life here can be torturous, insane, nerve-wracking, tense, and can sometimes inspire total nihilism. But without these ‘dark nights of the soul’ you are missing out on some serious life lessons. This town will carve you into what you always should have been.  Otherwise, you should have just moved to fucking Philadelphia. You could have saved a lot of money that way.

Couple:

You will break up in 6 months. That is a fact. It always happens. Trust me.

  

You Want To Breed

Single:

You are fucked. Sorry. Try Match.com.

Couples:

This makes sense. You might have to couple up (I suppose you don’t have to be a couple to get pregnant, but it might be better for the kid) before you actually conceive a child into this fine thing called life. Don’t listen to what the ‘modern’ doctors tell you that one parent is just enough. How else can you manipulate your kid into a good person without the assistance of another human? It takes two to tango, as they say, and breeding is better going Dutch.

Happy Valentines Day!

Till next time!

ARGUMENTS! SO FUN!

IT'S A BIG WORLD OUT THERE!

TWO ARE BETTER THAN ONE FOR THIS LITTE GUY! I'M A CHILD OF DIVORCE, I CAN TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT.

THE LOST NEW ORLEANS JOURNAL

            I’ve been listening to a lot of Elton John lately.

Strange. I always resisted him for some reason. Maybe because my folks were really into him and like any spoiled brat, tried to resist his music. But it cannot be denied. “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”, “Tiny Dancer”, “Rocket Man”.

So many soulful tunes—emotional, real and true.

Which is all you can ask from a song. 

             As most of you know, I’ve been lost in the dream of myself for the last couple of weeks (and ending in about 22 hours) down here in the now sleeting city of New Orleans, Paris, France’s punk rock stepchild. Yes, I said sleeting.

No more of those languid afternoons falling asleep on the porch with a straw hat on (that happened). This sleeting reminds me of a place like, hmmm, what’s that place called? You guys know what I’m talking about. Shitloads of people constantly around, usually hating on something, not smiling…right, New York City. This terrible weather reminds me of New York City. My home for the last 8 years. The place that has made me (and I’m sure countless millions) realize exactly who I am as a person, as a soul, as an artist. Because, putting it simply, New York is the place where the fat burns right off of your personality, shaping you into what you actually are.

As one of my customers (a native New Yorker) once told me: “You don’t move to New York to be something. You move to New York to become what you actually are.”

            There is no greater city in the world that relentlessly tests you and what you think you are. Yes, your flaws are readily handed to you on a silver platter. Conversely, your skill sets (already present or quickly learned) expose themselves as well. Before I moved to New York (and I sort of want to hug that guy, whoever the fuck he was), I had many ideas about what and who I was. Now I know exactly what I am. And the only things I’ve lost are my illusions.

Bye, illusions about life, I will miss you.

            This may sound like I’m the one hating now. But anyone who has ever lived in New York will tell you; it is taxing, and not just in the pocket book, but on your precious soul as well.   

            So as I watch the minutes count down before my grand (or humble I should say) return, I can't help but to think of the differences between these two very strange American Cities. 

            There are not as many differences as one would think. Both are rich in cultural history. Both have some lovely cuisine choices. Both attract very odd personalities. Both towns are certainly not short of drinkers.

            The one glaring difference brings me back to the whole Elton John thing. The people here in New Orleans are not afraid to bleed openly. To suffer in some open, public, and romantic way seems part and parcel round these parts. People wear their flaws on their sleeves, and whether they judge you quietly after the Southern Hospitality wears off, they just don’t care. There’s something so relieving about that experience, being around people who know all too well about life’s unfairness. Now I’m not saying suffering is unique to New Orleans, this whole goddamn life is suffering (just ask Buddha, one of his principle tenants). Yet, despite openly suffering, there’s a universal sense of humor, comedy, and straight forwardness about life’s less-than-gorgeous moments. It’s that fucking smile, my friends. Everybody’s got one here when they greet you. And it’s emotional, real, and true, just like those ballads of Mr. John (not to be confused with Dr. John, whose music is now playing at this bar as I write. “Right Place, Wrong Time”, for those keeping score).

            I love the wounds of this city. There’s not a crack in the sidewalk that needs to be filled. People here in New Orleans aren’t afraid to bleed openly. There’s a beauty in suffering down here, a poetic knowledge of the tragedy of life, and bravely approach that darkness with music, fun, and gaiety:

In spite of everything.

Now that’s what I call some American spirit. I am aware about now readers that you are probably thinking to yourself: “Hey Matthew, why don’t you just fucking move there already?” (said in New York accent). Yeah, I get it. I still owe New York just a little bit more blood.

I was thinking of the great philosophical question walking down a rainy Magazine Street this morning: “If a Matthew fell in a forest and there was no one to hear him, would he make a sound?” I thought. Not unless the birds and the creepy crawlies read blogs…

(NOTE: At the end of this sentence, I started talking to this young writer guy and we ended up in a dialogue about art, music, etc. It was wonderful, feeling this form of simpatico with any human. We were at the Rendezvous Tavern on Magazine Street, a small lovely dive with a nice bartender and unbelievable drinks deals.

However, as the dialogue increased in energy, I noticed someone behind me. A squat, fat, balding, sweating man leaned on the bar, in work boots and dirty jeans, just staring at me with anger and vehemence in his eyes. And it was just 530pm.

Now, I would never let some guy who looked like The Thing with death in his eyes ruin a dialogue filled with such glory and truth. So I ignored him. But if I had made once slanting look he would have struck first. New Orleans bars never close, so this guy could have been on the cocaine/booze/labor job train for the last 3 days. Or maybe just thought our talk of Oscar Wilde was worthy of a beat down. Who knows? Who cares? New Orleans is dangerous. Sometimes it’s not only the ghosts you might have to contend with.

Either way, I thought I erased this blog down, but it turns out, it’s alive and well. Here it is. Happy Drinking! Next we will discuss Married/Single life and the pros and cons of both. 
And if you're still not following me on Twitter, get on that shit @ADrinkPleaseBK)

THIS IS WHERE IT ALL WENT DOWN.

I'M WITH YOU, DOG!

DON'T WORRY, NEW YORK, YOU STILL HAVE MY BLOOD...