Easing into things...

This is something that I wrote, just now, just because it rolled off the tongue, just because I liked the way it sounded in my head. It's just because.


"I regret to inform you that I cannot recall the sound of your voice. There are such things that I can recall such as: your face, and your smell. The smell of a bellowing fireplace, and a cheap perfume that lingers throughout an empty house in suburbia. Your face; wonderful and forgiving. I apologize, for I cannot remember why I left, or where the house was; or your name. It pains me to realize that I’ve lost you, because I believe you are the woman I am to be with for my eternal life, but circumstances have taken hold and removed me from your life."

It's the intro for something a little different, I penned not too long ago....that's going to get posted here, when I find the hand written scraps that I originally penned it on. Thank you, and goodnight.

The Unknowing Son of an Unknowing Man.

So this girl is going down on me, it’s taking some pressure pain that I have, away. This happens on a basketball court in Queens, and I’m not sure who the girl is and it’s pretty dark outside. I’m in a drunken stupor and I slur something to her, that I don’t even recognize. The ground is beginning to stick my bare back and making small indentations. She finishes and swallow, this I could not believe, and walks away giggling like a school girl. I sit up, watching a what looks like a bareback Gorilla run away. Fucking Christ. I pull my hooded sweatshirt back over my head and plug the IPOD back into my ears. A song about Jesus rings through my brain until morning when the vibration of the court awakes me and a large, frightening looking, black guy is standing over me.

“You are one sick mother fucker,” he says to me.
“What happened?” I say, pulling the head phones from my ears.
“You fucking passed out on the basketball court with your pants open, white boy, you lucky you wasn’t raped or some shit.”
“Jesus Fuck,” I stammer and zip my pants up.
I stand up, pushing the hood back, the sun glares upon my face like a scolding parent. I look at the clock at a nearby bank.
“Man, it’s fucking 8:30 in the morning,” I say, rubbing my eyes.
“Yeah bro, this is a basketball team. You need to step.”

I nod, and walk out the gate exiting onto the side walk. I sit down on a bench and pull a pack of Marlboro Lights from my back pocket and stick one into my mouth and light it with the cigarette within the package. I take a drag and lean back, tired. I’m sure I’m in Queens, but where in Queens is the question. I’m sure it’s like a Tuesday or Wednesday, so I’m probably missing some type of physics class. I’m sure that black guy would’ve kicked my ass if my fly wasn’t down. It seemed like he felt bad for me.

* * *

I’m standing at my dorm room door, there’s a clip on it, a hair clip. I haven’t seen it before, and my roommate is away on vacation in Hades or Yemen or some place where they mate goats as thoroughbreds. I’m still examining the clip, and remove it from the handle and pull it up to my face, the cigarette still hanging from my lips, the ash growing and growing begging to flicked off. Then it happens, the door opens and there is a guy standing there, wearing a football jersey, a black and gold football jersey, with nothing on the bottom half of his body.

“Alright,” looking away, I think for a moment. “Honestly, I have two questions.”
“Go ahead,” the below-waist-naked man says.
“Who are you? And why are you naked in my room?” I ask, looking at the ceiling.
“I’m Clyde, and I can’t find my pants,” the guy says.
“One more question, if you wouldn’t mind?” I ask.
“Nah, go ahead.”
“Why are you in my fucking room?”
“Oh, I don’t know, some real skinny bitch dragged me in here, and tied me to a bed post, sucked me off and left, I couldn’t get loose, I had to rip the bed post off. I think she stole my pants,” he says, looking back into the room.
“Veronica…”


Veronica was a first semester triumph of mine. Along with Veronica was Valerie. DV, I called them, for “Double V” or V One and V Two. It was slightly complicated, but if my phone began to ring in the dorm room I could have my roommate pick it up, and say V One or V Two and then I would know if I wanted to speak with them or not.

I fell in love with Veronica the first day I saw her in Oral Communications, mainly because she had a knack for Orally Communicating with me. Strange as that sounds, she’s a very articulate speaker. I mean, if you’re going to take Oral Comm at least be: good at speaking. I’m very diligent at getting something down, so I had her over every day teaching me how to properly say verisimilitude. I don’t know what the word means, but coming from her mouth, it was like: she was already dick diving and I was the treasure at the bottom of the ocean. She had the firmest lips, but the softest and when she had them around me, I knew that I had her sole attention.

Anyway, shit hit the fan, so to speak. I found Valerie in a very gay Theatre History class. Valerie found out about Veronica and Veronica found out about Valerie in the strangest of ways: ménage trois. Simply speaking, a three some with two girls and me, fucking me. It was like I had died and gone to Penthouse headquarters. There was anal, and oral and kissing and hickeys and feet. I’m not sure why there was feet really involved, but I wasn’t up for arguing really. After all was said and done, I had a girl under each arm, I was sweating, breathing heavily. And almost simultaneously they asked:

“How do you know her?”

I didn’t know how to respond to the situation, so I calmly said, with a little bit of a laugh: “I’m kind of seeing you both.”

They both get out of bed, and begin putting their clothes on.

“Whoa, where are you guys going? It’s like three am,” I say quickly.
“Both of us?!” they both scream at nearly the same time.
“Hey, you know, you both have something that the other does have. That’s why I did it,” I say, regretting it almost immediately.
“Like what?” Valerie asks.
“Well, you have a little more meat on you than Veronica, I’m not saying you’re fat, because you’re most definitely not, but Veronica is just so damn thin, like screwing a broad who’s anorexic.”

A loud bang goes off in my head, and I believe it’s my conscience that’s calling me
an asshole. I sit there, and watch as the sculpture’s of nakedness are fully clothed.

* * *

The next day, laying in bed, naked, drinking a bottle of aged scotch, kind of drowning my sorrows, I have my father’s wake today, but I have a few classes that I’m going to try and make. I’m sitting at the end of my bed, it’s around ten-thirty in the morning, and I’m still not dressed; class starts in about ten minutes. I light a cigarette and pull on a pair of pants, I don’t even bother with the underwear. After placing the stogie on the dresser I pull a black t-shirt on, I pick the cigarette back up and stick it between my lips taking another drag. I bend down tying my shoes and pick up my wallet, cell phone, keys and make my way out the door into the hallway.

You know when you’re driving down a road, that you almost frequent on a daily basis, and you don’t recognize some of the houses on the road, because after all those times you’ve driven down it, you don’t pay attention to them. Standing in the hallway, I’m hit with a hard realization, that I have no idea where I am. I don’t recognize the walls, or any of the posters that people have hung up. Dave Matthews Band and Phantom Planet. I get a weird tingling sensation in my head and I feel faint for a moment, clutching the wall I vomit at my feet and drop to my knees. Dry heaving momentarily and then vomiting again. Blood. Damn.

I get up, coughing, clearing the taste from my throat, which is almost impossible. I walk down the steps, wondering why I’m throwing up, I had a little scotch, but I’ve never thrown up from scotch. I stop at a water fountain on the first floor and drink some. My throat is burning, and the water helps slightly, but not too much. Finally, I guess almost instantly I collapse onto the floor and thus ending a streak.

* * *

I awoken by the beeping of a machine. I feel a little better, but I’m in a hospital somewhere, and sit up quickly. No one is there, I look down at my arms, and I have a tube dug into my right arms main vein. I lay back down and the door opens, in walks a guy in a white coat, a doctor no less, a young guy about thirty-five or so. I look at him.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You collapsed,” he responds.
“Thanks for stating the obvious,” I say.
“Did you throw up blood?” he asks.
“I think so, yeah.”
“Okay,” he responds, writing something down on a chart.
“I believe you’re suffering from exhaustion and stress, stress leading to an inflamed ulcer, which caused you to throw up blood this morning,” he says not looking at me. “When you’re feeling a little better you’re free to go.”
“How long have I been here?”
“I wasn’t here when you got in, but I think a little over an hour. You got somewhere you need to be?”
“My father’s wake.”

I sit up on the bed a little bit, I’m not feeling very well. I can’t taste the burning in the back of my throat from vomiting before. Almost ignorantly I pull the tube from my arm, and instantly I feel the worse pain you could possibly imagine. I have a low threshold for pain, so it may feel like a tickle to some people, to me…not exactly.
“I’ve got to go,” I say to the doctor.
“Okay, I’ll get you a nurse to take you out in a chair,” he says, walking out.
“No need for that.”
“Policy.”

Policy my ass, I don’t think all hospitals have policies, I think hospitals have candy-stripers, and that’s a thought I’d think about as the non-candy-striper nurse pushed me through the auto doors of the hospital onto the city sidewalk.

“Do I have to tip you or something?” I ask her, but she just ignores me and walks back into the hospital.

I hail a cab and take it to west 56th and walk the rest of the way to my parents apartment. I got out early, because I can never remember what the cross street name is. It’s like when you know how to get somewhere, and you can go there with your eyes closed, but you don’t know the name of one fucking street; absolutely ironic. I enter through the building and enter the elevator which is embossed in gold. I keep thinking about Duck Tales and for the life of me, I can understand why. The elevator opens to my parents floor of the building, a butler stands there with his arm extended. I shake his hand. He doesn’t leave, so I shake his hand again.
“I’m not shaking your hand again,” I say.
“Your coat, sir,” he says, I remove it and place it over his arm.

The wake is solemn, it’s kind of depressing in a way; I guess you’d expect that though. I walk through a crowd of people, they all give me this look of despair and pity. I don’t want to be pitied for my father’s death. He was a psycho-therapist and was murdered by a patient. I loved my dad and believed that he was a brilliant guy, but dead is dead, you pitying me isn’t going to bring him back.

Suddenly a heat wave rushes over me, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong. My thoughts race through my mind quickly; almost unbearable.




Okay, this might be it for some time.

We Just Can't Win...

She sighs and takes a hit off a joint that has been passing around the circle for about five minutes. She doesn’t give a reason as to why she’s sighing, but she has a look on her face. A look that leads me to believe she’s unhappy with her current situation. The fact is she’s dating Mel Harris, a guy I went to New York University with only a few years ago. They’re engaged, but they rarely see each other. Mel is taking some courses at Yale while she sits around a lavish Penthouse suite in hopes of becoming the perfect house wife.

I can tell by her movements, as she sways to The Refreshment’s We Just Can’t Win in slow motion. It’s the grass that’s making my head spin, the people around me slower and tolerable, but it’s making her seem even more perfect than that one night back in New York, when I took her virginity in a bathtub at the Four Seasons.

Valerie has this way about her, she’s eager to start the morning off right. Therefore I’m awoken to a pair of soft lips wrapped tightly around my shaft. I can’t help but feel for this girl, because all she wants is to be loved.

I lay back in bed and think about a time before graduation. Before the real world smacked me in the face, and my father’s death didn’t hover over my head. A time when I would sit in the rain, because I felt clean afterwards. Feeling refreshed and cleansed after the rain washed away my sins.

I get out of bed and wrap a robe around myself. In the bathroom, I can’t recognize my face, I’m a totally different person because of what I did with Valerie last night.

The night started off pretty innocent, a few drinks, a couple of kisses. Apparently, things took a turn for the worst when I turned on Pandora's Box and took my dick out and started dancing around to Death Cab For Cutie’s Someday You Will Be Loved. The song isn’t upbeat, so the dancing was kind of sadistic and unpracticed, so what she did next shocked me. She started weeping. Imagine my concern, I stand in front of a pornographic film, holding my you-know-what, while Valerie cries onto the bed sheets.

I start towards her and she jumps up, wrapping her arms around me and uttering the perfect words: Fuck me, Fuck Me.

So I fucked her; end of story.

Then came the morning after. I got a decent wake up called, which could be called head, and I even got a scrambled egg breakfast from her cook, who can’t cook. (This I noticed when he didn’t know what Eggs Benedict are). All through breakfast she massaged by genitals with her bare foot, motioning for me to come hither. At this point, I wasn’t interested anymore. I know it’s a pretty ridiculous thing to have decided this late in the game, but I had just come to the realization (that I should’ve come to a long time ago) that she was just using me, because Mel was gone. Not only did I take Valerie’s virginity, but I just ruined her hopes and dreams. Her marriage will never work, simply because there’s something she doesn’t know about Mel Harris: he’s gay.




Four days in a row?

Don't look into the Sun...

The right thrust engine has gone completely insane, actually, it’s gone, caput. I sit in my seat as the passengers go into a panic and remember something my father once told me about flying on airplanes. He said to me:

“Don’t fly on airplanes.”

I should’ve heeded his advice, but he’s dead and buried, and his words never had a peculiar meaning to me. The right flap has caught fire and continues to erupt and cause dismay to the passengers who watch and stare with amazement.

I’m reading a book, it’s a good book too, something by Steinbeck; Winter of Our Discontent. It’s a marvelous story, but not really compelling in the sense of an airplane crash. I close the book and store it in the spot in front of me and lean back in the seat. When the fuselage goes, I’m going to lose all hope. Not to waiver from my current non-caring attitude, but I still have some hope of survival, because a) we’re not that high, and b) I just have to see Spider-Man 3 before I die.

A woman grabs onto my arm, latches actually and says, “We’re praying, come with me.” And I look into her green eyes, her frightened eyes, and tell her, “I’m not interested in prayer, but thank you.” She gives me the sort of reaction you’d expect from your mother if she made you dinner and you didn’t touch it.

She unlatches my arm and stands up in what I assume is a huffy-panic-riddled-sigh; she storms off down the aisle only to trip and fall on her face. I can feel my eyes widen in my face, but I don’t do this, it’s an immediate reaction to stupidity. I look at my watch, which is wrong, because the batteries are dead. How could I not remember to replace the batteries on my watch. The plane drifts a few miles lower as my thoughts race. I’m actually saying a Hail Mary, but the words aren’t coming out right. I’m actually beginning to panic, but then I realize that death is only another step in my life. I’ll come back as a cheetah or an ostrich; preferably the ostrich, they’re a marvelous little creature.

I stand up in my seat and the stewardess yells from her seat, “Buckle Up, Sir!” What I find Ironic is that she called me Sir, who in this apparently impending doom would go out of their way to make you feel important. Thoughts race through my head about my father, and the first time someone called him Sir in front of me.

We were in PC Richards I believe, and the man was showing us a television, it was Toshiba (my father preferred Sony), but the guy was persuasive and he was ranting about the television, and raving about the picture quality. He had me sold on the contraption, but I was just a twelve year old kid with about six dollars in change in a plastic red piggy bank. I couldn’t help, but feel bad for the guy when my father went for the Sony model, after all the work the guy did to sell us on the Toshiba; “You know, Sir, with the extra ports in the front you can plug in your Son’s favorite video game system and remove it when he’s acting up!” My father aptly replied, “My Son doesn’t play video games.”

I would’ve spoken up, I really would’ve, but I didn’t want to get that look from my Dad, and the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. I did play video games, fact is, my eyes were killing me right then and there from staring at the bright screen of Sonic the Hedgehog. Instead, I stood as my father made this guy pick up the hundred pound box by himself and place it in the car. My Father didn’t give the kid any money, or a even a ‘Thank You’ he merely said, “John-Boy, you ready to see the Knicks on this big boy?” to which I replied “Yeah!”

So I sit here wondering what happened to this guy in PC Richards from about fifteen years ago. The plane plunges, and spins out of control. I grip the arm rest and feel like my brain might explode, but what happens is far worse. I’m brought with memories of a past love. A past love that destroyed my heart and put me on this plane to begin with.

I keep thinking ‘If I get off this plane alive, I’m going to buy a lot of fucking cocaine’ then I shoot back to my thoughts about Laura Westman. Laura was supposed to be the love my life, but turned out to be the torture, which led to the downfall of my life. She died. She died a long time ago actually, which is why I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this right now. She’s what drove me to drink, her death, her lack of life; drove me to pollute my body with booze and drugs. Cocaine and endless White Russians flew through my system like water and left me feeling comatose nearly half of the time.

One night, back in eighty-five, I was arrested for lewd conduct. I stood outside her old apartment, drunk and stoned, singing the lyrics to the song In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel; and holding an ‘air-boom box.’ In jail, I called her number and some guy picked up and I berated him, yelling that Laura was a bitch for cheating on me. He asked, “Who’s Laura?” and I hung up.
I was released when my brother finally came from Chicago to bail me out. I tried to give him the money back, but he refused.
“You need to get help, John. Listen, go into rehab, no one will think any less of you,” he said.
“Why would you say that? Now I’m going to think you’d think less of me,” I responded dryly.
“Jesus John, you’re fucking killing yourself. Laura is gone. She died,” he says; sounding cold and uncaring.

“Laura’s not dead, Michael. Laura is not dead.”
On the intercom came The Beach Boy’s hit In My Room and the captains voice: “This is your captain speaking, since I believe our fate is inevitable, I’m going to sing the words of this song. This is because I have a vicious fear of people and I always wanted to sing.” My eyebrow nearly quirks by itself, and I sit up in my seat as this guy spurts the words to In My Room through the planes multiple speakers.

In the back of my mind, I’m laughing at this, but since we’re all going to be dead in the next four minutes, I might as well grin and bear it. The mention of the Beach Boys reminds me of my brother’s love for the ocean. His love for surfing and lounging on the beach in Los Angeles, he would lay back wearing his Wayfarers and hum the words to the Beach Boy's California Girls and Blinded by the Light by Bruce Springsteen.

Then the captain halts his song to say that he apologizes, but he has to take a call, and silence fills the plane. Pissed, I start humming Growin’ Up.




Yes, another post, that's 3 in a row.

Find yourself, before you wreck yourself.

I would like to think that the girl sitting next to me is somewhere in my age range, but I have to assume the worst; she’s sixteen or seventeen. She’s got short blonde hair and a skirt that’s ludicrously short, she’s jabbering away about a Jennifer Lopez movie with an older gray haired guy, who looks old enough to be her grandfather; possibly great grandfather.

Think. You know, or you should know, that this girl is going back to the Waldorf-Astoria with this gray-haired pony in hand, and she‘s going to fuck him dry. I can’t blame her, life is rough, life is really rough and I can’t even fathom the thought of leaving this bar yet. I’m drunk, elbows on the bar, asking the bartender for another scotch straight. He’s denying me this pleasure, just as my girlfriend has denied me to pleasure her. I’m way to drunk to delve into a battle with this combatant.

I find myself at the China Club on West 47th, dancing with a girl or a guy, I can’t really tell the difference. I walk away from him/her and go to the bar to get a drink, because I can’t focus on anything. I can’t focus on people’s faces, and for the first half of my time here, I didn’t know where here was; I had to aptly ask the bartender. I order a beer and take a sip, and find that it’s imported from Sweden, some real shitty Swedish beer. I place it on the bar and turn around, to see a girl in a short skirt staring at me, or at the wall behind me, I’m not sure. Walk over, take a chance, ignore the nagging voice in the back of your skull. Ignore it. She’s hip, she’s cool, she’ll dig you.

You decide that a quick detour to the lavatory is in order, you hit the middle stall and take a leak, you decide to hit the slopes before you go out and make your movie on little Ms. Thing. You set up two lines on the toilet seat and hit them with a rolled up twenty-dollar bill. You’ve got nothing smaller. You hit the second line, and then set up a third, hitting that with much more vigor. Now it feels like the Fourth of July in your brain, nose, and mouth. You keep licking your teeth as you sit in the stall. You keep thinking about the slopes, doing more on the slopes, skiing more, maybe doing some of the rough jumps instead of always going for the cheap way out.
I stagger my way out of the bathroom and find a pillar to lean on. My hands are clammy, but that’s an effect that fresh powder has on me, I’m sweating and I’ve got a chill running up my spine, which I’ll attribute to my hands beginning to freeze. I walk over to this girl, she’s got a resemblance to Kate Jackson, and I’m digging the ugly angel look. I want to fuck her right there, but that’s not kosher, man. I wind up taking my father’s advice: “Buy the broad dinner first," he always said.





my little stab at a 80's fiction. Although, it doesn't necessarily have to be.

This is morning...

In the morning, or night actually, is when I spend most of my time thinking. My brain scuba-diving within itself for pivotal information regarding my life and my future. I haven't found that someone, I haven't found that career, and I don't like where I live. I've been offered closet space, but closets are kind of small; I imagine. I'm a hopeless romantic, with really high expectations for love, and family, and total annihilation of the human heart. Therefore, I sit here in the basement, typing on my computer. Episodes of a television show Farmingdale: The Real Long Island that will never see the lights, camera, action aspect of a television show. I wasted my time trying to be something that I might not be.

I struggle to see what's paved in front of me, I can't come to terms with what's going to actually happen. So when I talk about missing a certain place, or thing, or person, it's because I truly do missing that person, place, thing...or noun.

I haven't slept at night in nearly two weeks, I'm not really certain what is wrong with my or my brain, but that I'm tired at times, but then I'm not tired when it's time for bed...I shrug this off as uncertainty towards my new surroundings; because of a jobless atmosphere.

Then there's Christmas. Fuck, I love christmas, excuse my language God, but fuck, I love christmas. There's something in the air, it's similar to Thanksgiving to me, there's turkey, sure, and there's stuffing, and there's family. My family - chowing down on a feature meal that my father has cooked. A meal, that my father claims is going to be a live turkey...fresh turkey. As if the ones in the Supermarker (a butterball) wasn't a live turkey at some point. When you have no money, Christmas really sucks. I mean, I have a substantial amount of money, not a lot though, enough to get through christmas and survive until a job opens itself up before me.

JD

When the night feels my song...

When the night feels my song, is an awesome song by Bedouin Soundclash, which I've placed into a written episode of Farmingdale: The Real Long Island. I'm currently on episode seven of the, and it's looking to be a pretty hilarious thing; even if nothing comes from it. I enjoy doing it. I enjoy making a story that intrigues me, and also belittles mine and everyone I know's existences.

Farmingdale was a town that I was quick to get out of...until I left of course. Sure I wasn't the prom king, the cool jock, the popular guy, but it was my fucking town. I put a lot of effort into that town and I was proud (most of the time) to where a fucking F on my hat or chest. Farmingdale means a lot to me, and I've based 3 movies and a Television show on the town itself, based on (and surrounding). I would go as far as to say, I loved Farmingdale. Maybe I was attached to people who treated me/you like shit, or shitty clublike bars and restuarants, but it had Serious Comics and a job - right now, I am without comics and a job. Right now, I'm in one of those binds, whereas I just don't know. I don't know. I can understand if you have no idea what that means, because I don't either. It's just one big giant cluster fuck of uncertainty. I really needed my friends before I left, and I got two and a half (Roy's girlfriend, half a friend...because Conroy's sharing her).

I'm preaching to the choir here, I know, because you're saying to yourself. "JD, that guy's such an asshole!" And, phat-cat, I will be the first to agree with you. I will the first to say "Fuck yeah, I am, now go shit your pants, assface." But, that time has come/gone, and I'm stuck in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. There has been people who've said "Yeah, it's not so bad," and to my parents I say, "You're out of your God forsaken minds." Because I will never love Chambersburg, I will never prop myself up outside of a Fayetteville Video, and I will never, ever, ...ever write a movie about Chambersburg Pennsylvania. And that's a fucking fact right there.

I don't know how it goes from here, I have to admit the uncertainty scares me quite a bit. I don't know what I'm doing, honestly. The people here frown upon cursing, thus, I curse more. I'm instigating a town that I'm residing in, just like I did to Nutty Irishman, 7-11, and the Video Store (before it was closed). I can't relegate just yet...I mean, I can't possibly get banned from Wal-Mart, they're pretty fucking tolerable when it comes to being open 24-Hours a day, you never see the same fucking people twice.

There's things, stupid things, that I miss: All-American Quarter Pounders (I had the luxury of having one before I left, and I will never forget it), The Sunrise Mall. The Sunrise Mall is a staple of my youth. I can't tell you how many times, a young JD and a young Los road our bikes in the Summer Heat, just to get to Air Conditioning. Serious Comics is another thing I'm going to miss, although, you know this. Sadly I'm going to miss the traffic on the Southern State Parkway at 7:30 in the morning, when I was late to my Mass Media class.

I'm going to miss the Burger King near my house, and the way the 10-year vet, stared at me when I drove up to the drive-thru window. I'm going to miss Taco Bell, and Pete's Deli. Applebees 2-Fers, and 1/2 priced apps, I'm going to miss getting drunk in TMK's backyard when we were younger, albeit I don't speak to TMK anymore; it's still something that we had beer pong tourneys in the middle of summer while thunderstorms were going on.

I remember drinking in the middle of winter, in TMK's backyard, with Conroy, and freezing, nearly to death, because we were stupid, and wanted to drink - badly. I don't remember how we got home, but I'm grateful to whoever gave us that ride.

I miss writing the first draft of Monkeys From Republica it's a feeling I can never replace, starting that movie in 12th grade, and now, nearly 6 years lately, look where it landed me; in nowhereland. Ha. I'm going to miss Blockbuster, and having the movie pass, hanging out with Conroy and Vito, or Conroy and Jamie, or Conroy and the Black chick I don't know. I'm going to miss the smell of a Long Island winter; that made you say "That smell is in the air. It's time to get drunk." I miss drinking at the spot, running with an 80 pound dehr (deer) on my back (los with a duck) and nearly getting caught. I miss getting caught (by the police) for stealing lawn ornaments (while drunk) with Conroy and Marcel, while Marcel had his pipe in the car...the cops didn't check.

Fuck, I miss fucking Movie Night...I miss fucking Movie Night. If I could go back five years, I'd have never stopped going to fucking movie night (despite there being a bad movie...you'd see something you saw or something that came out that you had to choose over). I miss Conroy's "Lay-dees" thing, and Ficken paying us off to keep the fact that he was Dating Marc's ex-girlfriend (My cousin...shudder) away from him. There were many good sodas out of that.

I miss falling in the pond after my first time really drinking 13 beers, and nearly dying. It was really cold, and fucking winter. I miss coming home, 11th grade, and watching Mallrats everyday for almost a year. I've seen the movie about 300+ times at this point. I miss working at Kay Bee, and Eckerd...and even the beginning at F&G, but not so much. I don't miss working at Home Depot...

I miss Farmingdale Baseball, and my Dad coaching me and my brother, because he didn't want to see anyone treat kids like shit...and he never did take playing time away from a kid, and I commend him for that.

When the night, feels my song. I'll be home.

JD.