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Many years ago, I was twenty years old and preparing to cross into Iraq and attack the defensive positions of their ground troops. My blood type was written in big letters over my heart on my flack jacket, as well as on one side of my helmet. On the other side of my helmet was a roster number so that they could quickly order a replacement for my position ( Infantryman, one each. Use and replace as needed.). We were told in short order: "Focus on your objectives, remember your training, expect casualties." At the same moment, on the other side of the world, my friends and former classmates were all in college. Going to class, getting drunk, getting laid, seeing bands, dancing in clubs, having fun, sleeping late, skipping class, protesting whatever was cool to protest that month... I knew their world well since that's what I had left behind roughly a year before. I also knew that they likely neither thought about, understood, nor cared about mine. Mine had become too alien and different. It was neither fun nor cool. And even if they did think about it, it was all too easy to compartmentalize and distance as "someone else's problem". And they were completely correct. I understood their world, and I knew that it kept moving without me. They were worried about where to go for spring break, I was concerned about keeping all of my limbs. Priorities. They had their families and each other, I had myself and an infantry platoon I had just joined a couple weeks before flying off to the desert. But part of life is also finding a degree of grace and dignity, no matter what is thrown at us. ... Because of this little piece of my history, I've been thinking a lot about my friends down in New Orleans. My life in my city goes on in the happy little way that I've spent many years building. And their lives have almost completely turned upside down in just a little over a month. It could have been unfortunately easy to shrug off their situation, to focus on my world around me, and to distance theirs as "someone else's problem". But they're my friends, so I chose not to. It's not that hard to give a little bit of time and compassion, to be attentive and responsive, to give some thought and consideration. But I've seen far too many people who can't be troubled. That's life, but I also believe our actions define us. ... Yesterday afternoon, my friend finally died. In May he was fine, in June he was ill, and within the last 24 hours he's now gone. Only a year and a half ago I was at the wedding where he married one of my loyal friends from the past fifteen years. We may all have our flaws, but I'll always remember him as someone who sincerely meant well and truly loved his wife. And I do have one anecdotal story to offer: Over the previous weekend, as his friends and family gathered for his final weekend at home, I kept getting concerned texts about how he was trying to act as if nothing was wrong, as if he'd somehow recover, as if he didn't grasp the seriousness of his situation. Yet I also knew that he was bummed about missing the final Batman movie. I pointed out that if he knew that he would miss a movie release that was less than ten days away, he was fully aware. I also explained that he was also a dude. We're raised to fix things, and to pick ourselves up from bad falls and walk stuff off as if we aren't actually in pain. He knew what was happening, but he wanted to hold it together and make the best of it, instead of seeing everyone else hurt and upset. He was being strong for them, as well as himself. Through to the end, he chose to care, and to keep his dignity. And that's really as much as any of us could hope for. 
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Today is a Wednesday. Aside from work, the primary topics for discussion involve holiday weekend plans. My options: 1) stay in the city, go to a string of parties, and finish rebuilding my motorcycle. Or 2) ride out with some friends to the Hamptons, and enjoy a weekend long party as a guest in an excessively large house with a pool, bar, and full set of luxury amenities. Should I choose option number #2: I will have a brief taste of the good life. I will wear white linen to cover my tattoos from the sun. I will dine on ribs and lobster. I will drink Ketel One and Patron and Veuve and classic aged bourbon. I will sleep late, drink coffee, and recover in a jacuzzi. I will attempt to tan, and possibly burn again. I will wear blue tropical print swim trunks because I'm a jackass and I think it's somehow ironic to wear that with all of my tattoos. Oh, and I will do some completely self indulgent navel gazing about death and dying because that's what seems to be haunting me lately. I'm not sure it matters which option I choose, I suspect my mind will be elsewhere. Either way, I'll be exchanging messages of sympathy and loss. ... Over the weekend in New Orleans, a friend left the hospital to spend his final weekend at home, before checking into a hospice, where he will eventually make his final check out as his organs progressively shut down. Somewhere in my rather convoluted past, I seem to have had some medical training. Because of this, I can recall the sequence of terminal events as things like the liver and kidneys fail. And it's definitely not on anyones list of "romantic ways to die". As my friend was making the best of what's likely his final weekend, he went to the movies. He saw Iron Man and the new Indiana Jones film. He was bummed he would miss the new Batman movie. Hanging out in a bar with my friend Julia, it occurred to us that duh, we live in NYC, of course we can pick up a bootleg copy and Fedex it down overnight. The Motion Picture Association can suck it, this man is dying. Unfortunately, it's a busy work week for each of us while everyone tries to compress deadlines before escaping for a few days off. Even more unfortunately, the updates from NOLA are that my friend is already going more toxic and losing coherency. Yeah, kinda saw that one coming, but hoping it wouldn't be so soon. I think I fucked up on the DVD plan already. I hope he had a chance to download it from online, but by now it's the least of anyone's worries. Since I couldn't be there, I thought I could offer one little thing, but it's already too little too late. Time is often the greatest luxury, and sometimes we just don't get it. ... Many people I know have already died through tragic and sudden events. And each time, once the initial impact passes, you have no choice but to pick up the pieces and move on. But for me, somehow, it's seeing these slow-motion lingering deaths that tear at the soul. That slow and tragic grind. 
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( No matter how comfortable or fun, any routine risks turning into a rut. )... And then roughly a month ago, a friend called me late at night while I was out with friends in a basement bar. It didn't seem like a normal time for her to call, so I stepped outside to hear what she had to say. The husband of an old friend of ours had gone into the hospital for pains in his side, thinking he had kidney stones. Instead, they found cancer in his liver and spleen. As more information was gathered, the news kept going down. I would send texts asking for updates, but the responses were never good, and came with more of a mixed sense of resignation and shock. And these text exchanges over the past few weeks have also become part of my routine. And it has been something that persists in my mind as I've been passing through everything else. Just a couple days ago, it was announced that by the end of the week, he would be doing his final dialysis and final transfusions. Only one day ago, it was announced that this weekend he would go home for a final house party, before checking into a hospice. If I'd had a little more forewarning, I'd be on a flight to New Orleans now. But that's the whole point: sometimes we just don't get the time that we want or need. Just a month ago, he was mostly healthy and thought maybe he had kidney stones. Now, they are counting down his final remaining days. Final. Remaining. Last. Game over. And this is how it ends for someone not even out of his thirties. And then there's the loss to his wife and family and friends. ... Life can be unexpectedly short. And this is where we get reminded to savor even the little things we do have.
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Ok, it started out simple enough: I was supposed to have some friends meet me for drinks on my birthday. But, my birthday fell mid-week. So, I'm flexible, and decided to move it to the weekend. Fine. Then it seemed like a good excuse to get some friends together and actually do something. Yeah, ok, this is NYC, and a lot of us who live here actually do things. And we know people. And they know us. Right? Right. Venue? No problem, and we can even get drink specials. Go-go dancers and performers? Easy, I know a few. DJs? Of course! Ooh, and maybe we can get a bunch of our old scooters and motorcycles together and go on some sort of random ride. Right? Yeah, ok. Sure. Oh wait, if we're doing an "event" now, why not add another venue? And more stuff? Yeah, we know more people and bar owners and stuff. Oh, and since we're mostly creative professionals or people who do stuff or know more people, how would we like sponsorship? Maybe, like who? Would we like Fred Perry? Um... yeah, I wear that. Yeah. Ok. Awesome. Jaegermeister? Huh, what? Dude. No, wait, "Jaeger girls" serving shots. Dude, seriously? Yeah. Dude. But wait, two of my friends (Niabi and Joanne) are shooting some photos and video for a project of theirs. Should we all do something together while everyone is out and about? Um, hell yeah! Ok, that was easy. So, now there's a party this weekend. Two actually. With DJs and go-go dancers and performers and sponsors and hot girls and photographers and a film crew. There's also a couple group rides for those of us with the old 2-wheeled motor vehicles. And even though it's gone to some bigger and different direction, somewhere under all that mix it's my birthday party too. Feel free to drop on by for any of it. Yeah, it's not a bad life. And I love this city. Cheers, -CI  www.nycmodsandrockers.commyspace blah blah blah
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Finally, there is that drop in air temperature and the beginning of those awkward few weeks where no one is quite sure how to dress: short sleeve or jacket? Sweaters or shorts? And with the changing of the leaves comes that time of year where the women start pulling out the wool skirts and high leather boots.
So many memories all come flooding back and mixing with my subconscious.
I dream of mountains and rivers and trees and big deep clouds rolling across the sky. I dream of the sounds of rustling branches and rushing water; the contrast of drying leaves and the slight dampness in the air. Lazy and leisurely afternoons, total freedom during nights full of big stars and a low moon.
I dream of fast drives down back country roads. The poetry of motion and the feeling of being in the driver's seat again. Down shifting and hard deceleration as the next bend approaches, the faint smell of heated brakes and a chirping of the tires, the rapid coasting through to clip the apex of the curve before pushing back down on the gas and accelerating out again in a widening arc, aiming to repeat the dance in the next corner ahead. Twisting and turning, ebbing and flowing, pushed back into the seats with the roof open and the windows cracked. Stealing a glance to see my passenger's smile as her hair blows around her face. The world rushing by outside while we travel in our own warm cocoon. (The music on the stereo: the song Anything by The Damned.)
I dream of old stone houses from when this country was still just a wild and new colony. History and hidden secrets. Laughs and late night ghost stories and mugs of hot mulled cider. Hills full of sprawling orchards, gnarled branches recently liberated from their burden of fruit. The smell of apples and wood and a distant fire. An intoxicating richness in the air.
I dream of holding smooth hands while walking through thick wild grass, bodies bumping into one another as we stumble along through the fading light. The feeling of body heat trapped beneath warm layers. The feeling of each other's breath upon our cheeks, the taste of a lover's kiss, the clean smell of hair, hands reaching up under clothes. The soft cool skin along the curve of the small of the back, a playfully unhitched bra strap while biting a lip, the textures of cotton and wool and the female form. Memories of how it felt to be in love.
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A few days ago, I wondered out of the cold and into Mondo Kim's on Saint Marks, in search of a DVD (a movie from Thailand named Citizen Dog, in case any of you know where to find it).
On one level of my consciousness, my body operated to put one foot in front of the other and carry me through the store. On another level, I've been living a life with which I'm very happy and comfortable. My relationships, my career, my apartment up the street, and the coat I wore: all working together to wrap me in a warm blanket of contentment.
But then there was the song playing in the first floor music section. As soon as it registered and cross-referenced with my memories, it reached through my layers and straight into my gut.
The voice singing was Johnny Rotten / John Lydon. The album was the "generic" one by Public Image Ltd. The one titled alternately "cassette", "album", or "compact disc" depending upon which version you bought. The song in particular was "FFF". Farewell, my fairweather friend.
I once went through a phase of listing to that album and track over-and-over again. I haven't listened to it so much since then. And still, one of the emotions/feelings it conjures is a deep, gnawing hunger.
///
When I was 15, my parents divorced and my father sued my mother for my custody. By the time I was 16, he had remarried. At that time, the new wife was 26, he was 38.
A month short of my 17th birthday, they had found a new house and were preparing to move. And a decision was made. She had wanted to start a "new family", and I was a reminder of his past, failed marriage. I had no place in their new life, and therefore I had to go.
Over the coming weeks, they packed and moved their possessions to the new house. As soon as they were out, they cut the water. A few days later, they cut the electricity. I was told I had two weeks to leave before they'd have me evicted.
A few months prior, my mother had remarried. During these events, she was spending a month long honeymoon on an island located between Canada and Minnesota. There was no phone on the island, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Her new husband had a nice big house, but hadn't wanted to have any children around, he especially wasn't expecting a teenager.
The more amusing part of the story is that I wasn't even that much of a trouble maker at the time. I was in student government, I was in the gifted program, I competed in the academic teams in categories like mathematics and history, and I had just received an admissions packet for early entrance to Johns Hopkins as part of their gifted talent search. I probably would have classified as a total geek had I not also been a skater.
And so, on my 17th birthday, it was just me in a dark and empty house with my possessions just sitting there in boxes. Most of my friends were all away on spring break. I had enough sense to steal some food from the cupboards while they were packing, but there was no power to cook. I had less than twenty dollars to my name.
But I also had my independence. And my pride. And I wasn't going to go beg either parent to let me live with them if they didn't want me.
That vacation week, while everyone was away, I would sometimes grab my board and go skate. Other times, I'd put a tape in my walkman, turn up the volume, and pace through the three bedroom house with this three foot long, by 1 1/2 inch diameter wooden rod, and smash to pieces anything my parents left behind.
That tape, and that song, was one of the ones I played heavily. And when I remember things from that part of my life, and the following year, the sensation that comes back initially is an almost endless hunger, since most of the time I was just scraping by on my own. But it also came with a combination freedom and self-determination, and the feeling of leaving my fairweather friends and parents behind.
///
Note: It was Karen who showed up and helped me move out and find places to stay. And it's one of the reasons we've been loyal friends since then.
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It's been quite awhile since I've posted here. Life has been really good, great actually, but I just haven't had much that I wanted to share with people who weren't a part of it. But, this is one of those rare moments where I feel like I need for some form of catharsis; to cast my words into the ether and somehow sort out these feelings and let them out of my body, to make some sort of random digital confession. /// A few years ago, someone I sort of knew sort of disappeared. The last time I saw her, we crossed paths on Houston and Bowery. Downtown, where we were, the sun was bright but there were gusts of wind and there was the crisp snap of electricity in the air. To the north, the sky was black and heavy with a massive thunderstorm consuming midtown. We were distracted by the view up the avenues, but were also wanting to avoid being soaked if the storm drifted south. We stopped, we spoke, we made plans to meet again, we kissed on the cheek and said goodbye. It was late summer / early fall 2002. We regularly crossed paths on the street of Williamsburg and the Lower East Side, and had somehow progressed to the point of "let's hang out sometime". She had called me earlier in the summer, after spotting me in the crowd at the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island. She told me she had just returned to the states and was working at a new studio, and asked if I'd like to drop by sometime. I was a little surprised she had my cellphone number, since I had booked my appointments through the front desk of the studio where she had previously worked. She had been my tattoo artist. She inked the big black blocks up my spine. And the large angular spiral around my right calf. And the thick black band around my left fore arm. The times we chatted that summer, it had been less about tattoos, and more about what each of us had been doing in our lives. It had been a year since I'd sat beneath her needle. So, there was this slight awkwardness: was there still some sort of client/artist relationship, or was there some other interest? ( Ridgely had been witness to one of our meetings.) And the moments we met always seemed to be before something like the coming of a storm. That fall, I had started traveling to-and-from Richmond to work in a friend's scooter shop. She called me a couple times, but I was busy bouncing back and forth. And I had started dating someone new while there. The last time she called, it was 11:30 at night, midway between Christmas and New Years Eve 2002. She asked if I wanted to meet for a drink. I told her I was out of town, but would be in touch once I settled back into NYC. That spring, by the time I did try to track her down for some new tattoo work, she had left the city. Her cellphone was disconnected. I asked around the studios, but no one knew where she'd gone. Over the past few years, as I started getting more work done, I'd sometimes try to find out where she went. People knew of her name and her work, but no one knew what became of her. There were rumours she had moved to Brighton in the UK, but that was it. If this was anyone with a more ordinary job, this wouldn't have been a big deal. But, as a tattoo artist who had been making a name for herself, it was odd for someone like her to just completely vanish. And I had always thought that if I could locate her, I'd at least have her finish marking up one of my limbs. Last week, I finally got an answer. Someone stopped me to ask about some of my work. Her name came up. I asked if he knew anything. I was told that she she had become a really bad junky. I tried to gather more information, but most questions were met with "yeah, she's bad news." I don't know if it's true, but it would explain the disappearance. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being more than a little heartbroken at the thought.
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