Houston, planning first stage separation tomorrow using secondary separation systems. Hobobob says if the separation fails he will suit up and go outside to do the separation manually from the ring locks. We are hoping and are confident that the secondary systems will take care of the stage separation. Stand by Houston.
I'm standing on the number One train, going in the wrong direction, going up to 103rd street. I left with extra time to get to the SHOUT OUT and look at this, there is no downtown fucking 2 and 3 on the express track. So you have to go up to 110th street, go across the track, and then take the 1 back downtown. Sounds crazy, I know this shit gets even worse. The 1, 2 and 3 are all riding on the same track. All three, but only two, 2 and 3 are going to 110th street with the crossover track. Guess what about the number one train? No crossover track until China!
So the train is there when I hit the stairs up to the platform. I charge like a horse out of the gate and jump through the door just before the bell chimes ring and the doors close. Yes! I'm on my way. Maybe I'll be able to make it to the SHOUT OUT on time after all. That's until I see 103rd street, a sure sign that I'm on the 1 train without the crossover track. I don't have time for this dumb shit. I charge out of the train at 103rd street, break for the stairs up, cross Broadway, running through vehicle traffic, jumping around slower moving New Yorkers who want to play pedestrian speed bumps, and leap down into the subway, going to the Downtown track. I pay A SECOND TIME to go in the proper direction, and I know for a fact now that I'm going to be late for the SHOUT OUT today.
Why does this bother me? Because I'm going solo again today. I'm the man at the helm of the SHOUT OUT. Not a problem, right? WRONG! Already I'm having a tough time with it. I'm being waylaid by the fucking subway system. OH, my journey into stupidity doesn't stop here. I jump off the number 1 at 72nd street to now catch the express train downtown, and no sooner does the doors close to the train do I see signs pasted around stating that the 2 and 3 express trains are now traveling on the number 1 track. That's right. The next train will be running local and will be right behind the train that I was on.
We grind like a rattletrap car through the subway system. A consti- pation, moving slowly through the digestive tract of New York City's belly. I'm tearing the hair out of my head all the way down...LOCAL mind you, all the way down to 14th street. Now I bolt out of the train, run up the stairs and down the longest hallway in the fucking world. I mean it. I looks and feels like it will never end, and there is no way you are running down it so save your energy. I finally make it to the L train that doesn't fuck around. It gets me to 1st Avenue in a flash.
Once again, I'm running down the block, jumping around my slower walking New Yorkers to get to Otto's. I'm in and look at my watch. 4:00pm! Dayum, I made it on time. Right on time. The door is closed but that's fine. I made it on time and there are no other poets waiting outside to come in. Soon, in less than five minutes, the owner, Nell comes through and opens up the joint. She and I run around in the inside, getting the place up and running as quick as possible before the poets start to wander in. I get the stage set up as the first few poets walk into the audience. OBSIDIAN is is not going to come walking into the door because he isreading at another reading that is held only once a month.
Because of this infre- quency, poets usually go to that one, thus making our reading light when it comes to attendance. But it's still enough to have a helluvah time. I make mistakes but there's but so many I can make. There are just too few people to fuck up before. Also there is no feature, just straight readings, which works fine for me. I can live with that. Can't really fuck that up either can I?
OBSIDIAN shows up at the end of the show and we hang out slightly. He gives me the news. I have next week to run the joint, do the paperwork, do the forensics at the end, work the stage. The whole show. This doesn't sit well with me but for the poets I'll work with having this dropped in my lap all of a sudden. Of course this shit would have to be the week that I'm trying to build my case, but that's what I talked to you about Bad Karma inviting something else, the Third Element, to fuck your shit all up.I'm waiting for the elevator that's slowly coming down, when I see someone walking in my direction, head down,
duck-bill hat on their head obscuring their face. My body goes on alarm, shit like this goes South real quick. The head rises when they are upon me, and it's Igor. I relaxed by degrees, what's up dude? He is depressed, almost on the verge of tears. "I just got back today from Bellevue." Shit bro, what happened? "I went in for depression." Uh huh. This is exactly what I'm talking about, a vacation at Club Med. Walk into the front door of Bellevue and fill out the paperwork. That's what I'm feeling right now. Say goodbye to the stresses of my court case, WECARE, SHOUT OUT, features....
"They stole my laptop, Hobobob," he says. Wha? "Yeah, they broke into my home and took my laptop and my Ipod while I was in the hospital." Now you know he has my full attention. What did they do? Break in? I ask this because these doors are as hard as fuck to break into, they even have crowbar guards at the strike plate. The only way that they could get in is if they were part of maintenance, who have a skeleton key to all of the rooms. "No, the door was unlocked, it was locked and unlocked," he shook his head as if trying to gather his thoughts.
Locked and unlocked. I nod. I don't know what this means...do you? "I know who stole it though." Who? Maintenance? "No...one of the residents." Damn....the elevator arrives, I walk in, he mopes in behind me. I'm really sorry to hear about this, Igor, really. I feel for the guy because he lived on his laptop just as I. He looks up at me, "Did you get your telephone yet?" WHY DOES EVERYONE ASK ME THAT QUESTION?? No...I didn't. I say calmly. "There's no way that I can reach you other than the Internet?" There's no way I'm afraid. I nod. He gets more depressed. The door opens on his floor. He struggles out and I press door closed. It's not that I don't want to be the poor guy's friend. I mean, when he's on the ball, he's a wonderful guy. But I know what it will be like with him as a friend. Every time he feels depressed he'll be ringing my bell. I don't need to invite such aggravation into my quiet world. I mean, do you remember the bottle of wine incident???
I get my ass back home and gratefully LOCK THE WORLD OUT. I'm not going to leave my room for days after this. This is bullshit. Yeah, going out your door, after awhile you realize that it's only an invitation for pain. So to curb my need for solace, I get naked and get busy. I start back on my legal research, emails, and Novel. I'm busy bros, and bro-dettes. I fall asleep quickly reading all of this medical shit. So I roll over and pass out. I wake up at 9:00pm. My night will be shot. I get online and stay kicking until two in the morning. Then I work on my novel until about four in the morning.
Around then is when I go to sleep. Come Sunday, it's pretty much the same.Why do I say that. This was one HUMP of a day, and I'm glad that I have it behind me.
I'm glad.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/09/figure-in-sun.html
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