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It's funny, this morning i had a plan to get up early, and get my ass up to those flea markets on the west side. I did it. I mean, i didn't get up early, but i got up before you know, 10, which on a sunday i think counts as early, i mean, in most people's worlds at least. I mean, that is, i wasn't like out doing shots of Jaeger at 3 in the morning the night before with a lampshade on my head or anything like that, so it's not like it was some great feat, some sort of world altering cataclysmic event.

But you know, i was there having a bagel stick, which is like this bagel, that's shaped like a stick, and they cut it down the middle i guess, and put the stuff in it. Mine had (salmon lox and cream cheese, and some basil) and i was drinking a frozen coffee with like, a Sparks Light, (the blue ones) and looking down on the west village, you know, after the saturday night when everyone is wearing the dark sunglasses, and wondering why the hell they bought a dog, because there they are walking them down bleecker, and kicking themselves for having to be up so early. I mean, it's not like those moms with the jogging strollers in the west village on a Sunday Morning, it's much more "spun-out-rock-star" stuck with a dog that wants to have a grunt in the middle of the sidewalk, and so there i was, and i was talking with Katzy about you know, what was my best birthday party ever. What was that like? And of course, that's an easy answer. I mean, i don't have to think about it for very long, The answer comes to my head as quickly as you ask it.

Hands down? my 30th. Sure. Los Angeles. January 2000. A surprise party. A fucking BIG one too. I mean, i'm not going to get into it right now, but that was a life altering event. Rocked my planet. Seriously. But so we got to talking, and you know what really burns me up about it?

Here we were talking about me, right? What was one of the best times I can remember, you know? And of course, the conversation somehow slips into September 12, 2005. Son of a bitch, if that isn't how i like to spend a Sunday morning. Sipping coffee talking with your girl, having a cigarette, and remembering the good times. You know, the time you got fucking stabbed in the back by your friend with a dirty blade, the day you came home from vacation.

But that's how it is. There's always some fucking little thing that will just pop up and jam you in the fucking brain, kicking your ass back and forth to wednesday. Now, that's not to say that it wasn't a great time coming home and getting fired out of the blue after a very relaxing vacation in mexico, i loved that. It's just what the doctor ordered. But what really chaps me about it, is that a year later, i can't just sit at a window in a nice apartment in the west village with a pretty girl and a cup of coffee and a sparks, and i don't have to think about it.

That's how it's been. It doesn't stop. and it sure as fuck isn't because i'm trying to think about it. But like Lay's Brand Potato chips, once you start, you know, you can't stop. You have to think about every little fucking detail. You have to think about how you felt when you came home from the trip, what you were doing when you heard that a hurricane had come through the south and completely fucked New Orleans in the ass. Who you were with, what you were doing, what was on your mind. You gotta remember your tan, how nice it was to hike around in the ruins of Tulum, drinking tequila on the carribean, and how all of that was just washed away like all of New Orleans, as soon as you set foot back on dry land.

I mean, i'm not complaining. Na. it's fucking awesome when i think about it. The straight BALLS it takes to do that to someone. To just burn them as hard and hot as you can, and definitely to do it 911 style. To do it Hiroshima style. To do it Pearl Harbor style. SURPRISE!!!

Talk about a fucking surprise party.

Really good stuff. I mean, that's a surprise i'll remember every time someone asks me about any surprise. I'll remember it when i'm just squeezing the body wash into my scrubby in the shower. I could go to a nice hotel somewhere, maybe one of those Ian Schrager hotels somewhere, and you know, i could take a dip in the hot tub in my room, and when i get out, i could pull on one of those fluffy bathrobes, you know, the heavy white terry cloth ones, and guess what i think of? Yea. You guessed it. But you know what? I set you up for that one. I mean, i was already talking about it. But try being the guy who's just trying to pull on a robe. That's when you see that a burn like that has that everlasting flavor. Self Emolation Ad Nauseum. I mean, think about it. Here it is coming on midnight, and i've had a whole day. I mean, i went to the flea markets. I ate sushi, I walked around in the sun, and what am i thinking about?

What am i writing about?

What will i go to bed thinking about?

and surely, without a doubt, as it is at least several times every day, what might i wake up thinking about?

I suppose what really really really burns me up when i think about it is, how much time, how many moments are wasted on that single event. I mean, sure, call it rambling, but you know, you can click "NEXT BLOG" if you want. I'm not chaining you to this window. And i sure ain't firing your ass over it either. You'll still get your check on friday. You'll still see your friends, the folks you work with, all that. This is just a break from something. You're here for your "dose of hope". (How's it taste?!)

So sure. Take a look at today's paltry update, look at the photos, and just imagine, that in each of the photos, no matter how obscure, they are all connected by one thing. One memory. One event. My recollection of the biggest surprise party i ever had. And how wonderful it makes everything when i look back on it. The fondest memories.

Thanks Bacon.

Good Times,

dTown | Listening to Bebel Gilberto | 71˚ and really pretty out