For some reason, I've found myself having to go to the Upper East Side with increasing frequency over the last week or so. It's made me realize something I truly don't like about myself: I sort of despise people that obviously have more money than me. (I'm talking about folks that drip money, here, not your average joe schmoe who happens to make more of a salary than I do. It's not hard to accomplish.) I don't mean to...but up there people sort of exude money. You can tell, especially, by the haircuts. Not the shoes or the bags or the teeny weeny dressed up dogs (I know, I'm making myself ill with this cliched bitterness), but the chicks in their mid 40's...you can see it in the layers and the highlights. I'm sure none of this would bother me (or, let's be honest, it would bother me less), if I wasn't currently residing in a state of broke-as-a-joke-edness. Generally (here comes another less than mind-blowing revelation), I avoid the area like the plague. Though it is fair to mention that we found a really good park for street hockey, of which I am so fond, up there last Sunday.
Otherstuff: I was in Ozzie's today, trying to get some writing done. I've been sort of blocked, these days, so I started writing about the first thing that popped into my head, just to get the pen moving. What happened to pop into my head was a Morphine song, particularly, the disgust I feel every time I hear it. (The song is "All Wrong.") I have nothing against Morphine...I actually quite like the song, more than quite like it, in fact, as I do the entire Cure For Pain album. It's just that I associate the song with a specific person and a specific thing that bothers me--really, really fucking bothers me--about this person (a person who otherwise ... well I'm just delighted by this person). Since, for me, the whole thing is a particularly charged topic, I was writing like gangbusters. The song, and thinking about it, jerked something loose, and it was on.
Anyway. I sort of lost track of time. When I finally looked at my cell, it had been an hour or so after I started, and please believe it felt like, at the most, fifteen minutes. Not but two seconds after I got up to leave, I shit you not, folks, the motherfucking song came on in the coffee shop.
When I figure out what this is an omen for, I'll let you know. Something, though. Something.
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1 comment:
this type of thing happens to me all the time...and no matter how often it happens - it still freaks me the fuck on out. morphine is damn fine writin' music. as is miles or 'trane. i'm just sayin', yo...
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