Say A Little Prayer For Uncle Sethie

I hope there are movies in Heaven. 

I love you Seth.  I love you, man.  I can't believe you're gone.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I didn't write this sooner, so you could read it while you were still here with the rest of us.  Why do we always wait until waiting is no longer an option?  In the hospital, I asked you if it was okay to write about you - about your plight - and I never ask anyone if it's okay to write about them before I actually go and do it.  Just ask all my ex'es.  You said 'Yes' and I didn't write anything until now, and I'm sorry.

Yesterday, I got the call that you were gone and it wasn't a surprise.  LaSala broke the news.  He left me a voicemail while I was playing the piano in the other room.  When I saw that LaSala had called, I knew you were gone before I even called him back.  Anthony LaSala never calls anyone, as you well know.  Sicilian pirates rarely use cell phones.

Anthony called us all, just as he called us all a year ago when you got sick.  Lloyd and Jay.  Tween.  Skeery Jones, the Tuccillos and Pablo.  We all know each other forever, "The Brooklyn Crew."  We still wear our eternal friendship like a badge of honor, as if it were something special.  And it was always just that.  It still is, now more than ever.  Now that you're gone.

I was going through my latest romantic misadventure a year ago when I got the word that you were in the hospital.  You could barely talk when I paid my first visit.  I told you that I was being two-timed and you rolled your eyes and sighed, just like the old days.  Your sudden illness made my problems seem like a pittance, it put everything into perspective and actually helped me navigate through another tough time.

Back in the day, a Seth Kushner malady was like football on a Sunday.  It was almost always on the schedule, one of many running jokes that friends like ours perpetuate over the years.  But things were serious this time.  Leukemia.

I hope it didn't take one of my stoopid blogs for you to understand how proud of you I am.  How you fought to stick around, to regain that normalcy to your life that we all take for granted until things start to go haywire.  You were doing it til the very end, against all odds - sharing your opinions about various TV shows and movies on Facebook, taking in as much of it as you could in those final days.  You were in the home you had created with the family that you created - your son and your courageous wife - where you were always most comfortable, even before the sickness crept in.

The last time I saw you at the hospital, the prognosis was bad.  I expected to walk in and say goodbye for the last time.  I expected to see a battered man taking in his last breaths.  But you were a spitfire that day, you were optimistic.  "I'm not ready to say goodbye to you sonofabitches," you growled determinedly.  You were being strong, stronger than I had ever seen you.

Then a man neither of us knew walked in.  He told you he was sent by someone you knew, but you could not figure out who that person was, nor could he verify it.  Instead, he prayed aloud and sang a hymn as we sat there quietly in your hospital room, and then he was gone, some mysterious angel sent to give you more strength.

You were in a coma a few hours after I left, with a swift death sentence attached to it.  Then you woke up.  Weeks later, you were released from the hospital, declared leukemia-free.  You got to hang with your Hang Dai crowd, to spend time with your great friends Carlos and Marty and Dean, three dudes who got to know you better than I ever did and who loved you just as much.  You made peace with your Mom.  You got to spend your last days in Brooklyn like the tried-and-true Brooklynite you were.  You were a dead man walking, a temporary miracle, and so when I returned Anthony's call, I knew what was coming before he even uttered a word.

I still don't know what to believe, Seth.  I stayed positive, we all did.  You were never totally out of the woods, and now you're out of our lives.  Are you on Tatooine right now?  Are you anywhere?  Last night, I sat out on my back porch, poured out a bottle of wine and looked up at the stars.  "Are you up there, Uncle Sethie?" I asked to no one at all.  And then the fireworks started.  Lots of them.  Last I checked, it wasn't the 4th of July.  And yeah, I'm pretty big on signs.

I'll never forget the look on your face the first time I saw you after Superstorm Sandy.  It's etched in my brain, one of those snapshot moments that stick with you forever.  My house had been destroyed and you walked into a Bay Ridge restaurant while I was hugging the rest of the gang, and I caught the look on your face as you walked in, waiting your turn to hug me too.

You looked at me as if someone had died.

In that moment, even tho I had been the one numbed by Mother Nature's wrath, I felt bad for you.  You were always concerned, even affected, by the misfortune of others.  When your friends were suffering, you were suffering too.  And in that moment, I felt lucky to have you as my friend.  Just as I do in this moment, now that your suffering is over even if the void you've left will be forever felt.

You were one of the staunchest supporters of my music - you came to all the shows, the good ones and the shitty ones.  You created the album artwork for all my Q*Ball albums.  You were an incredibly talented photographer, and I still feel like that was always your truest calling.  You co-directed my one and only music video.  You put me in a spaceship, you put me in a bathtub, you put me in a swimming pool with a powder blue suit on.  You put colored star stickers and Christmas lights all over my skull.  We were young kids trying to figure out how to convey an image, and then we were middle aged dudes still trying to figure it out.  Your hard work and creativity were always an inspiration, even when we got it all wrong.

We had a quarter century together, my friend.  Something to be grateful for.

Our primary language was cinema.  TV and books and girls.  You never forgave me for shitting all over Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull after we saw it together in Battery Park City.  We huddled down together in Brooklyn after 9/11.  You drove me home after I played a showcase at Virgin Megastore, then pulled over on Independence Avenue so I could go piss in someone's driveway because I couldn't hold it in any longer.  We bought you a lightsaber for your 30th birthday.  You got me home after I had a bad pot brownie experience at The Frying Pan the summer after the worst breakup of my life.  We interviewed Chuck Klosterman at his apartment in Brooklyn Heights and I almost erased the whole thing.  Calamity was always our second language.

We called you Chief Yenta because you liked to gossip.  We playfully made fun of your pale complexion, of your propensity for speed talking, and you always took it in stride.  You were there for me after my divorce, after the hurricane.  I got stood up on an online date in Bay Ridge one night, and you and Terra met me out for dinner, salvaging the evening.  You bonded with all my girlfriends - you were always rooting for my romantic victories and you listened intently and patiently after all the defeats.

You were a great friend, Seth.

And then it was your turn to taste victory.  It remains the fondest memory of our friendship, that fateful night in Boston when you met Terra.  Some slug got up from his seat in a basement bar in Beantown and Anthony and I nudged you into it, and there she was and there you were, and we hung back and left the rest up to you.  You sealed the deal that night and we were all proud of you.  Thrilled for you.  The Schmuck was finally victorious.

Your life was forever changed, and I'm sure you realized in the end that you had hit the jackpot with this woman.  I'm proud to have played my small part in all that, to see you become a loving husband and father.

Soon after you and I first met, you lost your Dad in a tragic accident.  He was riding his bicycle on Ocean Parkway and was struck and killed by a motorist.  Joel Kushner was a guidance counselor at my high school, Edward R. Murrow, and he knew me before you did.  And then he was gone and I remember hugging you at the funeral, thinking of how your Dad had left you too soon just as I think about you being gone way too soon now.

We became good friends after that, bound by a mutual love of geek culture, music and movies.  I had been to your house a time or two, inside the rubble you called a room, piles of comics, Rolling Stone magazines and action figures dominating every corner.  I met a lot of cool creative people thanks to our friendship, and even as our lives took divergent paths as we both aged and found new creative outlets, I still felt a closeness to you that distance and lifestyles could not tarnish.

And now you're gone, Sethie, and I don't know what to believe - but if I get to choose, I wanna believe that you and Joel are at the movies right now.  You're watching Star Wars (not the prequels, sorry).  Maybe you're 41, maybe you're Jackson's age.  Maybe you're not any age at all, maybe you're a butterfly or a Jawa.  Whatever you are and wherever you are, I like to think that you're with Dad.  You're reunited, and it feels so good.

That's what I have always hoped the afterlife is - a reunion.  We hurt so much for the people that are gone - seemingly forever - left to pick up the pieces, to try to keep the faith and make sense of it all.  I still hold out hope that Nana and Nicky and Uncle Sal will be there on the other side.  Uncle John, Grandma & Grandpa.  Blanche and The Big Cookie and Seth and Joel.  What we would give to spend just a little more time with those who have left us behind.

There's a whole world of people out there right now who feel cheated out of more Seth Kushner time, and isn't that the truest testimony of a person's vitality?  You mattered to us, Seth.  I hope you knew that.  Now it's up to the rest of us to keep your memory alive while we keep the faith that you are in a better place.

So keep a seat open for me, my man.  Just don't eat all the popcorn.  We'll watch all the Scorsese movies, Hitchcock and Kubrick.  Lost, Breaking Bad.  Seinfeld and The Honeymooners and Batman Begins.  We'll hoist some brews and have another Ronversation, reminiscing and rejoicing over one of life's great friendships.

Say a little prayer for Uncle Sethie tonight, for his wife Terra, his young son Jackson and his mother, Linda.  For all of his family and for everyone who he has touched.  

Say a prayer for one of life's true good guys.

10 Holiday Specials To Keep You Sane This Season

Joy to the world.

When I think of Christmas, I think of Nana and Nicky's house, the smell of seafood frying in the kitchen. I think of getting misty-eyed every time I watch the last half hour of It's A Wonderful Life. The battle with the bogeymen in March of the Wooden Soldiers on Christmas morning. A Christmas Story, Miracle on 34th Street, and A Christmas Carol with Alistair Sim as Scrooge. These are as essential to my annual Decembers as pine needles and wrapping paper.

But my love for short-form holiday specials rolls even deeper. Whether its the memorable music, quotable dialogue, unique animation, iconic characters, or best of all - a message - these gems have warmed my heart and opened my mind. They make me wax nostalgic for my childhood and a time where "appointment television" was a thing.

Disney, Hanna-Barbera and Warner Brothers have all made memorable shorts that should be hung by the chimney with care.  Ren & Stimpy's 'Son of Stimpy', in which a traumatized Stimpy searches for his lost fart during the holiday, is so oddly touching, beautifully animated, and yet so absolutely ludicrous in its subject matter that I could not find a way to include it.  It's my #11, but sadly this list doesn't go to 11.

So crack some chestnuts, pour some egg nog and read on for ten holiday specials that are sure to make your season brighter:

• 10. Tales From The Darkside - "Seasons of Belief"

Tales From The Darkside is not exactly the pinnacle of anthology horror/sci-fi series. Even when it originally aired in the 1980s, it was typically outclassed by Steven Spielberg's big-budget Amazing Stories on NBC (which, incidentally, has a pretty decent Christmas episode entitled "Santa '85").  

Tales was produced by zombie movie god George Romero, ran for about 5-6 years and aired mostly in the wee hours of the night.  The creepiest and coolest things about Darkside were the opening and closing credits, all spooky analog synths, haunting stills of large trees and eerie bridges, and seemingly narrated by Satan himself.

In "Seasons of Belief," veteran character actor E.G. Marshall -- who appears in two of my all-time favorite movies, 12 Angry Men and Creepshow -- spins a yarn about a mythical creature named The Grither with "fists the size of basketballs" to scare his bratty kids on Christmas Eve. This one isn't for your 5 year-old, but if you're a bit warped and twisted, it comes highly recommended.

• 9. South Park - "Mr. Hankey's Christmas Classics

Besides being one of the sharpest satirical series on television, South Park wins major points for its timely holiday specials that air every October & December.  Season 3's Christmas-themed episode features insane-yet-catchy musical numbers featuring Hitler, Satan, Michael Landon, and one of TV's most ingeniously written characters, Mr. Hankey, a cute talking turd who visits South Park every holiday season.

The musical numbers include the celebrity-skewering "Christmastime In Hell" and a Jesus & Santa duet that finds a way to incorporate Duran Duran's "Rio."  Wrapped around all of the songs, a live action nod to the obscure and infamously terrible Star Wars Holiday Special.  

Show composer and pianist Marc Shaiman -- once Saturday Night Live's resident musical director, -- provides the soundtrack, which spawned a top-selling album that was critically acclaimed -- all inspired by a singing dookie.

• 8. The Snowman

Oscar-nominated for Best Animated Short in 1982, this tale of a boy who builds a snowman that comes to life is far superior to Rankin/Bass' more popular Frosty The Snowman.  Based on the Raymond Briggs book, beautifully and uniquely animated, and carried by a great Howard Blake score, The Snowman contains only a few lines of dialogue - all uttered within the first 30 seconds of the special - and remains engrossing in spite of it.  

The UK production's realistic denoument is not all tinsel and magic, rather a sudden sadness that just might melt your heart (spoiler alert: that's not all that melts).

Incidentally, this snowman rides a motorcycle, knows Santa Claus personally -- and he can f*cking fly.  Eat your heart out, Frosty.

• 7. The Twilight Zone - "Night of the Meek"

This is not the greatest episode of the seminal Twilight Zone, not by a long shot. But it does star Art Carney as a boozy back alley St. Nick. Carney was one of the great actors of television's Golden Age, thanks mostly to his work as Jackie Gleason's best pal Ed Norton on The Honeymoners. A solid dramatic actor in his own right, Carney was a great physical comedian to whom the Barney Rubbles and Cosmo Kramers owe a debt of gratitude.  

Here, as a soused Santa who finds some purpose thanks to a little Rod Serling-aided Christmas magic, Carney shines, showcasing his wide range.  The episode's commentary on poverty and the religious undertones of "the meek shall inherit the Earth" add weight to the story.   

"Night of the Meek" is neither spooky nor scary, it has corny moments, and some off-putting cinematography. Season 3 of TZ was filmed on video instead of film (budget cuts!), and many of those episodes suffer because of it. But it's got more Carney than corny, and that makes it a holiday must-see.

• 6. Christmas Eve on Sesame Street

The Children's Television Workshop pulls out all the stops in this PBS staple from 1978, one of the rare holiday-themed specials to actually air on Christmas Eve.  

The main plot: Oscar The Grouch tells Big Bird that Santa can't possibly deliver all the presents to kids around the world all in one night, never mind fit down skinny chimneys.  Big Bird spends the episode doggedly determined to prove Oscar wrong, yet The Grouch's logic addresses an issue that many kids growing up on Santa eventually have to deal with - a suspension of disbelief, and an inevitable loss of innocence.

A secondary story features Bert, Ernie, and Mr. Hooper in a clever retelling of O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi.  The hour-long episode features a Kermit crossover cameo, a very funny (if somewhat disturbing) sidebar involving Cookie Monster eating everything in sight while fantasizing about the cookies he hopes Santa will bring, and a first act featuring adult-size Sesame Street characters ice skating in New York City.

Even tho Santa is never actually seen (he's represented only via shadows and voiceover), I firmly believed that the real Santa was involved in this production.  Of course, back then, I also believed that Sesame Street was a real street instead of a sound stage, and that Big Bird was really a big bird and not really an old white dude with whiskers who actually looked like Santa in real life.

• 5. Mickey's Christmas Carol

Screened in theaters alongside the forgettable Disney feature The Rescuers in 1983, Mickey's Christmas Carol was a full-on event, with some inspired "casting": Goofy as Jacob Marley and the odd, yet interesting choices of Jiminy Cricket, Willie the Giant, and Black Pete as the three spirits who visit the duck who was born to play Ebenezer Scrooge, Scrooge McDuck.

Millennials around the world were surely turned on to the classic Charles Dickens tale thanks to this Disney short. You have to give the filmmakers credit for their brave choice of placing Mickey & Donald in secondary roles, and staying true to the story rather than shoving the more popular characters down our throats.

When MCC made its way onto network television a few years later, it was accompanied by other great Disney shorts, including The Art of Skiing. Disney was the pinnacle of animation for so many years, and this was as good as they got.

• 4. Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer

This holiday classic based on the Johnny Marks song of the same name features inspired characters with inspired names. Yukon Cornelius? A flying lion named King Moonracer who lords over an island of misfit toys? What were these guys smoking and where can I get some?

Then there's the story, about "fitting in."  Rudolph faces the pressures that almost all kids face during their formative school years - bullying, puberty, and independence. Rankin/Bass' pioneering stop motion animation has some minor flaws that are impossible to squabble over considering how insanely difficult and time-consuming it must have been to film this in the 1960s.  

A minor gripe: most of the adult characters in Rudolph are major pricks, most notably Santa, who is completely out of character as a grousing, pompous douchebag, at least until the special's final minutes.  The Abominable Snow Monster (or the affectionately dubbed 'Bumble'), on the other hand, is a revelation and was a truly scary sight when kids first watched Rudolph.

The musical numbers are heightened by the unlikely presence and golden throat of Burl Ives as Sam the Snowman.  Hard to believe the guy who played Grade A asshole Big Daddy in Cat On A Hit Tin Roof could add so much warmth to the proceedings, but Big Burl pulls it off.  Great Bouncing Icebergs!

• 3. Ziggy's Gift

Ziggy is a long-running one-gag comic strip that featured a short bald dude whose only friend was his dog Fuzz, a character constantly living under life's cruel thumb.  Ziggy doesn't talk - in the strip or in this special - but here, he is mesmerizing, a lone nice guy in a world filled with selfish, stubborn folks and petty crooks.

When Ziggy answers an ad to become a street corner Santa, he crosses paths with a vile thief and a stereotypical Irish policeman dwho is after the crooked Santa scheme that Ziggy has unwittingly involved himself in.

The special's supporting characters - the cop, the thief, the crooked Santas, their ringleader, and a hilarious turkey salesman - are a voice acting master class, and creator Tom Wilson's animation is original and gorgeous.

The bow on top of this little-seen Christmas gift is the music - an uplifting jazz score and title theme composed and performed by one of my heroes - the late, fantastically great Harry Nilsson.  

Ziggy's Gift won a well-deserved Emmy award in 1982.

• 2. Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas

Top-of-Mount Crumpit animation from Chuck Jones, one of the men responsible for making Bugs Bunny a household name, the colorful songbook by Albert Hague and Seuss, the classic theme sung by Tony the Tiger -- they all make Grinch iconic.  But the cherry atop it all is Boris Karloff as The Grinch, perhaps the single most inspired bit of voice casting ever.

The Grinch has become as iconic as Scrooge and Santa Claus at this time of year, and the character embodies his Dickensian predecessor as he turns from anti-establishment sourpuss to Who-loving roast beast carver upon discovering that the true meaning of Christmas is being with each other.  

There is no greater holiday special than this.  Except...

• 1. A Charlie Brown Christmas

I've always related to Charlie Brown (I've had the haircut for awhile) - hopeful one moment, apathetic and depressed the next, never able to truly grab that brass ring. I am not alone in those feelings, and it turns out Charles Schulz, himself, in spite of all his many successes, was the ultimate Charlie Brown (tho apparently he had a little Snoopy in him, as well).

A Charlie Brown Christmas is not perfect, although the iconic jazz soundtrack from the maestro Vince Guaraldi is.  It's rife with flawed characters.  Lucy is a bitch, Pig Pen is a slob, Schroeder is a snob. Snoopy is obnoxious, Sally is materialistic. Even Linus - the "voice of reason" and the most sensitive of the bunch - has major security issues and a serious blanket addiction.  Then there's ol' Chuck, whose problems are too long to list, and the focus of nearly the entire episode.  "Everything I touch gets ruined," he bemoans.

But therein lies the true perfection of the special - we all feel down about something at some point in our lives, we've all had Christmases marred by some tragedy, bad feelings, or circumstance that didn't make it live up to how Christmas is represented on celluloid - candy canes and mistletoe and presents for pretty girls. But like the blanket addict says, Christmas is about something else -- Peace on Earth, goodwill towards men. It's supposed to be about the birth of Jesus.

This was a very strong message half a century ago. If commercialism was rampant in 1965, imagine what Schulz would think of the present day. It's ironic that you still see Snoopy, Charlie and friends plastered everywhere this time of year, and it was the success of this special that opened the floodgates for a billion-dollar merchandising empire that still exists today.

The fact that A Charlie Brown Christmas is still one of the most beloved - if not the most beloved holiday special ever - is testimony to the distinct message it sends even after all these years: Be Nice To Each Other.

In the end, Charlie's friends practice what Linus so eloquently preaches by decorating his sad little tree and 'Oooo-ooo'ing him into the closing credits.  I'm sure on December 26th, they reverted back to treating Chuck like garbage, but for one magical night of 'Oooo-ooo'ing, the message sank in.

We could all use some more 'Oooo-ooo'ing in our short time on this planet together.

Last Call at Uncle Johnny's

It's Last Call at Uncle Johnny's

Life is a passport.  Sometimes we plan our trips.  Sometimes life has other plans for us.  Four months ago, I made an unexpected pit stop at Uncle Johnny's.  Now it's time for Last Call.

She took this picture of us - the woman who set me afloat again with her lies and her bullshit and her empty promises of maturity and change and commitment.  Johnny and I posed for her this past holiday season.  Look at us.  We have no idea that - five months later - our lives will intertwine.  No knowledge that, thanks to the latest misadventure in this very interesting chapter in my life, Uncle Johnny would be stamping my passport and welcoming me into his madness.

Uncle Johnny isn't really my uncle.  In fact, I'm not sure he's anyone's uncle at all - not in the biblical sense, at least.  He's a friend of my boss who makes occasional appearances on the syndicated radio morning show I work for.  We both have no hair, fake teeth, and we both sing.  Uncle Johnny sings Louis Armstrong's "What A Wonderful World" and I sing about 40 electro-pop songs you've probably never heard of.



I moved into Uncle Johnny's apartment in May, a displaced victim of infidelity still recovering from being displaced by a superstorm.  I can still remember that feeling after Sandy - that numbness.  No, it wasn't the drugs.  It was a feeling like you're on another planet.  Everyone around you is doing their everyday and you're a homeless person, a charity case, maybe even an afterthought.  Everyone's train keeps on a rollin' and yours has gone completely off the rails.

Sandy was like that - first everyone cared a lot, then everyone cared a little, then most everyone went back to their real lives, leaving only the people who were affected to continue to care a lot.  Hey Obama, you're still coming back to Staten Island, right?  Right???

That numb feeling had returned, even if this wasn't Sandy.  Even if this new challenge wasn't much of a surprise, even after all the 'told ya so's were elicited by friends and family alike - politely and otherwise.  It was a risk to cohabit with someone who had already shown her stripes, who had already proven herself to be a Love Landmine.  But love is love and faith is faith, and I am who I am, and I took the leap.  I'd say I have no regrets, but unlike the person who let me down, I am not a liar.

I had just unloaded my watery Staten Island mausoleum, short sold it to the highest bidder.  HERE.  TAKE IT.  An acceptable loss after all that had happened just two Octobers ago, after an 18 month battle with the bank that essentially became a second job.  Moving back in was never a serious consideration - a different dude bought that house 5 years earlier.  That dude drowned with all the Batman comics and the Led Zeppelin albums.  Staten Island wasn't exactly a mecca for dating.  The Express Bus and I were already mortal enemies.  It was a half a million dollar washout, it was most of my life savings and almost all of my life inside.  And I was glad to be rid of it.  I was not in debt to any institutions even if I still felt indebted to all the people who had helped me get through that strange Sandy trip.

And now I was in this kickass new construction building with all the fixins - doormen, amenities, a view of the NYC skyline.  I had come all the way back.  But something was up.  Something was off.  I had felt this feeling before, my burning gut.  I had gotten off the mat and was up fighting again, only I was fighting against a tidal wave of bullshit this time, all coming out of the mouth of one woman who I had chosen to put my remaining stock in.  It was just like the house - an investment that quickly turned to garbage.  Only this was easier to walk away from.  It's always easier to recover when something predictable happens.  The night I finally discovered the whole truth, a sleepless night where I was forced to take shelter at my friend's place nearby, he put it into perspective. "What did you really learn tonight that you didn't already know?"  Truth.

And so I found myself on my way up to midtown a few weeks later, walking down from Penn Station to Uncle Johnny's.  I stopped in front of the church across the street and saw the building's exterior and I immediately knew this was where I was going to live.

Because I'm big into signs and there it was staring me in my fat face.  GROW.  This is what it has been all about for me - this over-stamped passport denoting five different residences since Sandy - this adult limbo that I've been trying to shake.  Something amazing had to come from all this.  Moving to Park Slope after the storm, running the NYC Marathon, getting the girl.  I was workin it, girl - all with one thought on my mind.   

Don't survive.  Thrive.

And now all that was behind me, but there was still plenty of growing to do.

Uncle Johnny lives in a factory building.  He's lived in this apartment for over 30 years and he hasn't exactly renovated the place.  Describing the architecture of Uncle Johnny's apartment is simple.  Just imagine your grandparents' unfinished basement, only moved up to the penthouse.  Then add lots of green crystal, candelabras, zebra print, and Marilyn Monroe memorabilia.  Hey, maybe your grandfather was Liberace.

Oh.  And let's not forget the foliage.

Welcome To The Jungle

Uncle Johnny has 18 plants - I spent thirty minutes a day with Johnny's little green watering can, twice a week, trying to keep these monstrosities alive.  I was not entirely successful.  Uncle Johnny now has 14 plants.  Sorry, Johnny.




The building's single elevator is straight out of '70s-era horror films like Dressed To Kill - it's key operated and opens up right into the apartment.  Uncle Johnny's floor is the only one not separated by a door, so basically any stray homeless people or serial killers that get into the lobby can stumble right on into the living room at any moment.  It's really quite thrilling.  Needless to say, my baseball bat was never too far away.

Another "feature" of the elevator is that it stays open on your floor unless you send it back down to the lobby manually.  One night while I was making dinner, my dog Buttons was sniffing around and the doors closed on him, sending him down alone.  10 seconds later, I hear Buttons barking like a lunatic 7 floors below.  I would spend the next hour running up and down the only stairwell in this place in flip-flops, screaming my dog's name at the top of my lungs like a madman - "BUTTONS!!!!  BUUUUTTTOONNNSSSS!"  Buttons eventually turned up on the roof.  Boundless fun.

Uncle Johnny's bathroom was another adventure entirely.  For one thing, there was no cold water.  So if you're the type that likes skin scalding showers, this is the bathroom for you.  Ah yes, those hot August nights in Johnny's shower stall with a dozen mosquito bites covering my body (Uncle Johnny also has no screens on his windows).  Because, as we all know, scalding hot water is great for bug bites.

There were paintings where walls should have been, and I didn't dare to open the vanity under the sink for fear of what I might find inside there.  This was true army training - the sort of situation that makes you cherish the simple things in life.  Things like cold water and screen doors and a fucking bathtub.  Still, the bathroom wasn't without its charms.



Buttons and I were never short on company at Uncle Johnny's, sharing the space with all types of critters - roaches, skeeters, mice.  I soon became a vermin assassin.  The first mouse was a mercy killing - Buttons found it stuck on a glue trap and turned it upside down.  I put my face against my forearm, begged the gods for forgiveness and quickly stomped my foot atop the trap.  Sorry, Mickey.  The second mouse frizzle fried inside The Raticator.  Yes, this is a real thing - a Rodent Control System I bought online because Johnny refused to pay for an exterminator.  I returned from making music in Seattle to the smell of fried rodent and spent the morning scraping mice guts and burnt hair out of the trap with a wooden spoon.  Yep, this place was a real babe magnet.  Howyoudoin, ladies?

The third kill belonged to Buttons while I was at work.  Good boy.  By August, I was wearing war paint and throwing hand grenades - I was fucking Rambo and the mice were Afghan commandos.  They had no chance.

I retreated to the radio station one night in early July even tho I was on vacation.  It was cooler at work, and also vermin-free.  Heavy thunderstorms raged outside the window of my production studio.

I returned to Uncle Johnny's in the wee hours, waiting for the evil elevator to open, and I could already hear the water.  The doors opened and there was a waterfall in Uncle Johnny's living room.  The ceiling was leaking.  Badly.  It was the morning of the 4th of July, and Johnny was in Italy.  No one was coming to fix this problem, so I went up to the roof to discover about 6 inches of standing water on the level above me.

I laid towels and pots and pans around Johnny's living room, took a deep breath, and crawled up on Johnny's couch, where I always slept, thanks to my fear of things that creep and scurry in the night.  The rest of the weekend was hot and dry and the water on the roof dissipated.  Soon after, I was hanging on that roof nearly every night.  I had some drunken caucuses up there, I talked to God up there, I smoked a joint up there, I had some very public sex up there.  It was the discovery of the century.  Sometimes shitty things have to happen for new discoveries to be made.  That's pretty much been the story of my life for the past half decade.



Outside, it was pure madness.  Cabs, trucks, police sirens, drunk Rangers fans, crazy homeless people, tourists toting their luggage, tour buses, fire trucks, crack heads, prostitutes.  3 dollar a slice pizza.  Buttons hated it out there and who could blame him?  On the first night I stayed at Uncle Johnny's, there was a plastic container of piss on the sidewalk outside the door.  On the last day I stayed at Uncle Johnny's, there was a turd in the same spot.  Not doggie doo, mind you.  A man-sized dookie.  Welcome to Manhattan, American's toilet.

Up on the roof, however, Buttons loved life, always climbing to the highest point of elevation by the elevator shaft, surveying the rat race below.  My dog's well-being has become a big priority in my life ever since my divorce, ever since Sandy.  He has been through every step of this twisted journey with me.  Buttons could have had a complete meltdown at Uncle Johnny's, instead the situation became very manageable.  He is no longer crated, he gets on great with his boarder.  I take him on the subway now.  I take him to work sometimes.  He's running with me again, often 5 or 6 miles at a time.  And he fucking loves it.

Buttons healed up at Uncle Johnny's and so did I.  I ran in Hudson River Park, in Central Park, up the West Side Highway.  I discovered The High Line. I ate a Quarter Pounder with Cheese at 4 in the morning in front of Madison Square Garden and I didn't give a fuck.  I barbecued chicken on a small grill on Johnny's tiny terrace and watched sunset after beautiful sunset with a glass of whiskey in hand and my faithful dog nearby.




I was fucking free, and not just in the literal sense.  After Sandy, all those romantic feelings kept me tied down.  At the time, I saw it as motivation.  Live a better life, be a better man, and you will attain your goal.  And it drove me - more pushups, more miles on the pavement, more writing, more fighting, and more fearlessness.  At Uncle Johnny's I realized a few things.  I am a better man.  With or without anyone, I am a better man than I was before all this blogging bullshit, before all this bad luck and these bad choices.  I got fucked over - again! - but I didn't wallow in it this time.  I posted some true shit in this space that about 900 pairs of eyes saw, then I took it down and I moved the fuck on.

Some still tell me that living well is the best revenge, and I never disagreed with that.  Because I am living well again.  It's quiet in my back yard now.  I can hear the crickets at night, I have a tomato plant.  There is no evil elevator, no bugs, no mice - just plenty of space.  My piano is here, Buttons is asleep at my feet.  But revenge was necessary.  My boss told me that if slamming my ex in this space helped me move past the shitty feeling that comes with being cheated on, then it was a good thing that I did it.  Like most, he empathized.  And as usual, he was right.

Some still tell me that I should be writing full-time and I never disagreed with that either.  I'm just tired of writing about mishaps, about my shitty misadventures with unfathomable floods and insane ladies.  Sure, that's where the best material comes from. But it still feels more like my medicine than my destiny.  Some still tell me to leave New York and start a new life, and I made a real concerted effort to do that this summer.  But it just didn't happen and I'm at peace with it.  I put it out there to the universe that I'm game, I took that first big step.  it's just not time yet.

I went out to Seattle and made an album.  I surrounded myself with amazing musicians and once again benefited from the generosity of kindred spirits, only under much dryer circumstances.  I fell in love with a part of the country I had long yearned to visit.  I dated strange women and some not-so-strange women in five different cities, and I didn't fall for any of them.  Instead, I fell in love with making music again.  My new album will be out next month and it's nice to feel excited about the process, to be working towards another goal, another destiny.


And maybe - just maybe - I would never have done any of that if not for my time at Uncle Johnny's.  And so I'm grateful for the experience.  I dare say I'm enjoying the journey.  I lived in midtown Manhattan, a place I never thought I would spend more than an hour in without losing my shit.

It was pretty fucking awesome.  

It's Last Call at Uncle Johnny's.  We had a great time.  Just one more shot of whipped cream flavored vodka before I go.  Time for another stamp on the passport.  When I tell people about my time here, I won't think about the bugs or the mice or the cheater or the challenges.  I'll think about that GROW sign, I'll think about embracing more adversity, I'll think about this crazy shitty dirty city that I love, that I hate. And I'll think to myself, what a wonderful world.

Runnin' Down A Dream

I broke up with her last weekend.  Sandy.  It was a shitty thing to do, right after our one year anniversary and all.  Tuesday, I quietly went to my lawyer's office and signed the papers.  Signed my Hurricane Divorce House away exactly one year after Sandy came ashore and turned it into a watery mausoleum.  It's up to the bank now, but it's as close to a done deal as anything has been in my life since Sandy.  Until this past weekend.  On November 3 at about 2pm, I conquered the NYC Marathon.

Last year, on November 3 at about 2pm, I was here.

I Am The Dumpster King

Standing atop 30 cubic yards full of the remains of my Staten Island house.  My home studio is in there somewhere, my mementos, my furniture and my appliances, my walls and my ceilings.  My record collection and my record label business.  My past.  Greg T. was there that day, along with a motley crew of friends, family, co-workers and complete strangers.  Helping me dig out of the mud and the muck, helping me salvage whatever was left, and let me tell you - there wasn't much.  I saw a different side of humanity in those days and weeks to follow.  The amount of stuff I had lost paled in comparison to the kinship I had gained.

Greg T. and I were supposed to run the next day - two undersized Angry Young Men approaching middle age who had trained separately for 8 months straight, quietly egging each other on and comparing our progress.  It was friendly competition, and it motivated us.  If Greg did 14 miles on Monday, I had to do 15 on Tuesday.  And vice versa.  Greg and I didn't run a single mile together but we always ran with the other guy on our minds.

The general public, the masses - they know Greg T. as The Clown.  On Elvis Duran and the Morning Show, he's The Stunt Guy, The Jackass.  It is a role he fills quite well, and often times it's not entirely an act.  There is an honesty and a bravery about Greg T. that I have always admired, even while watching him fill his underwear with chili, even if I've seen his junk one too many times.

Greg T's morning show peeps - we also know him as The Jerk.  He can be rude, apathetic, neurotic, outspoken, insensitive, moody.  Shamelessly.  We all have different sides.  Greg just likes to show more of his off than the rest of us do.  I've seen him get into it with others even if after nearly (holy shit) 20 years, he and I have never said a cross word to each other.

But the Greg T. I know - the guy I waited at the starting line with - he's a Real Good Dude.  A genuine person.  He is The Clown and he is The Jerk, but he can get away with it because he is also the guy I know, the caring introspective guy a lot of people really love.  On Sunday, I wanted nothing more than to start the race with Greg.  If anyone can loosen you up simply by being more emotional and insecure than you are, it's Greg T.  He cracked jokes and got sentimental and wore a wool scarf that made him look like Randy in A Christmas Story.

The night before the race, Greg sent me one of his trademark four paragraph texts.  Usually these go out to the whole show, and after some sort of controversy.  But this one was just for me - expressing his feelings over what we had gone thru to this point, what I had gone thru last year.  It was a really cool read.  The next morning, Greg smuggled me into the VIP tent at the Marathon Village.  Greg could have said "Good luck man, see you out there" and cozied up to Pam Anderson in the heated tent.  But he stepped up for me, just as he had a year earlier.  We fueled up and stayed warm inside.  We talked about Sandy and about Boston.   We pumped each other up with words of encouragement and got to enjoy the moment together.

At the starting line, I chatted up another celebrity runner, Patrick Wilson.  I was actually hoping to see Wilson, a dude whose acting chops and sideburns I have often admired in movies like Watchmen and Little Children.  Approaching "famous people" has always been awkward for me, yet at my job and in my industry, it's pretty commonplace.  Like most people, I have often been ill at-ease when meeting people that I really admire.  So I'm generally just quiet, put on my goofy grin and try not to drool.

Umm...gooo...Yankees...duh....Mo...

Fuhhhh...wowww...Queen...behhh...awesome

Derrr...why is everyone taller than me...I gotta pee again...

It was easy to talk to the amiable Wilson as we stretched and shivered atop the Verrazano Bridge, a span I had crossed so many times before, only never on foot.  We wished each other luck.  I felt calm.  Relaxed.  This was a long time coming and I was ready.

We went out with the first wave, with the pro runners.  Against the wind and against the odds.  Greg and I finally got to run together.  Over the bridge and out of the borough I'll always be connected to because of Sandy, because of my failed marriage, because of my destiny.

Two miles in, I turned to wish Greg luck as we crossed into Bay Ridge, and he was gone.  Lost amongst the masses.  I was on my own but kept him in my thoughts the rest of the way.  I passed my post-Sandy Park Slope refugee apartment at Mile 7, throngs of people cheering us on.  At Mile 17, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I saw my Dad giving out water to the runners and hugged him tight.  I stopped for a minute to share the moment with him and I was off again.  When I told my father I had signed up to run the Marathon in early 2012, he told me I was crazy.  Who's crazy now, Pops?  By Mile 18, I started cramping badly.  Maybe he was right after all.  The human body - or at least mine - is not built to endure 26 miles of pavement.  The next four miles, up thru the Bronx and Harlem, were pure hell.

At Mile 23, I was hoping to see a couple of my co-workers from the morning show.  This was the stretch run and I really needed a boost.  On the corner of 95th Street, I got it in the form of a long row of supporters.  My boss was there with his boyfriend, with his people.  My friends.  My people.  They screamed my name from across 5th Avenue and I ran over to greet them.  I wanted to give them all a big hug, to take photos, to share my experience, but I was in the middle of a race.  They sent me off with cheers, a banana, and a big shit-eating grin on my face.

At my job, I'm often the wallflower.  Some of that is probably on me, some of it isn't.  I've spent my entire professional career in radio working at this one place - for different bosses and departments and parent companies.  It has been a volatile relationship, one that, up until recently, has produced more than a little disappointment and bitterness on my part.  But that has all changed these last few years, thanks to where I've landed and who I have landed with.  Thanks to the unmatched generosity of my boss, thanks to the love and help I got from my co-workers this past year.  Thanks to my family and my friends and the volunteers who came to my rescue.  Thanks to all this running.  Thanks to Sandy.

I'm lucky.

Everyone loves a comeback. That was the theme - a deserved one - of this year's race.  50,000 people ran and they all have their story, they all have their reasons.  But the Marathon wasn't my comeback.  It was my test, a rite of passage.  I needed to find out what I was made of.  Maybe I needed to show everyone else what I was made of too.

My comeback hasn't happened yet.  Not yet, not now.  I'm still growing, still learning.  I still have work to do.  Just like you do.  Just like we all do.  This was a great first step but there's still so much to do, higher rocks to climb.  I need to start giving back, to start paying it forward.  You can't be good to anyone else unless you're good to yourself.  This whole running experience has allowed me that opportunity.

And I couldn't have done it alone.  I couldn't have done it without my people.  Sandy proved it.  26 miles' worth of cheering supportive New Yorkers proved it.  Greg T. proved it.  We need each other.

We did it, Greg.  We really did it.  Rest your legs and bask in the glow.  Time for some ice cream.

Taking Inventory (An Open Letter To Sandy)

What's really important?

I remember when I used to fret when a little water leaked onto my bathroom tile after a shower.  I remember it just like it was yesterday because it was yesterday.  "Gotta caulk that up," Dad would say.

Today I am homeless.  My basement and back yard are still under water.  I'm all out of caulk, Dad.

Anyone wanna go for a swim?  Water's a lil' brown....

What's really important?

In October, 2009, I bought a house on Staten Island.  I was married and looking to expand, a Brooklyn native and Manhattan commuter looking to start a quieter life with my new wife and crazy Westie dog.  

In March, 2011, I asked my wife to leave that house.  It was the same day I had to drive my father to his surprise 60th birthday party in Coney Island.  I asked for a divorce and celebrated Dad's six decades on the planet all on the same day.  Surprise!

A divorce is not an easy thing.  It was a rocky time.  After the 'we're getting married' high wears off, no high can truly mask the problems that exist - and will always exist.  I loved her, I tried.  It was un-fixable.  So I asked her to leave.  I kept the house and the dog, she took my savings.  One friend put it best: "You're buying your life back."

I bought my life back, but at more than I bargained for.  In June, my central air unit fried out for 11 days during the middle of a heat wave.  "Gotta get that fixed," Dad would say.  In August, Hurricane Irene did battle with my sump pump and I bailed dirty sewer water from one side of my house to the other for an entire evening to prevent my basement from flooding.  The water never properly invaded. Foolishly, I saw this as a sign of my resurgence.  

I had invested in the house and I would keep it -- bad memories, warts and all.  Fees were paid, changes were made.  I got back on my feet slowly.

What's really important?

I kept Bald Freak Music, my humble indie record label, open for business. I had bought a house for that reason too - to make music in my own space, to run a business and sell my art from my basement.  Y'know, the one that's under water now.

I was still convinced I could make a living from music making.  I rewired my entire studio.  I started archiving audio, learning the software.  I was making more time for it, finally -- long hours and late nights in front of the mixing board.  I was going to make one last album, on my own, in my house.  Y'know, the one that's under water now.

R.I.P.

What's really important?

I dated.  Poorly.  I divorced a few friends and band mates.  When in Rome...

I met someone late last year who seemed special.  We took it slow.  A nice change of pace.  There was something there that made me believe again.  I had certainly lost faith, not only in women, but in the choices I've made in women.  But you have to believe -- you have to want it -- and this one felt different.  It wasn't just the great sex or her gorgeous eyes or how she filled out a dress.  It was hope.  If you don't have hope, you have nothing.  But hope and I have often had our differences. 

Late yesterday afternoon -- after the phone prodding from my parents had finally worn me down -- my Westie and I evacuated to my uncle's house. I packed up the car and drove two miles north to spend the night with Uncle Butch, who had open heart surgery a week prior. 

My uncle's kitchen counter was a pharmacy. Pill bottles everywhere. His bird Rocky and my dog Buttons scoped each other out. I brought my DVD copy of The Wolf Man. This was my crew for the storm that was coming -- a parrot, a Westie, an invalid and Lon Chaney Jr.

Meanwhile, my radio co-workers were bonding in a New York City hotel, my friends were with their wives and kids, my parents together in Pennsylvania, my sister and brother-in-law on Long Island.

A few hours later, the horror stories about what was happening in and around my Staten Island neighborhood started trickling in. Buttons slept on my chest on one leather couch, my uncle dozed off on the other. The power went out, the surge hit.  

Laying there in the dark, all I could think of was her.  But she was with someone else too.  

What's really important?

Dozens of people wished me well today via social media, many sent a text.  Of course, few of these people would have known about the destruction of my home if not for social media in the first place.  My parents called often.... my sister, a friend or two.  That was it.  All most of us cared about before a superstorm were our devices... quality WiFi, a charged iPhone.  Myself included.  What would we be without them?  It felt insane to me to feel compelled to report to the world that my house was destroyed while others were posting about politics, their kids, football scores, rock concerts.  What a fucked up world of communication we have welcomed into our lives.

"Nothing else matters as long as you're safe."

Heard that a lot today.  Is it truth tho?  It feels like everything else matters. The start of what will be a long and ridiculously hard recovery, including where the hell am I gonna live now?  That matters.  My traumatized dog by my side through all this.  His well-being.  That matters.

I fought to keep my house. I invested a huge chunk of my savings into buying and upgrading it, then gave up what was left of that savings to keep it for myself.  I could have tapped out then, I could have sold it.  Instead, I dug in. Now I will always second-guess that choice - my choice.  Today I lost computers, synthesizers, televisions, turntables, microphones, toys, comic books, video games, baseball cards, important documents, furniture, food, photos, artwork, recording equipment, a massive vinyl record collection. My childhood. My history. I still haven't buried any of it.  I can't even get to it yet.  Bald Freak Music's entire physical existence has been obliterated.  Is that really important?  What really matters?

Love.
Companionship.
Communication.
Hope.

If you've found love, keep it close.  Nurture it, value it.  Be true to your family and your friends.  Don't just offer to help them.  HELP them.  Talk to people. With your mouth.  Discover gratitude - you might find some light in the darkest of places.

Since my divorce, I've felt disconnected from the world.  But I've used that time to take inventory.  Do you truly feel compassion for me?  Invite me into your lives.  Write a song with me.  Play a show with me.  Come visit my new place, wherever that may be.  Laugh with me, cry with me, have a beer with me, smoke a joint with me.  This is my personal request to any of you who know me in real life.  Be there for me.  I need you now more than ever.

Take inventory of your life.  It is still your most precious asset.

Before today, I was a lost soul only in spirit.  Now I am truly without an address.  Maybe - just maybe - that's the way it was meant to be.

I WILL FUCKING SURVIVE THIS 

ME THREE MONTHS AGO

Me Three Months Ago: "Hey Mom I'm off for two weeks in the summer, wanna go hang in the city one day?  Maybe see a show or somethin?  Would be real nice to see you, ayuh."
Mom: "What a wonderful idea!  What shall we see, son?"
Me Three Months Ago: "Let's go see The Book Of Mormon.  Supposed to be awesome."
Mom:  "Oh no no, is that the one from the guys who do that show you like...South Park?"
Me Three Months Ago: "Yeah, South Park is awesome. They teamed up with the guy who did Avenue Q.  Avenue Q was awesome too.  Saw it twice."
Mom:  "No no no. That show is stupid and vulgar.  And wasn't Avenue Q the one with the puppets?  Harumph!  Harumph!"
Me Three Months Ago: "The Book Of Mormon got great write-ups, it's nominated for a bunch of Tony Awards, including Best Musical.  Believe the hype on this one.  South Park is insane, but it's great, it's clever.  Trey & Matt are geniuses, they speak truths about society in an over-the-top comic way.  It's a cartoon, but it's intelligent, thought-provoking stuff.  They also did a marionette movie that depicted puppet fucking and who can forget Cannibal: The Musical?  They have a strong resume!  Come on, it's gonna be awesome, let's go!"
Mom: "No, there's got to be something else we haven't seen."
Me Three Months Ago: "Mom we saw Jersey Boys, that was excellent.  Million Dollar Quartet was cool, too.  You know I'm down for anything musical, I even kinda liked Wicked.  Book Of Mormom is gonna be the best show we can see, I'm telling you.  It's gonna win Best Musical and then it's gonna be impossible to get tickets.  You know how these things work!  This is how I didn't get to see Young Frankenstein or The Producers!  And we're gonna get stuck seeing Footloose!  Trust me on this one!"
Mom: "Bah, humbug.  Yadda yadda farting yadda yadda oh my god they killed Kenny yadda yadda offensive."
Me Today: "Hey Mom, wanna go see Footloose?"

My mom is actually really cool.  She loves Jimi Hendrix, Prince, and took me to see Ferris Bueller's Day Off and all the Muppet movies.  She cries at the end of It's A Wonderful Life just like I do.  But you dropped the ball on this one, Mama.

In spite of our differences over the fundamental values of adult-oriented animated series (Mom dislikes The Simpsons too - shame on her), I owe a big part of my musical passion and (whatever sort of) career (you want to call this) to my parents.  They sat me at the piano, they bought me my first drum set, and at least 3 keyboards, including the dinosaur Korg-01/WFD sequencing keyboard that I wrote about 200 songs on, including a lot of songs that would show up on the first Q*Ball album (remember that?).  They surely cringed in horror as I sang along to Vulgar Display Of Power, the first Mr. Bungle album, and Paul's Boutique on repeat at extremely high volumes.  They put up with the noise (sometimes) and the musical congregations in their basement and in my broom closet of a room, where giant samplers and analog synths first ran amok, overtaking furniture, surrounded by a fort of books, toys, heavy metal magazines, and compact discs.

I don't hate my parents for unwittingly cursing me into wanting to make it in a business run by cutthroats and pirates.  They were only being hippies.  I do wish that they owned my Return To Earth albums, though.  I could really use the money.  And so could Metal Blade.

Happy Anniversary to my awesome parents.  37 years of awesomeness in between all of life's bullshit!  Now go make some whoopee.