Writing

I have written most of my life.   Short stories, skits, songs.  

Here are a few links to read / buy / download my writing:

How Songwriting Ruined My Life

Slapped by the Velvet Glove

GS455 

I've Got This Problem

Loveshines

And here are a few short stories, with much more on the way.

The Fading Ear 

I frequently hear a high-pitched ringing in my right ear, immediately followed by numbness. This is called tinnitus and affects many ‘long-haired-stoner-people-who-caint-figgure-out-what-the-hell-they-gonna-do-with-their-lives-hey-honey-pass-me-the-remote-control-oops-can-you-still-hear-me.’

I was told every time it happens, that’s the last time you will ever hear that frequency again. The little vibrating hair inside your ear, the hair that vibrates to that frequency and that frequency alone, is gone.

And I hear that ringing and feel the numbness and it makes me sad, because the audio glory of the world just got a little dimmer. And I know the worst is yet to come.

And so I re-imagine it, and imagine that instead of the world’s Technicolor glory dimming, I could eliminate the bad things. Like instead of that high-pitch, I would hear, “I think you’re an asshole,” and feel the numbness, and then I would never hear that again. Or maybe, “We can’t find your order,” or “Take this back to the kitchen please,” or “I hate your hairstyle,” or “You should brush your teeth friend,” or “What color dentures would you like,” or “We’re out of hemorrhoid cream,” or “You’re not welcome here.”

It just seems like such an awesome power, to make something appear so brightly and then fade forever from view, it seems a waste not to use this power for the betterment of mankind.

My superhero name could be “The Fading Ear” and my logo would be a drawing of a large hairy ear and my cape and tights would be skin-colored, just like an ear. And when people would run away screaming, thinking I was a naked man in the lobby of their hotel, I would tell them,

“I am the Fading Ear, and I am going to make sure that rat hairs never end up in the room service again.”

And I would concentrate and hear the phrase, “There’s rat hairs in my food,” and I would feel the numbness and those words would never again be heard at The Radisson Lakeside. And the guests would all run and embrace me, even though I looked naked, and they would say,

 “Thank you Fading Ear!”

And I would say, “What?”

And they would say, “I said thank you, fading ear!”

And I would say, “Could you speak up?”

And they would walk away in anger and disgust.

Even more so later, when they would realize that this power did not actually remove rat hairs from the food, but just prevented them from hearing words as they came from somebody’s mouth.

But, like I said, ignorance is bliss. Did I say that? I don’t know. I’ve repeated it so many times, I can’t hear it anymore. I have to use flashcards.

So perhaps you might someday begin agreeing with me and walk up to me and repeat my mantra, to which I would reply,

“What?”

First Love 

Falling in love for the first time destroys you. It still destroys me now, but I’ve learned to drown my sorrows in whiskey. When you’re 16, that’s not an option, especially when your parents mark the bottles. But I guess that didn’t stop me. I would either add water to the bottle or lower the mark to the new, lesser amount. So I guess whiskey was an option.

But that first time, I dove into the feeling without a thought of numbing away the pain. Instead, I jumped right in, fasting for a week, crying while watching the news, and writing unfathomably bad poetry. I considered big changes: becoming a priest, jumping off a bridge, or buying a motorcycle and showing up on her doorstep, leather-clad and windblown and completely unsure how to turn off the engine.

In the end, I didn’t change at all. I just looked like a sadder version of myself. And suddenly my songs about crotch rockets turned into songs of unrequited love. She lived far away, and it felt hopeless.

I did have the chance to see her again, though, and I remember several smells associated with that journey.

I remember the smell of dog shit. I was staying with her and her mom, who took advantage of my puppy love to enlist me for their household chores, like walking the dog. She gave me a special plastic glove to help with the task. It didn't help with the smell.

I remember another smell too: some godawful incense my dream lover burned in her room. She had this black light poster that read “TRIPPING” and another depicting magic mushrooms growing in the shape of a brain. She maintained that Lenny Kravitz was the greatest force for good that humanity had left in its arsenal. I wanted to believe her, because I loved her. Or maybe I just wanted sex.

You see, I was all mixed up. While I picked up the dog shit and washed the dishes and vacuumed the living room, Molly lounged around half-clothed. This warped my level-headedness, which led to a strange fixation: the smell of her laundry detergent.

I think it was Tide, which is unfortunately very common. Even now, every time I smell Tide I think about that trip to Palisades, New Jersey and the dog-shit glove, and my burning lust and desire for this hippie half-wit who treated me like garbage. But sometimes it feels good to be mistreated by somebody you love. At least, that’s what a desperate, horny teenager tells himself.

In reality, it was awful. We did end up kissing, but I knew it was over.

I ended up staying with her at Wesleyan University a couple of years later and she totally made out with a complete stranger right in front of me, and I didn’t even mind because they were both wearing clothes cleaned with Tide detergent, and that was the smell of my first love.

And now, I sometimes find a random Laundromat and walk in and smell deeply, and feel those first love tingles rush all through my body. And now that I have a dog, his shits remind me of that beautiful first love too.

Shadow Dancing 

Excuse me, large black abyss, tracing the shape of my shadow, why do you keep tapping me on the shoulder? I already well understood your imminent arrival. Your carriage driver announced you an hour or so ago.

"Hello, Bill,” he said in his imperious pseudo-cultured stiff British accent. “I am pleased to announce the arrival of your lingering doubt, darkness, despair and destruction.”

Yep, that clued me in. But this time I didn’t try to sneak out the back door. Wherever there is light there is shadow, so I knew there was no escaping. No, this time I decided to put on the “Flashdance” soundtrack and pull out a mop bucket so that me and my darkness (my darkness being you) could dance together. Yes, I will embrace my darkness and we will throw buckets of soapy water on one another while wearing skimpy clothing inside a glorious, light-filled vacant warehouse in Tribeca. I will dress you in dirt-stained tights and every time you yell out some bit of bad energy I will tape record it and play it back comically fast, in the style of the Chipmunks, so that your dark words of despair will make me laugh and spur me on the greater beauty and more ambitious dances.

Which means the next time you come over, dear darkened negative cloud of my mucky other half, we will dance like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I know you don’t know how to tap-dance and have a really bad attitude about it. Oh, I know. That’s why I brought you this tap-dancing instructional video.

And if you don’t watch it and won’t dance with me, I will dance alone, or maybe hire a male stripper to dress up just like you and he will tap-dance while stripping, which would probably be more fun than having you around anyway, darkened shadow of despair.

And someday we will travel to Alaska, where half the year we will live in light and half the year in dark. And we will sail the endless ocean and take turns sunning on the deck and watching the stars and eventually we will merge in marvelous zebra stripes.