Someone Else&#39;s House

I'm sitting in Broadway Starbucks. I had walked over to Think Coffee first, but they only open at Eight O'clock, it was now only Seven. I had skipped Broadway Starbucks earlier because of it's inoperative router, and the lack of any computer skills of the counter people in getting it back up the last time that I was there. But I went back, hooking up, and amazingly, I jacked in with no problems.

Earlier this morning at Five minutes to Six, I heard a beeping sound in a dream where I was cleaning up a friend's house. Now I ask you, how many times do you have a dream that you're cleaning out SOMEBODY ELSE'S house??? Shit, am I so limited in vision that I can't even DREAM of my own place??? But there I was, taking out their garbage, moving and dusting their furniture, getting busy, until there was this beeping sound. I looked around the house for their cell phone that must have been making the noise, and then I opened by eyes, looking about in the darkness of the Dorm, then down at my waist, my pocket. I rolled over and the noise stopped.

I reached into my slacks and found my MP3 player. I must have rolled over on it and its function button was protesting. Yes, that's right, I sleep with headphones in my ears, listening to music as I drift off. And if the length of the album that I'm listening to is long enough, I'm probably dreaming to music also.

Not that I remember that. In those dreams I'm probably fucking Sylvia Saint to the beat...but THOSE I don't remember!!! When it comes to cleaning a house though....

Disgusted and disgruntled, I pull off twenty sit ups. I blow right through them with ease. I stop, amazed at my body. Wait. Let's check something out here, my brain said. I drop and peel off twenty push ups like a breeze. I am indeed amazed. It took just about a week and I'm already a tiny bit in shape. My muscles adapting quickly. Should I

increase the number, or should I sit on twenty of everything until it gets boring. I know that it is the stress that builds muscle. But just how much stress can a forty six year old endure before something breaks. I vote to keep everything at twenty for the time being. At least for another week. I'm walking a mile or two on top of the calisthenics so I'm pretty well matched when it comes to exercise for awhile.

So I'm obliged to sit and blog. This is what I do. I zip though email like lightning. But blogging takes time. Further, I have nothing else to write about. I've done everything that there is to do. Afterwards I wonder what I'm going to do next. Today is the SHOUT OUT, so I will be busy. But until then I have to come up with something.

I work on the paperwork on the new reporting gig. I update my resume. I've chosen to put the porn review website in my resume. Shit, I'm reviewing porn for a reason, to build my fucking resume. If I'm embarrassed doing it, then I should stop. So, I spend a while preparing the email for them. I gather past articles and cover letters and the resume

and place them all into a launch folder and send all of that shit off. I ask to be their journalist for movie reviews and New York news. I assume that I can get information about the city happenings from local newspapers and I can afford to see a movie a week.

Besides, I can go to matinee showings, which are much cheaper. Either that or slip into several shows in multiplexes. Ha ha ha

No...I'm deadly serious. I'm homeless. I'll do that shit.

Hobobob, that's definitely just an excuse for being a miscreant. Yeah? And? I never said that I was all that redeemable. Just a little.

Well, friends appear on IM and keep my ass busy until it's time to run to the SHOUT OUT.

We have a pretty good one, with a pretty decent crowd. Our feature, Marilyn Thomas King, did an excellent job, getting everyone heated up and cheering. We also had one comic who didn't do too well. God, being a comic is the hardest thing to be. Especially when people aren't drunk and are therefore predisposed to laughing. I felt for him, as well as many of us did. But he did crash and burn somewhat.

Lu O dropped by. It was a pleasure to be with her again. It reminded us of old times. At the close of the SHOUT OUT, we lef

t together, OBSIDIAN, Lu and I, with DJ Benson- hurst and we strolled up the street talking until we reached Third Avenue, and DJ had to peel away. The three of us then walked up to Union Square Park, taking a seat on a bench and jaw jammed away.

Not far from us was Ninja, a long burned out bike messenger, on his newly upgraded bike. It had a homemade cart attached to the back of it with his tattered belongings in it. He, himself, was standing, in the seat, his face down on the handlebars, fast asleep. He wavered from side to side on the two wheels but, I'll be damned, his ass did not fall.

Ninja was one of the skeks that had a very fragile hold on reality. My brother and I gave him the name NINJA because, well, he dressed like a fucking black suited ninja. He seemed like a tough guy, threatening, even in his deep voice, but he was not - in fact, far from. Still, his attitude had him thrown out of many soup kitchens, and his life threatened on many occasions. It was just a wonder to see him still alive, much less still on his bike.

We spoke with Lu until it became late and she had to head back. We walked her downtown, near the shelter, where we put her on the train. Two big brothers fawning over their little sister. We bade her goodbye and then went to stand in front of the shelter in the pleasant evening. It was a long day. I planned to meet up with my brother tomorrow morning at Madison Avenue Starbucks and headed upstairs into the belly of the Box.

I moved through the corridors effortlessly, almost like a phantom in gelatin.

I make it to my bed. Set up my laptop and begin blogging. I'm thinking primarily of that fucking writing assign- ment. Soon, I'll be more busy than I have hands.

Because, that's the fucking problem.
I have too much time on my hands.

That's a fucking problem.

Hobobob