Notes from The Road

Northern Musings

Fall must be here.

One nostril is swollen, nearly cinching itself shut, while the other is honking violently into a Kleenex every ten minutes. Bad cough, too. Feels like bleach in my lungs. Happens every time the seasons change.

Nothing you can do about that.

But who can complain? I made it through my entire Northeastern run of shows without so much as a sniffle. Not even a chill. I just hope I haven't brought back some New York-bred, super strain of virus that will wipe out sunny South Carolina...

If you haven't noticed, I've moved "Hard-Wired Headquarters," or "The Blog" section of TaylorMooreMusic.com, to the homepage. I've also changed a couple other things around here as well. Now you can add Web Design Guru to my resume.

Maybe it'll help years from now when I scouring for jobs in the San Fernando Valley after getting spit out of the porn industry.

In efforts to get posts out into Cyberspace a little more frequently, I'm going to stop trying to tackle epic poems in the vein of Homer like I usually do, and bang out more blitzkrieg-styled ramblings and musings. Especially considering my last post was in, er, March.

So let's do that. We'll start with Northern Musings. Scroll down...

 

 Brooklyn Sleeps

I laid my often-weary head in Brooklyn -- just across the bridge, south of Manhattan, -- every night I was in New York.

Either grappling with Saul the cat for space on friend Randy's couch in Prospect Heights, or once on an airbed belonging to Charleston Dog-turned rabid New Yorker, Matt, a graphic designer for a national sports publication.

He lives near the new Barclays Center. Last names omitted to protect The Guilty.

"No Sleep Till Brooklyn." That phrase kept bellowing in my brain like some kind of demented anthem. The old Beastie Boys tune never truly seeps into the cortex and flips that switch until you're on a rumbling, squealing Easter pastel-colored train bound for Brooklyn at 4:30 a.m. A real hands-on approach to the "City That Never Sleeps."


And that's what it is. Those early mornings creep up quick in NYC; before you've realized it, the legs of the barstools around you are jetting upwards, and you're waving around a glass of Pinot Noir while giving dating advice to the bartender.

You don't even drink wine, and what's worse, the poor bastard is listening to you. It's late. After hours, and your friends point you toward a subway. You trust their judgement, give them a wave -- let them know you'll be just fine. Just riding out of The City.

That's when you notice some poor, bleary-eyed joke's bald head bob from shoulder-to-shoulder on each rider beside him, as he slops drool all over his laptop bag. Is he drunk? Is he overworked? I can't even tell at this stage in the game.

Just havin' an "in and out of consciousness," he'd say. No big deal.

But when his head rested on the shoulder of the heavy-fisted, leather jacket-clad bruiser type for a fourth time, I was worried we were going to get into heavy territory.

But fortunately enough, the tanker was in no mood. Maybe he'd put the heat on some icy New York dame earlier that night. Thawed her out. Got some digits.

He just simply chuckled, crossed the train and plopped down next to me, instead of cracking the joke's jaw open with an uppercut, and scrambling his teeth across the train floor. Gummy floors, too. They'd probably stick.

No, no action on this subway. But wasn't this the same neighborhood where Steven Seagal jammed a corkscrew in William Forsythe's forehead during the anti-climatic brawl at the end of Out For Justice?

Everything I knew about Brooklyn up until this point had come from that movie. Even Seagal's over-the-top accent. But earlier that day, I'd been sipping coffee and yacking about South Carolina with locals in front of the bodegas and delis on the "Hard Side O' Town." No one even shrieked: "But they ain't NOBODDY UP'STEAAAHS!!!" And now this train ride...

Brooklyn sleeps, though. And thank God for that. As simple as it was, it was one of my favorite moments of the trip. I even snapped a picture of it at 4:49 a.m.

I was also fortunate enough to not get shanked in the lower back by some nutcase lurking in the shadows when I took it.

I woke up Randy at about ten minutes later that morning with some general good-humored gibberish before he had to run a 10k in a few hours. He was excited to see me. Saul, too.


 

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