Another comfortable night in bed with Bill leads to a strange day. Not really roller coaster, more like Tilt-A-Whirl. Didn’t realize I left my cell phone at home until I was nearing the Path train. Too late to turn around and get it, decided to forego instead. In the back of my mind I thought today would be the day that I’d really need it, massive blackout, or a terrorist attack. Thankfully these things didn’t happen, at least not in New York.

Reading the New Yorker, only three weeks behind in reading it, about the search for artificial sweeteners. They weren’t too nice about Stevia, which is my sweetener of choice these days. They focused on aspartame and the like, made in laboratories, instead of the natural Stevia. It is an acquired taste. I didn’t like it much at first, last Thanksgiving, but after talking to my sister about it, I came around and really don’t consider putting anything else in my coffee and that’s all I use it for anyhow. The New Yorker article was interesting, with the brain equating sweetness with pleasure and bitterness with toxicity and death.

That about sums up a lot of things in my life, though it’s usually tempered and makes things bittersweet. No more big wigs in at work, they all flew back to England in the night. It was back to the standard crew of creatives. Some are nice, others a bit flighty. I didn’t mind. A few people were out so that greatly reduced the stress levels. Felicia and I have been getting along rather well. She’s a character that I’m learning to enjoy. Not one hundred percent, for there is still some pins and needles that I walk on, but we’re meeting each other half way.

The walk to the Path train was quiet and uneventful. I played Elvis Costello and the Attractions, ‘Armed Forces’. Brought me back to 1979, when I played it to death. I was so wrapped up in Elvis Costello that I bought the domestic album, the British import with some fantastic packaging and an added song, as many singles I could get, including a one sided single that Columbia Records was experimenting with to stem the tide of lost revenue from the advent of cassettes. I bought so much product that I’m sure I made up for a nice percentage of the corporation’s losses.

Armed Forces was originally called Emotional Fascism, but the powers that be felt that fascism wouldn’t go over too well. It definitely has a crisp clear 1970’s sound courtesy of Nick Lowe. The story regarding Elvis Costello and the tour is documented in an earlier entry called, (Take Your Elbow Out of the Soup) You’re Sitting on the Chicken

No crap Eels show tonight, just hanging around at home watching the American Film Institute’s 100 Most Inspiring Films, which occasionally moves the bladder near the eyes and a lump in the throat. I can be such a softie. Juan called, he’s at the Tilly and the Wall show, one of the bands from the great MamonoMania cd he made me. Tilly and the Wall feature tap dancing percussionists, which I’ll have to talk to Juan about tomorrow. He asked if I wanted to go but it is a school night and I’m not 18. He phoned from the Bowery Ballroom. It’s a sold out show. Lot’s of teenagers there. He said he felt old amongst them.

Imagine if I went? I’d be a Grandfather to these kids.

No session with Phillip Beansprout this week. He needed to cancel, due to a family thing. Two weeks without therapy. So much to figure out.

Woke up hugging Bill. That was a nice way to start the day. We talked a bit last night, but I think it’s best that Phillip Beansprout puts the match to the flame. Stirs things up. Things like emotions. Also good to use the place as a confessional of sorts. Not that I have anything to confess, but I’m not dragging around a lot of baggage. No that was last week. With time, the load gets lighter. Hugging Bill in the morning helps lift some of that load.

I neglected to mention that yesterday we had special guests in the office special, meaning Bobby Shriver who looks more like his cousin Christopher Lawford. Doesn’t look like Eunice, or his sister Maria. It was an odd thing. It’s probably as close to meeting a Kennedy, as I’ll ever get. Do Shrivers count? It would have been nice to have met John Kennedy Jr. he was a hottie and from what was said after his death, an aficionado of the herbal cigarettes. My brother told me that someone told him that John Kennedy Jr. would go up to Washington Heights and pick up some reefer. The cops would see him and they knew what he was doing but he was who he was, loved by all, the golden boy, so the police would simply look the other way.

Of course none of this could be verified. More than six degrees of separation on that tale. It was sad to have him die so young. I remember hanging out with my girl Miriam in Central Park, reminiscing of the times we never saw John John playing touch football, riding his mountain bike along the pathways, or asking us if we had any extra Rizla. Oh what good times we never had with him.

I recall driving down to Cape May with my sister to stay with our parents for a few days, listening to Kate Bush ‘Hounds of Love’ and talking about how it was to see Jackie get choked up after her daughter Caroline’s wedding. We both agreed that it was bittersweet. Jackie was probably wishing Jack was there while John walked her down the church steps. They all looked great. What can I say? Growing up Irish Catholic, the Kennedy mythos loomed large.

Work had the usual big wigs from Britain in. The CEO paid me a compliment, saying that I do a sterling job in the office. Awfully nice to hear from the man who’s running the company and signing my paychecks. I guess I am doing a sterling job. But I’m not the type to rest on my laurels since I have never had laurels before and wouldn’t know how to make them comfortable enough to rest on.

After work I walked a different route, down by the riverside. I was headed down to see the Eels, who I heard enough about to warrant seeing a free show. Granted I saw some pictures of E, the leader of the band who was smoking a cigar. I thought him handsome. I’ve learned a lesson tonight though, just because someone is handsome and smokes a cigar doesn’t mean they make good music. Man this band sucked. Not what I expected. Read some reviews of them at Town Hall last year, seemed like a mellow type show then. Now it’s was quasi grunge, smugness being driven around in a Prevost bus.

Third rate at best. I think the opening band Smoosh, played a better set and they only played 4 or 5 songs. Then I took the ferry home to Hoboken, into the sunset on a beautiful night.