Back to dictation. Concrete jungle by Bob Marley plays in my head. Very good song appears on a couple of his albums, live and in the studio
I am reminded of when I was working at 36 West 37th Street at skyline studios. It was the height of my Rasta reggae infatuation. Hanging out one night in the hallway I just had considerably red eyeballs considerably red and me with a gold magic marker in my hand feeling holier than now and tagging up a marble hallway or a hallway lined with marble walls writing no chains around my feet but I’m not free.
Those were the days my friend. Now I don’t see anybody from that time except for maybe Miriam online. She wished me a happy birthday the other day.
Mike’s beloved, wade, has a job offer in New jersey. It’s a big jump from Northern California to New Jersey but that seems to be the plan and I just hope it works out for all concerned
There’s that beautiful black man running by with his headphones on I should have taken his picture but it would be too obvious
It’s another gorgeous Summer afternoon on September 15th. Having had off on Monday I’m at work again on Tuesday. People have commented on my haircut which is understandable since last week it was down to my shoulders and this week it’s barely an inch off my head.
Today I’m at my fruit stand. Tomorrow I will be at the belly of the other food stamp stand.
I have certainly smoked a lot of cigars these past 4 days and I felt it yesterday with bike riding and just walking to work this morning. I told myself perhaps I should cut back and I didn’t listen to myself because I’m outside at my spot smoking a cigar and not a mini cigar but it’s (a guy that it went last week a cigar) that I bought last week.
Julio’s has been working on Dexter: Resurrection. I mentioned to him that a friend of mine, (at Irwin) Pat Irwin, did the music for (us) it. I sort of fudged it though; Pat is a Facebook friend and I have chatted with them a couple of times in person. Pat Irwin is a very nice guy and very talented.
Regardless (cigar v cigar) the cigar that I have smoking is larger than I am used to and I am uncertain whether or not I will finish it before I go back to the office and have to do something with it carrying it around won’t suffice
Perhaps getting at least halfway through it would be the only choice that I have
It was cold (and) in the fruit stand because the air conditioner was on and I was uncertain how it would be on the street. I wore a fleece at the fruit stand and wore it downstairs to the street where I found that it’s warm enough to not need the (police or the police please please) f l e e c e.
Oh this dictation drives me nuts and I will have to edit these things when I get home tonight
I just watched a man who maybe (announced) unhoused walk up to a garbage can holding a drink which he put on the firebox next to the garbage again can and started yelling in Spanish at the garbage can as he goes through looking for food or empty bottles to be recycled
He just grabbed his beverage and walked away shouting in Spanish.
I’m sitting smoking my cigar minding my own business watching everybody go by. A woman (except) smoked a Parliament cigarette and sits about 6 feet away from me. I assume that she will complain about the cigar or the smoke or the smell but she just sat there and getting up a moment ago she turns to me and says nice cigar and walks away.
Concrete jungle with marble walls
A guy with big hair and a Mickey mouse tie underneath his suit jacket just walked by and said he liked my socks. They are yellow socks with images of The Beatles on it.
It’s either you it’s either me it’s either two or maybe three
Dorothy Parker essay via Google Gemini
Back to the dismal mechanics of dictation, with Bob Marley’s *Concrete Jungle* hammering away at the inside of my skull. It is a marvelous track—appearing on a couple of his albums, both live and in the studio, though I am currently in no condition to appreciate either.
It reminds me of my tenure at Skyline Studios, at 36 West 37th Street, during the absolute zenith of my foolish Rasta-reggae infatuation. I recall leaning against the marble hallway late one evening, my eyeballs a stark, considerable red, feeling insufferably holy with a gold Magic Marker clutched in my hand. Naturally, I vandalized the marble with *“No chains around my feet, but I’m not free.”* Ah, those were the days, my friend. Today, I don’t see a soul from that era—save for Miriam online, who graciously wished me a happy birthday the other day. One must take one’s triumphs where one finds them.
Meanwhile, Mike’s beloved, Wade, has a job offer in New Jersey. Uprooting from Northern California for the Garden State strikes me as a rather harrowing leap, but such is the master plan. I merely hope it works out for all concerned, though experience has taught me to temper my optimism.
A strikingly handsome Black man just ran past, enveloped in his headphones. I ought to have taken a photograph, but subtlety was never my strong suit, and it would have been tragically obvious.
It is another suffocatingly gorgeous late summer afternoon, this fifteenth of September. Having enjoyed Monday off, I find myself back at work on Tuesday. A few brave souls have commented on my haircut, which is entirely understandable: last week my hair tumbled past my shoulders, and today it sits barely an inch off my scalp.
Today I am stationed at my fruit stand; tomorrow I shall be trapped in the belly of another.
I have smoked a catastrophic number of cigars these past four days, a vanity I acutely felt while riding my bicycle yesterday and walking to work this morning. I advised myself to cut back, but I am notoriously poor company and rarely listen. So here I am, parked outside, puffing on a proper cigar—not a mini—that I purchased last week.
Julio has been working on *Dexter: Resurrection*. I casually mentioned that a friend of mine, Pat Irwin, composed the score. I fudged the intimacy of the acquaintance, of course—Pat is merely a Facebook friend, though we have exchanged pleasantries in the flesh a time or two. He remains, for the record, remarkably talented and far too nice for this business.
Regardless, this cigar is vastly larger than my usual vice, and I am tortured by the uncertainty of whether I can finish it before returning to the office. Carrying a half-smoked stub about the corridors simply will not do. Getting halfway through appears to be my only civilized option.
It was utterly frigid at the fruit stand, thanks to the aggressive air conditioning, leaving me baffled as to what the street temperature might hold. I wore a fleece inside, wore it downstairs, and promptly discovered that the afternoon is far too warm to justify the garment. Oh, this wretched dictation software will be the death of me—I shall spend my entire evening editing its pathetic hallucinations.
I just observed a gentleman, likely unhoused, approach a trash can holding a beverage. He set the drink down on the adjacent firebox and commenced screaming in furious Spanish at the receptacle while rummaging for food or aluminum. Having concluded his tirade, he retrieved his drink and marched off, still berating the air.
So I sit here, smoking my cigar, minding my own bloody business, watching the parade of human misery. A woman smoking a Parliament sat a mere six feet away. I braced myself for the inevitable lecture regarding my smoke, but as she stood to leave, she turned, murmured, “Nice cigar,” and drifted off. One is constantly disappointed by the lack of expected malice.
*Concrete jungle with marble walls.*
A man with absurdly large hair and a Mickey Mouse tie peeking from beneath his suit jacket just shuffled past to inform me that he liked my socks. They are bright yellow, adorned with the faces of The Beatles.
It’s either you. It’s either me. It’s either two—or maybe three.