AdPock

Something’s missing from my beach today. The salt still tempts my nostrils, yes. Same as yesterday. The sand still stays my feet in coarse irritation. The waves perform their tragedy, singing their dying arias, giving rise to great crescendos, only to succumb to the seashore forever. The tragedy played yesterday, it doesn’t stop today. Repeat and coda, on and on. The seabirds run their usual races, taunting the lurking waves in their dash for beached plankton. The sailboats still sail. The joggers still jog. The trash still collects. The smokestacks still spew their poison to the heavens. The heavens, its the heavens. So resplendent today, much more than usual. So gleaming and free and expansive. Undisturbed. The clouds seem lighter, more airy, with room to grow, no ceiling to reach. The birds unfettered, more space to roam, no limits, no obstacles.  The planes. Where are they? What’s my beach — the closest to the airport — without the constant clamor of t...

I've had a thing for flamingos and palm trees since well before the two beach icons teamed up as thememates for my Bar Mitzvah, back in the late '80s. But they became a far more important part of my truth after Mom went all out bringing this blossoming Jew man's Miami Vice inspired dreams to life on the "Mony Mony" fueled dance floor of Bobby McGee's — my favorite restaurant at the time, due in equal parts to the perfectly pink prime rib and the fact that the waiters dressed up in costume. (Trust me when I tell you there's absolutely nothing like having a side of beef brought to you by Rocky himself!) The cardboard flamingos and palm trees that turned Bobby McGee's into a pastelled wonderland would go on to serve as my own room's decorations well past the sordid event of becoming a man — though the decor was demonstrably lessened when I accidentally knocked a basketball into the neon-pink "Adam" sign that my mom had made to real...

60 seconds, motherfuckers. Just hang on for 60-fucking ticks. Christ, this is dick-sandwich time. Stop it. No bad thoughts. No bad juju, not now. Now is when the Fish need you most. It's now time. Hold the line. "Hold it. Right here, baby! We hold them here and it's ball game! Sweet Jesus who art in heaven, please let them hold it right here!" "Does baby Jesus root for the Dolphins too, Daddy?" asks Charlene, the yelling guy's precocious 6-year-old daughter. "Ask your mother, Char, Daddy's focusing...” The Dolphins don't hold. "Fuck!"

Chet  just had a random memory from back when Darcy was crushing his soul, when he was visiting for her graduation, all those years ago. When she was off getting it on with Toby Fucking James.  All the while Chet searched on and off campus for her, stumbling around like a sad sap.  As he looked, he ended up at a buddy's house. They needed a drummer. So Chet sat in. But h e couldn't find the groove.  These many years later, that’s why Chet remains just slightly bitter. Cause he couldn’t keep up with a jam. Cause he was wrecked by a woman.  And now he was mad at himself again for  letting the time slip a half step.