Play Through the Pain

I’ve got my foot elevated on the arm of my couch so that the heel is above my heart. This way the blood will flow from it instead of push towards it. See, I’ve got to stop the swelling and I've got to stop the swelling quick. I got another party to hit tonight, and this limp just don’t look pimp.

I twisted it last night on my way home from Prefontaine Paul’s Palace on the Parkway. I tripped down the front steps of an empty synagogue while trying to light a cigarette. It was about midnight but my mind was on dawn.

I was finished. Done. We had reached a verdict. Walking down the street was like being on a small sailboat in the seas of a violent hurricane. I had an epic swerve going and was just trying to make it home.

But I’m jumping forward when I should be flashing back a bit. Twisting my ankle was just the day’s grand prize; there was all the play that lead up to that moment and that’s the most pleasing bit.

At about noon I had gotten out of the shower and had dried myself off. I had drunken a glass of water. I had checked my phone messages. I has taken my laundry to the ‘mat and I had asked the laundry nazi if I could use a couple of the service washers because the public ones were all in use. He had grunted towards washer 2 and 3, and I had loaded my clothes and then went back home. I drafted, edited, and then sent out a few emails and I had replied to a few more. I went back to the ‘mat and switched my clothes to the dryers. I text messaged a few people. I checked my emails for replies. I had went back to the ‘mat and had shoved all my clothes into my bag without folding them. When I got home I dumped then all on my bed and had spread them out so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. I checked my email once more then I had my first glass of wine.

At about 5 o’clock I was in the car with Prefontaine Paul, who was still filled with adrenaline from our run in the morning. Or maybe, now that I think of it, he wasn’t. Maybe he always has that much energy. Maybe that’s what’s so captivating about him. That he has that manic approach towards life, as if he’s always on the edge of something magnificent.

He has the Dabrye record playing. We keep rewinding tracks 3 and 19. We discuss techno and hip hop and Detroit for a while. Then we pull up to Kid Clovers place.

Kid Clover has a place that has two doormen. The elevator was made of glass and the walls in the hallways had high ceilings and the light reflected off of their paint; the lamps themselves were hidden. Every unit had a neon lit strip to the side of the door that bore the address in stark, black letters and numbers. 9D. 9C. 9B. 9A. Some doors had welcome mats in front, but they didn’t say Welcome; they just sat there like a soft, expensive blocks of muted tones. We finally got to his place and rang the bell and Paul noticed that it was a pleasant ring. We could smell the weed even before the door opened. He had on an old t-shirt and an unshaven face with a smile that spread wide across it. He lived on the 9th floor, beneath the penthouse, in a corner three-bedroom condo.

The place was amazing. Like something out of Architectural Digest. He had a view of every single bridge save the George Washington. Brooklyn. Manhattan. Williamsburg. Verrazano. You could even see the Statue of Liberty Standing tall beyond the East River. You could see the Manhattan skyline and how the Empire State stands so strong now above everything else; it towers. You could see the art of the Chrysler Buildings design. You could see the empty back lots of Williamsburg and the abandon auto shops with their autobody graveyards in the back of their garages. And we all talked about how impressive it was and how convenient it all appeared to be and then Kid Clover opened up a bottle of scotch and asked if I wanted it neat or on the rocks.

Eventually Glitzy Guy came over and we started rolling joints. And we were all still reeling from how impressive the place was when I finally said out loud, It’s a portrait! All of it! And Glitzy Guy said back, What do you mean? Its just walls and windows and a couch and a rug

I said no, it’s a portrait. It’s all a portrait. And then I added, because I felt I needed to, because I felt like he didn’t really see what I was saying at all, I added, it’s beautiful. It’s all a beautiful portrait. It’s New York City behind those windows. It is those windows. Its that couch. It's that rug. It’s all just so beautiful, and I’m not being vague here. It truly is a portrait of beauty.

I then finished my scotch and looked at the bottom of the glass to see if I had maybe missed any. Then I put the glass on the marble counter and began to fill it again.

You see, I said, look at how beautiful this all is. And the golden brown scotch really did look striking behind the ice and with the sunset shining off of the glass and all. Then Glitzy Guy looked at me and looked at my drink and sincerely nodded his head. I don’t know if it was truly sincere, but it sure looked like it was. And then he said, Oh. Yeah. I see. Then we clinked glasses and took a sip while staring into each others eyes like the the rules say you're supposed to.

But after a few more clever comments and a few more expertly rolled joints and a few more glasses of scotch on the rocks and a few more gasp at the view, me and P-dizzle had to make our exit, so after a few hang shakes and hugs and fist bumps and what not, we was out like: boom.

Which brings us back to Prefontaines Palace, where there was vodka and pineapple mix and these chicks from Long Island in town for the weekend. One had a tank top that said in shiny letters MY BOYFRIEND IS OUT OF TOWN, and she had a cute skin color and nice curly hair. I didn’t talk to her much though, just noticed that shirt was kind of weird.

Me and Paulie Park Ranger toked a few more bowls and swallowed a few more cocktails. But after a while it was time to get ghost. So I started walking home, and on the way I stopped in the doorway of a synagogue to block the wind while I tried to light a cigarette. I scratched match after match and eventaully got a flame going. And when i finally got my cigarette lit, and was walking down the steps feeling pretty satisfied with myself, I slipped and twisted my ankle. So here we are, with my foot's elevated above my heart. To keep the swelling down, because got a party to hit tonight. I got to play through the pain.

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Jules Winnfield coached a hockey team. Need I say more motherfucka? And if you dont know who Jules Winnfield is, then I suggest you just aint like Fonzie and perhaps its in your best interest that you get with it. Also, apparently I am part of the "blogosphere," according to AOLs music artist page for Jamie Lidell. Which is pretty sweet, because Jamie Lidell is pretty sweet and being pretty sweet, even if its just because I once wrote that a pretty sweet artist was pretty sweet is pretty fucking sweet in and of itself.