The Start...

She was wearing a t-shirt that had been through hundreds of washes. Maybe a thousand. It had reached that perfect wear of cotton that is almost intellectual in its softness. Simple and wise. Highly touchable.

Sunday morning light spilled through white curtains, across white linens to peek through - what was in that instant - the perfect white t-shirt. Curls - just as soft - falling across her brow. Toes bullying the bottom of my own ticklish feet. Her hands gripping the wide, almost crude-textured, white and black of the New York Times. She read aloud from a story and laughed: "The robot, of course, has no arms."

Morning in bed with the paper. She had no idea. She had no idea. I couldn't begin to tell her. I couldn't begin to tell her.

With one hand wrapped around her waist and the other around a cup of coffee, we crossed the debated border of Boerum Hill and Park Slope. Sixty-eight degrees. Sunshine. A beautiful, thankful morning in Brooklyn.

TJM

Whadup, Blessed?

Been saying thank-you more often, lately.

I'm more thankful, lately.

I was thinking the other day about changing the movement from "This COULD be the best day of your life" to "This WILL be the best day of your life." Just recognizing your blessings...IS the best day of your life. That's some glass three-quarter full shit, right? I mean your BLESSINGS...like not having to rinse the last bit of your shampoo bottle with water for a week to wash your hair...a new wash-and-fold laundry place 2 blocks from your door instead of 4, a single fucking sip of clean water.

Oxygen instead of winecoma? Maybe, that's the new food.

Damn. We're so small.

So, I'm thankful every day. I feel like I'm having the fun we all imagined. And the kind that most wish they would have had. I'm having the fun you could have.

TJM

Notes 3-10...

Seven minutes in anal heaven

Big parrot dies in owners arms

Crotchless sweatpants

Phone sex - big words stretch a girl out

Box wine canteen

Birthday salad

Iced out Jersey chain

Cat collar - please don't bring me home

You can give me love any day...not just Christmas

Don't want to die with a cat watching. That's embarrassing.

Man starts ex girlfriend mug collection - falls in love with collection.

70 year old crackhead. Black woman. Asks me to buy her a donut. When I tell her no she says, "it's because you're white." Later shakes her cane at me and says "I get my check on Monday, motherfucker!"

Watching for lights on subway walls.

She told me this Jewish pedophile joke...That's when I knew I liked her.

So drunk that the next day you get an email from a 40 year old woman.

Jerk off on top of a mountain.

Soccer gets so popular it causes a war.

Model scout trick: find the most awkward girl. The girl eating orange in Subway, picking teeth.

Churro lady on subway platform evily roots for massive delays.

Fucks brother. Fucks brother's brother. Steals sister's husband.

How small we are.

He liked to listen to his coworkers poop. Sure, Jeff's sales numbers may be better, but he's painfully constipated. Somehow, knowing that made it easier to face the day.

My husband is taking a hypnosis class.

Guy at nudist colony named Junior.

Midget racer goes to weight loss clinic.

My mom used to be a circus photog. We used to always have fire swallowers and other good carny folk.

We had so many tee peas, Jesus.

Man screams poignant, perfect wisdom...only upon orgasm.

Hi, I'm calling from...Sex references

Philos are theories. Theories are philos. Neither is more than a poem. And all are fine.

Bobcat urine

I couldn't help but notice you from across the bar...and...I wanna fuck your hair.

I would go to Singer fabric and say my name is Katheen, my mother is Pam, I'm lost and I want a purple sucker.

You are very beautiful. Very striking features. What's your gender?

Kids! Goddammit, we're trying to drink in here.

She's a lush Jew. Can't not order a bar special.

TJM

This Shit...

These nights are the worst.

Sleep is a jungle jigsaw. Write like it's a race. Pace. Wine. Wine. Smoke. Beer. Pace. Pace. Pace. Smoke. Fernet. Beer. Write a little. Half beer. Fernet. Half beer. Write. Oh, my God, Write.

Then just stare at the blue and and red geometric threads of the comforter. Then stare at clouds on a reprint painting. Stare at an empty bottle of wine. Curse unflattering love handles staring back from a rain-splattered window.

Write.

These nights are the worst. Neither the comfort to sleep, nor an adequate buzz from clackity-clack keyboard strokes to keep the night interesting. But, I know it's temporary - the not sleeping.

Soon enough, I'll find myself under blue and red geometric print wishing I could prop eyelids, pull corks and pound keys like I was about to touch finish line tape.

But now, I pace, curse, hurt like a motherfucker for sleep.

TJM

Radio face...

You can't tell me that southern accent didn't have nerdy NPR girls all hot and bothered...



TJM

Be More Creative...

Be more creative.

TJM

p.s. be more creative

The Author...

Damon Winters' photos of Haiti in the New York Times make me feel incredibly guilty for spending 6 hours in the past week watching "The Sopranos" on the Internet. Not to mention the two minutes I spent reading about Hedi Montag's DDD breasts.

I feel naive. Ungrateful.

I'm trying to be increasingly aware of what shapes my lifetime.

And, then, another part of me thinks - in a loving, realistic and completely unselfish way, - "Fuck it. We're barely comma in the story."

TJM

Have a good night ladies...

One arm in the coat. Two arms in the coat. Keys? Got 'em. Wallet? In the pocket.

Stair-step (times 20).

And, in less than a minute, inspired by a last wash of Mendoza, Argentina's viticulture, I'm on 5th. Ave. heading north. The white wisps from my mouth and the fogged windows of the Colombian restaurant at 5th and St. Johns Pl. told me it was cold, but I was still warm, liquidly relocated to Argentina, but actually smooth-striding suede saddleback oxfords through Brooklyn.

Asian ladies in black, bloated coats lined by the door.
In my mind, "One more."
"One more bottle of red."
And, in their head...
"Huwwwwy UP."
With just seconds 'til nine.
I'm the last person
leaving with wine.

One arm out of the coat. Two arms out of the coat. Corkscrew?

TJM

Don't be distracted...

The dismay of reaching into a coat pocket void of that jumble of black-rubber coated wires that usually meets me each morning on the subway platform was not welcomed this morning. My trek from Brooklyn to midtown would be without headphones, without music.

I neglected to grab a newspaper. My current novel read - House of Leaves - was left on my nightstand.

It was to be one of those subway rides where I was not comforted by my usual distractions.

When my subway car was pulled onto the Manhattan Bridge, basking straphangers in sunlight and displaying a gorgeous scene of the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of Liberty, I realized that sometimes it's best not to be distracted.

Sometimes it's best to take a look around and recognize the richness we're surrounded by...even on the daily commute.

TJM

The Slopelahoman...

Her words, not mine.

Mom said, "It's home, not home-sweet-home." And, she was right.

I spent more than a week in Oklahoma, a trip that included a seven-hour stay among close friends in one of my favorite Oklahoma City bars, the greatest Chinese buffet in America (conveniently located a short drive from my parent's house) and a blizzard that engaged full-on, novel-buried, pie-shoveling elastic-waistband mode at the McRanch. It was truly great to be "home" in the Sooner State.

But, when I answered the phone tonight and the bundled bustle of Brooklynites on 5th Ave. and the neon and jukebox of one of my local dives transferred through my iPhone, my mom could tell I was happy to be...home...sweet home Brooklyn.

To Mom's observation, I simply said, "Yep." I assured her that my time with family and friends was amazing, but that I'm definitely growing roots through concrete. Happy beyond what I could have predicted, I'm now a Slopelahoman. She clearly understands.

TJM

There's a siliver balloon on the ceiling. I suppose you

Chuggin...

We were talking millions of dollars. Actually, all combined we were talking about more than a billion dollars. It's strange to think about quantified. A billion dollars. It almost doesn't seem real. But, that's from a kid from Oklahoma. Even, as a fairly educated resident of the state, a billion dollars seemed absolutely foreign.

But, here I was this morning on an early call talking to a man responsible for chunk of change so hefty. This conversation was conducted as I was sitting at my kitchen table in a pair of navy blue boxer briefs.

Funny how things change.

And, as I clinched a cup of Gorilla Coffee with my iPhone earbuds firmly planted while I tried to fumble with a New York Times as the D Train chugged across the Manhattan bridge to deliver me at the Rockefeller Center stop, I thought....1999 Tyrel, you're going to really dig yourself 10 years from now.

TJM

August 29, 2009 - Brooklyn, New York



TJM

Rupe...

So, I step into an empty elevator this morning with my iPod blaring Tesla so loudly I may as well have had a ghetto blaster on my shoulder. I was a little self-conscious about the fact I was listening to Tesla, but they somehow matched my stride.

Two floors into the elevator ride, just about the point I’m playing an air drum solo to “What You Give,” the doors part and in walks my billionaire bossman, Mr. Rupert Murdoch.

Just me and Rupe for a little Tesla Tuesday lift into America's finest newsroom.

I swiped my keycard and held the door. He said, "Thank you, mate." I walked next to him through the open hallway where our coffee makers are lined. I banked a right to grab a copy of this morning's WSJ, and he continued on a determined path into the den of reporters.

Google "media mogul" and I'm pretty sure Rupert will be your most consistent result. And, here I am, walking past the coffee machines on the way to my desk, literally following in his footsteps. That's funny.

TJM

Outside, though, is wonderfully complex...

A man in a dim, muggy room. Sweat beading on his brow. He raises the back of his hand and simultaneously wipes a shiny, wet stripe and strands of his moist hair from forehead. A green-glassed beer bottle drips and pools perspiration on the kitchen table. Miles Davis sounds and the whir of a window fan fight for their place in the sticky air.

It's not just hot. It's thick. Every movement is heavy, weighted from a 90 degree August evening. It's almost feverish.

The apartment is small. An ash-colored stool is stacked with newspapers that wave to the window fan, as do dog-eared pages from a pile of books assembled with no geometric symmetry. Flower pots, Converse shoes, a buckskin covered bench, a long butcher's block and a leather-handled satchel with an umbrella peaking from its zippered top suck up every available tile of square footage. Humble stereo speakers rest on top of kitchen cupboards and whisper jazz. There's no overbearing glow of nighttime television.

In fact, there's no television. And, there's no air conditioner.

So, the man raises his arm again - this time the full length of his forearm - and wipes a newly cropped layer of sweat from his face.

It sounds bleak. Depressing, maybe. And, it's an existence that some people I know would either scoff or protest with confused head sways or decrees of severe discomfort.

But, this man, in a strange, stubborn way, prefers the simplicity.

TJM

Golden...

I remember sitting in an apartment in Ft. Worth, Texas sucking on the end of an unlit Camel Turkish Gold cigarette. I remember sucking on that wet filter...tasting the sweetness, the honey overtones mingling with the tobacco. I liked the taste. Most days I had one of those unlit Turkish Golds dangling from my lips as I cruised through want ads and resume revisions. Eventually, I would step onto the terrace, hold a wobbly flame to my mouth and spark that honey into puffs drifting as rough and curious as my life was at the time.

It's a pretty damn good cigarette. I don't know why more people don't smoke them.

I truly discovered Ryan Adams at the same time. I remember scribbling poetry on apartment complex stationary with one of those Turkish Golds in my mouth as "Come Pick Me Up" skimmed across beige walls and beige carpet and beige furniture in an apartment with a beige front door.

Damn, that was miserable.

And, here I am tonight, six years later...

Turkish Gold on my lips..."Come Pick Me Up" on the stereo...in Brooklyn, New York. Is that progress? Well, it's nearly 2,000 miles of progress, that's for sure. New York City.

Not in Ft. Worth, not worrying about that journalism job, not worrying about that girl that made "Come Pick Me Up" sting and delight just the same...

Not worrying.

Just happy with a good smoke and good music finding high-rise friends and a new pour of Cabernet finding the thin-purple bottom of my glass.

It's fun to look back at that time in my life and realize that I've accomplished more than I new I would...

And, at the same time...

Have stayed the same person all along the way.

Gonna' light that Turkish Gold now.

TJM

The Morning Work...

Right now there's a buzz from the refrigerator surfacing between Patrick Watson songs. The metal gate that separates my kitchen window from the fire escape is quivering in May breeze. As are the tree branches poking their way into view through the window. Children are playing in the backyard of the brownstone two doors down. It sounds like they're bashing Tonka trucks together and screaming with joy at the result.

My kitchen is bright. Light is streaking the window sill and one ray is reaching across the floor to grab the buckskin-colored moccasin on my right foot.

The big square, distressed (in a chic way) kitchen table is pressed against a cream-colored wall. There's a flower vase, a Bic lighter, a corkscrew, two orange bandannas (one printed with scenes of Brooklyn and the other with the smiling face of President Obama) and a steaming cup of coffee littered around my laptop.

I've spent the morning checking the competition, emailing sources, securing meetings, giving a feature story a second edit.

This all happened, of course, after my brushed stainless Cuisinart coffee pot beeped it was finished gurgling.

And this all happened, of course, roughly four minutes after my feet touched the hardwoods of my bedroom for the first time on May 13, 2009.

I rather enjoy working at home.

TJM

That's how you...

Nyle "Let The Beat Build" from Nyle on Vimeo.

Really dig this. One take. Super creative.

TJM

Barber, blame Angus...

I was sitting on the M train pulling my copy of “The Teachings of Don B.” out of my bag when a woman sitting two seats away said, “Excuse me, are you Angus?”

“Huh?” I said with a smile.

“Are you Angus?”

“No, sorry.”

“Oh, you look like this guy who’s a friend of a friend. Sorry.”

“No problem. He’s a lucky guy,” I said with a laugh. That’s something I always say when someone says I look like another guy. I do it to be funny, but I think subconsciously I want them to tell me I’m good looking.

She grinned and winked at me, “Yeah, he is lucky. But, he’s this cool musician guy, so it’s a compliment for you too.”

And, at that moment, literally 15 minutes after I had stared at myself in the mirror and decided to hack off all my hair…I realized it is not meant to be. I looke like the cool musician. Everyone wants to be the cool musician.

It happens every time. As soon as I’ve talked myself into a haircut, someone makes a comment to talk me out of it.

TJM

Head high...

The most of us where drinking Michters rye. There was one girl having a Riesling - she's a damn fine journalist, but doesn't run with our crew much. We usually drink whiskey - some neat, some rocks. But, usually whiskey, nonetheless. Can't say any of us have ever ordered a white wine.

No matter, whiskey seemed appropriate. The cold wind had stabbed us for about 10 blocks on the way to our destination and we all needed something to warm us up. I guess for some, that's a glass of Riesling...and that's fine.

It was New Years Eve and deadlines were set early, so we all managed to get out of the newsroom early. It's rare that we get out in time for a happy hour, let alone before the rest of the workforce descends on the taverns. It was a special night.

So, the bar we went into was small, but special in an eccentric way. It's an old carriage house in TriBeCa...just enough room for a couple horses to turn around or a half-dozen journalists to sip whiskey. When we arrived it was just us, a bartender and a waiter, but soon a Korean man in a tattered beige parka stumbled in carrying a bucket stuffed with a sketch pad and charcoals. He sat at the bar and ordered a beer. Then he ordered another.

And, with justified question, the bartender asked if he had money to pay.

The long-haired, dirty Korean slurred in a way that indicated he didn't intend to pull out an American Express.

But, he pointed to his bucket.

The bartender laughed. And, he agreed to exchange those two beers for a portrait.

We were well within our second round when the sketching started...and I imagine the artist was well ahead of us...

But, the end product was pretty good. He ripped off a charcoal smudged page that held a pretty accurate likeness of the man who had poured us those Michters. We got a pretty big kick out of it...as did the waiter in the bar.

It was obvious the sketch artist intended to run his game as long as the bar would allow. When his glass was drained, he worked a deal for a refill in exchange for a sketch of the waiter.

We guffawed...ordered another round. God, it was cold outside. We were warm and full of laughs. It seemed like a good place to be in the last hours of the year.

So, the artist goes to slinging large grey streaks across the page as the waiter sat perched on a barstool. We peaked over his shoulder to judge the progress. Sipped whiskey. Laughed. Told sexual jokes. Laughed. Watched the waiters bug eyes transfer to parchment.

It wasn't looking good. The artist had obviously hit his peak around two beers. After three, his subject was being turned into a Far Side comic character. He swayed on his stool, set his charcoal on the bar and sucked his beer. Teetered. Scribbled.

He looked at the waiter sitting in front of him and said, "cheeeen uppppppp," in a slurred Korean accent.

The waiter, anxiously awaiting his portrait, said, "What? I don't speak FUCKING KOREAN?"

"Cheeeen up," the artist said.

Chin up, he meant.

"Oh," the waiter said, as he elevated his face.

Those who caught that exchange between whiskey pulls uproared in laughter.

That was a fun night. All of us boozy...curious how the night could get better, curious how the new year would treat us...

And, I guess it was the cool wind brushing over my face as I walked into TriBeCa tonight that made me remember that scene.

TJM

'Supdate...

I'd say 5th Ave. is the hot thoroughfare in Park Slope. Others may say 7th Ave. But, I imagine the others own a stroller and have likely never been to Lucky 13 Saloon on the night they have pole dancers. That's probably where the divide in our opinion roots itself.

I'm sitting in my kitchen on 5th Ave. three stories above a bar. To be more specific, it's actually a Japanese restaurant on the ground floor, but they have a bar. And, that's convenient, I guess.

But, tonight, I'm working my way through a bottle of wine. Doubt I'll need to pull the bar proximity card. Fifth Ave. offers that option, though.

That's right. Fifth Ave. Not 14th St., my former residence and the place I last gave a proper update.

I've moved...more than a month ago, actually. Still in Park Slope. Still living with a photographer. However, this one's not a stripper, to my knowledge.

It's a great space...nearly new hardwoods, granite counter tops, enormous kitchen, plenty of room to pack in friends for a party. I love it.

So, the new place is probably the biggest development.

Next on the update is the week I spent with my brother in NYC. It was a well deserved, much needed vacation on his part, and his first time to visit his big brother in the big city. He saw the Statue of Liberty, skyscrapers, some dinosaur bones and a lot of fucking bars. It was the perfect tour for a guy who spends most his time on the farm.

I also still have a job, which is an accomplishment in itself for journos these days. What's better is I'm getting some great exposure with WSJ. My office is moving in a few weeks to Rupert Murdoch's News Corp. building (across the street from Radio City) into a brand new space that I believe that will be the last great newsroom of our generation. It's gonna' be pretty amazing to be a part of that.

That's the quick and dirty.

Still writing. Still wronging.

Still think this could be the best day of my life (with half an hour to go in the day).

Enjoy yourself.

TJM

Finding Creatives...


Miru Kim explores industrial ruins underneath New York and then photographs herself in them, nude -- to bring these massive, dangerous, hidden spaces into sharp focus. (TED)

Drink Up Call...

Bridger just called. It's a little after 8 a.m. and I'm sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, reading the New York Times and preparing to venture outside into New York City for my daily commute. Bridger, though, is walking down a city street drinking vodka and tomato juice.

"Hey, Savannah's St. Patrick's Day party was ranked second in the country this year. I thought I would call to see what's going on in the city that's ranked No. 1," he said.

My coffee cup is green. That's about as close as I've come to participating in any St. Patty's revelry. And, before Bridger called a few minutes ago, I had forgotten the streets run green with beer today. I'll pass plenty of Irish bars on my way to work - O'Conner's, Biddy Early's, The Black Sheep Pub - and I'll probably stop in and do my part in keeping New York No. 1.

UPDATE - 10:44 a.m - One Irish Car Bomb from Biddy Early's down the hatch.

TJM

BK Next...
Brownstoner on the new Brooklyn:

The Brooklyn brand has become synonymous with coolness, creativity and authenticity so much so that cities as far-flung and diverse as Anchorage and Doha, Qatar have joined Philadelphia and Baltimore on the list of spots being called the New Brooklyn. Richard Florida, author of “The Rise of the Creative Class,” says that Brooklyn has become synonymous with gentrification (but, don't worry, it's the good kind of gentrification, he says—different from, say, the mall-ification of Soho). Brooklyn may become a victim of its own success, though, warns The Times: Now even Manhattan is being called the New Brooklyn.

Flashes, But No Flash...

I've canceled inspiration call waiting.

TJM

BedStopTime...



This is a perfect example of why I need to stop spending so much time watching YouTube videos and more time being creative.

TJM

Stop the press...

The Rocky Mountain News publishes its last paper tomorrow. Kinda' interesting to see how a newspaper covers its demise.

The Crisis of Credit Visualized

The Crisis of Credit Visualized from Jonathan Jarvis on Vimeo.
I appreciate a tricky concept explained simply. It's an important part of my job as a reporter.

TJM

"How are you?"

Well, my country's economy is wrecked, while it still has soldiers being killed by grenades fired from the roofs of Cold War-era Soviet sedans. I took a cold shower this morning, because my maintenance man was dicking around in the basement, probably causing more problems than he was fixing. There are at least 40 small, yippy dogs in my neighborhood singing through my window the bow-wow version of whatever is my least favorite song of the moment. My professional peers are being fired at an alarming rate. I'm broke as shit. I've got mounting medical bills. My blood pleasure is at an alarming level for a man of my age. I've got a boil on my forehead that lifeforms on Jupiter see as a bright red star in their night sky. And, I'm eating shitty Chinese food for the third time this week. 

But, with complete honesty - baring all sarcasm - I'm fucking awesome.

Thanks, for asking.

TJM

A Big Cold-Air Puffing Smile At The Corner of 5th Ave. and 9th St.

I remember the excitement of moving to New York City. Sure, it seemed like a glamorous endeavor and there was a part of me hyped in the novelty of shine...of big city lights...of seemingly lofty success, potentially attainable.

Prior, though, I remember dreaming of moving to a new place and the experiences I could earn. And, the bulk of those dreams had nothing to do with glamour. Ultimately, it was about the rush of finding beauty in simple occurrences. 

I reached a stagnant point in Oklahoma where I was less inspired, less aware.  And, I remember those wide-eyed first weeks in New York with my senses on fire. Sure, I found amazement in Times Square and the towering presence of the Empire State Building, but I felt more emotion and satisfaction from the site of an elderly woman pushing her groceries from the grocery store five blocks away and the multitude of languages I encountered on the subway. I liked familiar faces gracing the stoops on my block. I liked the unfamiliar site of head scarves on Muslim women. I liked familiar late nights drinking beer with Danny on our terrace in the unfamiliar setting of a terrace illuminated by the windows of 30-story buildings.

I started finding beauty in simplicity, again. 

Then, perhaps a year and a half later, New York's ugly, and far from simple side caught up with me. And, while still appreciating my surroundings, I lost the beauty. In retrospect, I think the beauty was lost when the simple escaped. 

I'm proud and quite excited to say the simple has returned.  I'm probably as happy as I've ever been in my life.

I slip-slided tonight down the icy, neon-reflecting streets of Brooklyn and found it quite beautiful. 

Glitter...

It was a simple conversation. I was twirling garlic-pepper linguine on my fork while Bon Iver set the backing music. It was just a lazy Saturday evening.

When I heard the words, my brow didn't raise in surprise. My voice didn't stutter. My throat didn't clench on a strand of pasta. I took the revelation in relative stride. I played it cool.

She specifically said, "Don't tell your friends."

But, I'll be honest, I felt a slight euphoria by her admission. Not so much in a sexy way, but more as a novelty. A random keepsake that few can claim as their own. I liked the idea of the story I could tell later. And, I immediately told my friends...

My roommate is a stripper.

Now, that I've had time for the idea of her twirling on a pole twirl in my head, I'm not sure how I feel. Maybe, a little dirty, even though I'm not the one grinding on the laps of bankers for rent money.

I know it's seedy. But, you have to admit, it's a helluva good story.

TJM

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I spent the past few days in Washington D.C. for the inauguration. I'm completely exhausted, but the experience was completely worth it. It was amazing to be surrounded by so many people excited about America. It's something I've never experienced, and something I doubt my parents' generation ever experienced prior to Tuesday.

But, I have to say one of my favorite memories is standing on the National Mall, in a mass of patriotic revelers, waiting for a stunning rendition of "My Country 'Tis of Thee...when the lady behind me screamed...

"Go, Aretha, in your church hat!"

TJM

Look, there's a plane in the river...

My co-workers and I hovered around the Hudson-facing windows of our office building and watched U.S. Airway Flight 1549 be carried by the current of the river. I told my editor, “I know I have a story I’m supposed to be filing now, but it’s not every day you get to see a fucking Airbus floating next to a ferry.”

And while a room full of journalists pressed their faces against the glass of the newsroom to watch the events unfold, the first photo of the plane in the river was Twittered from an iPhone and posted via TwitPic, less than five minutes after the plane hit the water. MSNBC interviewed the Twitter user 20 minutes later.

I think that’s amazing.

Today was a great reminder that 1) We have no idea what the future holds, so we should live like it's the best day of our life, 2) A lot of crazy shit happens in New York and 3) My profession is in the midst an extreme disruption.

All three are scary and exciting.

TJM

Pride Of Oklahoma Marching Powder...

There's this ex-pom-pon shaker I see from time-to-time that does so much cocaine that it makes me wonder how she can even know what team is on the field. I just don't think she handles her drugs very well. She might as well be Tony Montana the way she wears it on her face.

But, that coked-out cheerleader screams until the Sooners walk off the field.

And, at the least, I can admire her for that...

She's probably the only OU fan who felt good walking out of the bar tonight.

TJM

Meeting...

That's me and Todd Snider. Perhaps, you've heard me talk about him. 

He has this anecdote about songwriting that I think applies to just about any type of creative writing. Or, maybe it's just a great lesson in general. It goes something like, "If you always want to get better at writing you have to be able to take every single thing you own in the whole world, pack it up in 20 minutes and be out of where you are. And, even more importantly, you've got to keep your life in situations where shit like that happens every once in awhile. If you do that, you'll always get better at writing."

I think I could be out of this apartment in 15 minutes.

TJM

Garage Sale...

I had a giant slice of apple pie for breakfast. There's no shame in that. I don't know when I'll have the opportunity to enjoy Mom's cooking again, so I've eaten voraciously for more than a week now. And, it's been a pretty awesome week.

Nasty weather postponed my trip by a couple days, but I didn't mind kicking around Brooklyn for some extra holiday time with friends. It was good to touch down in OKC, though - give Mom and Dad a nice big hug. 

The days to follow were near perfect...a completely lazy Monday spent stretched on the couch with a book...Tuesday morning breakfast with Dad and a cruise around familiar sites in my hometown...a Tuesday evening shopping excursion with Mom in Norman...dinner and beers with my brother at Bison Witches...a couple Red Cups at The Deli...a Wednesday morning on my brother's farm feeding cows...sipping a Christmas morning cup of coffee surrounded by wrapping paper...a packed house for Tim's show on Friday night, which included about 15 of my closest friends...a boozy day in Dallas, which was followed by the opportunity to meet one of my heroes - Todd Snider - on Saturday night...and can't forget trips to both Sonic Drive-In and Van's Pig Stand. 

It sounds like I've been busy, but the pace is slower in Oklahoma. Life has been restful. It's been without worry or want. My mind has been turned off...in a good way.

Last night we squeezed the car in the garage between a pile of miscellaneous furniture, boxed up kitchen appliances and dishes that mom has collected. I said, "Mom, why don't you get rid of all this junk?"

She said, "I keep thinking you'll come home...come back to Oklahoma. And, you may need this stuff."

I don't ever pretend to know what the future will hold. I can't say with certainty what my address will be at this time next year.

But, I think Mom needs to have a garage sale.

My plane leaves Will Rogers in four hours. And, as amazing as my week has been Oklahoma, I'm excited to get back to Brooklyn.

Call my mom if you want a good deal on a microwave.

TJM

B-R-O-OK!-L-Y-N, Come Again...

Gotta make you think workin like we blue collar
rip it to the core, underneath it all we harder

Simple City...

I think this is what I want for Christmas. How badass is that basket? 

TJM

Licking...

This song always makes me happy. I'm not sure why. I'm usually a lyrics guy, but something about this melody puts a smile on my face.

I first heard it on a mixtape that lauren made for me...must have been close to five years ago. I remember I always rolled the windows down in my Tahoe and cranked this down Main St. in Norman on my way home on a Friday. It was quittin' time, weekend's here music. But, the image I always get from this song is lauren pumping her fist and grinning loud (she was always loud, even grins) while we sucked on Miller Light and listened to this in her apartment. She was so excited to hear the song. It was just a raw moment of bliss derived from music, and it makes me happy to see that in people. We just smiled at each other and bobbed our heads in appreciation, without the slightest clue that years later we would become lovers in New York City.

Thinking of that makes me so damn curious about the songs I hear and the people I meet...

Lemon Jelly - The Staunton Lick

TJM

Great Light...

Closing Monday...

"A story in the Wall Street Journal, three hot Russian girls, amazing beer and one of the best meals of my life - it seems like a good night to die."

I told Jon his sentiments on our Monday evening were accurate, but assured him there were plenty more nights of such grandeur to be had. It's not time to die. But, after a pork shoulder wrapped in bacon and stuffed with sausage and caramelized onions, Jon could perish from a heart attack by morning. 

We had both worked late and agreed that a beer would be a nice way to wrap up the day. So,we we dropped into our neighborhood gem, Buttermilk for a couple pints of Six Point Sweet Action. I flipped through The Onion while Jon finished a poem for a girl. 

Neither of us had eaten much today, so we made our way over to Draft Barn on 3rd Ave. for some schnitzel and Bavarian beers. It really was one of the best meals I've had in a long time. 

We were the only people in the place except for a trio of Russian girls. We assume they were Russian, based on the language they were using that prevented us from wooing with our respective southern accents. Our encounter with these girls - who were as beautiful as I've seen in all my days in New York - unfortunately was limited by a language barrier. But, we all traded some flirty eyes, and given that the food and beer was amazing, that was enough to justify a pleasant experience. 

I notched the middle button an my pea coat as Jon flipped the collar on his jacket and lit a cigarette. 

"That was amazing."

"Yep. So, I'll see you in the office, buddy."

And, I crossed third and rambled up 14th Street for home. 

TJM

Play...

I sent a text to a friend in Oklahoma tonight that said, "Holy fucking shit. I'm in New York City."

I love that even after meeting seasons and events in a third revolution, I still find myself with saucer eyes and mouth agape from the beauty of the Big Apple. 

I spent my day suit-and-tie-clad at gathering of media, advertising, entertainment and financial folks at the Four Seasons on 57th Street. I'm not sure how this statement reflects on me, but these days if I have to be one of the suits in the room, I want to be different. You may remember Alabama saying, "If you're gonna' play in Texas you gotta' have a fiddle in the band." Well, I remember hearing another band once say, "If you're gonna' play in Oklahoma, you gotta' have a hippie in the band." In terms of New York media and finance, I kinda' like being the fiddle/hippie in the band. I like the fact that the starch in Brooks Brothers shirt is just as heavy as the millionaire next to me as much as I like the fact that my hair touches my shoulders and there's Jack Daniels in my glass instead of white wine.

And, as funny as it sounds, I think being a guy who broke out of the mold opens more doors for me than if I were just another starched collar in the room. People are more real with me, because I'm more real with them on face value. Maybe, it's just southern charm. Maybe, it's just my stubbornness to cut my hair. 

Anyway, I had one of those experiences at the Four Seasons, today, that made me happy with the person I am. I left with a pocket full of business cards that may as well be gold. It was exciting and gratifying. 

So, I jumped in a cab to make my way to Times Square to meet a friend who had VIP screening passes for the new Bond movie. And, to be honest, that made me feel cool, too. 

As I sat in the back of that cab and passed The Plaza, along the south end of Central Park, then up Broadway into the heart of Times Square, I sent that text message to my buddy back home...

I'm pretty thankful and proud of what I've accomplished (with the help of some very special people along the way).

Holy fucking shit. I'm in New York City.

TJM

Scooped...

I've been chasing a story all day. I received a solid tip off the record, but couldn't get anyone to confirm for print.

The New York Times just posted the story citing an anonymous source. Bullshit. They're right. They have the same infomation I had hours ago. But, it's still bullshit.

Sucks to lose, but it's pretty damn cool to be competing against the New York Times.

TJM

Brothers...

I voted for Change.

I voted for my brother on a 3,000 acre farm.

I voted for my mother's small town accounting practice.

I voted for my father's medical benefits. 

I voted for a man who has rallied our country to service in an unprecedented way.

At roughly after 8 a.m. ET on Nov. 4, 2008, I pulled a long red handle in a Brooklyn voting booth and casted my ballot for the man I thought would best lead our country.

Then, I went to work. I wrote stories. Maybe, I wrote about ice cream. Maybe, I wrote about leprechauns.

Later in the night, I smiled. People cheered. People danced in the street.

And, we all ordered one more drink.

I've never seen MY streets in America so happy. I sincerely hope change is gonna' come.

TJM

Get "Peace Queer." Todd is my hero. Or, at least, as close as it gets. He'll return the favor and promote my books some day.

You can get a free digital download here.

TJM

Dwayne Wayne..

Here's what's on my mind...

Are you in media? Are you in public relations? Are you in marketing?

I can't imagine a better place than New York City. I'm so thankful that I made the commitment to come here. It truly is the center of the universe for media.

I have a lot of people I admire who have been accomplished in other cities, but I'll be honest - New York is the ultimate test.

It's a different playground.

TJM

Fightin' words...


Generation WE: The Movement Begins... from Generation We on Vimeo.

I really don't know anything about the group behind this video, their proposed energy initiative or if they have their facts straight. But the general call-to-action they speak of is something I've thought a lot about the last few months.

I've been fortunate to associate myself with some brilliant people. I'm talking about people who are going to be called on to lead our communities for years to come. But, I rarely have conversations with these people about taking an active role in bettering our communities. No matter how smart or successful, I think the lot of us have been lazy.

Most of the people I associate with are not technically millennials. I think we can identify equally with Generations X and Y. Either way, we're going to have to be a proactive part of righting the mess that our parent's generation has created.

And, I don't see any fire in the brilliant people I surround myself with...and I'm just as guilty. As I've thought about this over the last few months, I catch myself likening it to joining the Army. If my country were in trouble, would I take the example of my grandfathers and enlist to fight? Absolutely.

Like the video says, we are - for the first time - inheriting a nation in decline. It seems like its about time for the strongest men of a new generation to start fighting.

It would be great if I got off my ass and tried to do my part.

TJM

O. Hi, Henry...

"You know, O. Henry wrote 'Gift of the Magi' in that booth back there."

I took heavy gulps tonight from a Brooklyn Lager and told the story of Pete's Tavern as an ink outline of the author's profile seemed to listen for inaccuracies.

I like telling stories. I like bars.

And, I wonder if O. Henry's method is ultimately my blueprint for the moral of his most famous story.


TJM

Neon Stairway...

It's getting cool in New York.

Last night I stepped off the train in Williamsburg and pulled my hoodie up to block the breeze as I walked over to Dumont. I sat at the bar and had their supposedly famous macaroni and cheese and a glass of wine. I found both the mac and the syrah lacking. Tabasco helped the mac and I suppose another couple glasses would have helped the syrah.

I chatted with the guy sitting next to me about his beautiful tattoos and laughed with the waitress about southern pronunciations of words like "pecan."

Dropped some cash, tossed my messenger bag over my shoulder and zipped up to brace a cool October night.

The hipsters were already spilling out of Music Hall of Williamsburg. Little Japanese girls in little skirts and little ankle boots letting little giggles escape their mouths in little visual puffs.

I lingered in lamplight glow with my friend as we waited for the rest of our party to join us at the club. The ticket in my grip read, "Lykke Li and Friendly Fires."

Merlin Bronques bounced by with his camera swinging from his neck. I later saw him popping the collar of a gorgeous brunette in a tight gray dress before his flash bulb fired all over her body.

It was cool outside. Everyone was cool.

My friend looked into a dark Brooklyn sky dotted with pulsing sparkles and said, "Who needs stars when you have plane traffic."

TJM

"Then five blocks to enjoy it..."

I trudged up the stairs of the 4th Ave./9th St. stop in Brooklyn - one flight outside the spinning gate, then a crowded right up another flight, then skinny stepped past the booth and up another flight to the corner. All the while I'm feeling the itchy wool of my ill-chosen sweater collecting sweat and scratching my neck as I'm trying to stuff a borrowed copy of Richard Price's "Lush Life" into my messenger bag.

An orange-lit hand blinked across 9th and I half jogged across the street in front of a bright red 70s-era DeVille with a white top (just like the driver). He waited as myself and others pretended to race that blinking orange hand's insistence. The thought occurred to me as my steps seemed to never find the end of that Cadillac that he could be an old-time mob guy. He looked the part, or at least had the car. He's probably been interrogated. He's probably been in the position to wipe away fingerprints. And, the green pine tree air freshener hanging from his rearview made me think he probably smokes cigars. Then again, maybe he's just a retiree enjoying a cruise in his diaper-wiped Caddy and the swinging, earthy-scented air sanitizer was there to cover the smell of gasoline that a 500 cubic inch motor can sometimes create in the interiors of 35-year-old cars.

My exit on 9th was a knee-jerk decision as it occurred to me a stop before that I needed to stop someplace for dinner. I stomped down the street to 3rd Ave. to Bar Tano, planning to pick up some pasta to return home and open the bottle of Cabernet I knew was anxiously awaiting. But, that place is so damned charming I couldn't help but pull up a stool at the bar. That Cabernet would wait...meanwhile there's charm...and life at the bar.

I ordered a Brooklyn Flemish Gold, a "hoppy, spicy, kinda' orangey, but hoppy" beer, according to the bartendress. She's was a small gal, but with a feisty look. Not quite a temptress, but fun. She'd be glad to drink beer and play cards...and it wouldn't be so bad if the game was strip poker. Probably a better friend than a fuck, but probably not a bad fuck. She said, "You wanna' eat?" I ordered penne "with sundried tomatoes and capers in a creamy Gorgonzola sauce." And the Flemish Gold was a perfect light, but sturdy pairing for such a rich dish. I won't pretend to be a foodie. I just know when I enjoy a meal.

The walls and ceiling of Bar Tano are a wonderful, ornate, cream-colored pressed tin. The bar is of gray slate. The back wall has a black-framed mirror, long as a mobster's DeVille, that allows a full view of the restaurant. Morris Minor-sized mirrors angling over the bar offer similar views. The light fixtures - in a strangely elegant way - look like partly inflated prophylactics dotting the ceiling. The coffee maker posing sleekly between the bar and the kitchen door looks like a bean-grinding, percolating version of a Cord 812.

The patron to my left was an elderly Italian gentleman. He wore a checkered sportcoat and spoke in his native tongue to a square-lensed 30-something man splitting time between what seemed to be appeasing banter and directing traffic in the bar. The younger gentleman was at the least a manager, perhaps an owner. He seemed not quite ripe, but smart. The old man was simply a guy in the neighborhood looking for someone to speak Italian with while sipping an espresso. The older gent sat with his olive and black checkered back turned and watched me eat through the enormous mirror at the back of the restaurant.

The woman to my left was young. She wore a yellow t-shirt, jeans cuffed to her shins and blue flip-flops. She studied a notebook spilled in front of her. She chatted with the bartendress about acting, like maybe they're in the same acting class. I assumed they're actresses. I just overheard bits and pieces of their conversation, but certainly heard her order for a martini. "Do you like it dirty?" the bartendress asked. "Yeah," the girl responded. "Filthy?" the bartendress continued. "No, just make it dirty." I felt confused about the question.

A few remaining cylinders of pasta remained, too rich for someone not rich enough to fill his need to match them with the perfect lager. So, I pushed my plate aside and sipped my second beer as another woman came in and took a seat two stools down and slung a gorgeous brown leather Tumi briefcase onto the stool next to mine. I complimented her bag in a way that I hoped sounded neither gay nor predatory. She also ordered a martini and the bartendress skipped the "filthy" question due to the "nothing fancy" request on the new patron's part. I'd have needed a few more of those Brooklyns to test her martinis-to-clothes-coming-off-tolerance, so I certainly wasn't trying to make a pass. But, I couldn't help but compliment her satchel.

The room glowed warm white. Its cream colored walls were content in a way that still found no reason for tomorrow not to be a better day. New York City spilled from beer taps and wine bottles and sauce pans and pink lips. An old man found yesterday's speak, a young lady studied tomorrow's words to be spoken, a Tumi-packing princess ordered "nothing fancy."

And, I had dinner.

TJM