liverwurst narcosis and two black and white hours

that’s where i am right now. a week ago i was discussing sandwiches with a friend and mentioned how it’s been almost fifteen years since i’ve had a liverwurst sandwich. it’s a sandwich that you can’t have too often. it tends to stay with you for days at a time. i’ve always considered it “poor man’s pate.” that idea burrowed into my mind. i knew from the moment i mentioned it, that it was a matter of time, and the time happened and i’m sitting in goodbye blue monday in a liver-induced haze after preparing and eating this dream-come-true. the requirements; half-loaf of crisp semolina bread, a half-jar of gulden’s spicy-brown mustard, a quarter-pound+ of thick-sliced liverwurst, four slices of provolone cheese and three slices of white or red onion (i did white onion this decade) and that’s it.
i sat editing my cat story (the previous blog) and ate. i can edit and proofread things forever, particularly what i write. editing. feh…
as in life, i can never get it quite right.
of course, i referred to the stack of photographs that sit in the box i assembled a few days back. the place where i unearthed the pics of big and little guys and these photos of the apartment where little guy flew, the frenchman called and i spent perhaps a dozen years.
i cringe at times when i recall the things i did in that building. the super and landlord breathed a huge sigh of relief when i left. i moved into the chelsea hotel while they were finishing the renovated apartment i had signed onto at 28th street and tenth avenue on what was the fringe of chelsea back then. the dealers, hookers and trannies still did a load of business at that time, particularly in the hours when i arrived home after closing scrap bar, but i’m not there yet. i’ve just moved into the chelsea hotel and lived there for a three or four weeks.
i was living the history rush. i was going to chronicle my time there, my dylanthomas sidvicious moments. i have arrived. never wrote a lick. but the liverwust is rendering me confused and dreamy. i must’ve had a liverwurst sandwich post-1989.  i can’t seem to get a fix on where i’m going with this writing….
dear me.
or whoever i am.

should i mention that i never said a word about the shoes thrown ’round the world?
and that “close” only counts in horseshoes and handgrenades?

that i huddled up to the tv world of black and white with buddy in my lap and watched “you can’t take it with you,”
i think it’s a great idea to put in a business proposal. at the end.
did i ever mention that, occasionally, i am the king of bad ideas?
as i watched it tonight i found myself getting misty for one simple reason; their house and what goes on in it reminds me of my store. i’ve heard from a “reviewer” (an angry one at that) that she felt the place was filled with, worse than “hipsters”, “slackers.” she couldn’t stand that someone was playing the piano while the canned music was on. (we play records, tapes, iPods, whatever..)
i thought to write her and apologize, then thought better of it.
that, i told myself, would be a bad idea.
today, i do not wish to be king.
but back to this film. or play. both. it was both.
i saw the play with jason robards.
here’s one of the better scenes of the film. mischa auer, who plays a russian, has this great line – “i feel so good, life is running around inside of me like a squirrel”

i couldn’t help link this to urban legend and richard gere.

About stephen trimboli

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