Red Hook in Post Postmodernism

Yestaday I went ta Red Hook. Had ta go, it was a byootiful day, long summer shadowz, stray clouds in da sky, had ta go. I wuz bikin up Bedfud and I askt dis guy ow do I get ta Red Hook. “Red Hook,” he zayz, “you gotta long way to go. Take Washington all the way to the en’.” 

But i’ was fine. I took da scenic route ‘long Washington all da way. Left on Union, an askt some more people long da way an fin’lly, I got deya. Oll da streets had dese ol’ Dutch names, Van Brunt, Dikeman, Coffey. I stopped at dis motacycle joint, wannid ta know if I waz goin da rite way. I askt dis guy, real Brooklyn you can tell. Short curly hair, slickt back, dese cleah blue eyes, sharp nose, chin, good lookin’ guy. Tells me I’m goin da right way.

I go down to da Faihway. Da streetz is cobblestone, is quiet, deyaz nobody deya. Dismount da bike, get off and take it in: gorjis day, Statue a Lihbedy’s real close, Staten Islan, dese ol unuse street cahz an da broken lectric linez. Real remnants. Da factareez ah oll old, shuttahed, antebellum, with da classic Brooklyn design, da Amstahdam stah between windows. I’z ungry, so I asked some people wheya tak get some Mexican food. These people, deyr in touch wit da Brooklyn spirit.

Ate some chicharroneyz, and biked home troo da ubiquitwitus brownstones, toll sycamohz, real Brooklyn. Biked fast ta see ma baby, but not too fast – didn wanna get da gollywobblez.


Daniel Adler wuz bohn in Bay Ridge, back in Brooklyn wit da rest uvem.

Continental Lovegames in Post Postmodernism

Daniel Adler serenading his  true love.

Americans are afraid to fall in love, because they’re afraid of being made vulnerable. In South America, they know how to play the game, so they play it, and they play it well. There’s a girl with beautiful blue eyes sitting at a bar, and an Argentine man approaches her. “Hey, why don’t you get your nails done? There’s a chip on your fingernail.” This infuriates the girl, and she in turn wants him. In Europe, a Spanish man approaches a beautiful blue eyed girl. He says, “I’m going to make you fall in love with me," and tells her about his positive attributes, complimenting her on her gorgeous jawline and earlobes. In California, a surfer dude approaches the blue eyed girl, “What gorgeous blue eyes you have.” Of course she knows this, but he has to tell her this to establish ties, to make him a legitimate competitor.

Europeans love the game, almost wanting to lose, savoring each play as if it could be their last, South Americans want to win at all costs, but Americans, we are simply afraid to play. Capitalism has engrained the mindset that if you aren’t good at something, if you stand to lose, there’s no point in risking it – and so the battle for who goes first can often take weeks, and once the first move is made: a triumphant battlecry! Hahaha! You made the first move! And weeks more of sparring and balancing the power scale before the next is made.

Oh capitalism, how we deplore you, and need you at once, for you are our saving grace. But in another 50 years, when the American aristocracy is further entrenched, and socialism begins to rear its ugly head, then what? Then will we take more risks in love, be more willing to sacrifice and lose?

Daniel Adler, Hot Love on the Wing

Drugs in Post Postmodernism: The H Train

 There was a knock on the door. It was Buckley. He was solemn, with puffy eyes and a sadness that emanated from his soul. “Hey man. How are you doing?” His voice quavered slightly. Gabriel last saw him a few days ago. He invited him in and they walked down the hall to Gabe’s room. He knew something was wrong, that it had been too long since he and Buckley had talked seriously, and that a random knock on his door occasioned more than a catch up. They sat down, Buckley on the bed, Gabriel in his Captain’s chair, at his desk. “I have a confession to make man.”
“You've been doing H intravenously?”
“I do heroin.” This didn’t come as a shock to Gabriel; he had supposed that his friend was caught up with the "H train" for a while. “ I've done it for a long time, and I haven't told you but you're the one person I can trust and talk to outside of my junkie friends. I did it back then, I did it all this year, I still do it.”
“Shit man.” He knew that to lecture his friend immediately would be inappropriate, that the reason he came to him in the first place was because he wouldn’t come down hard on him, but would want to hear his side of the story first. "What's it like?” He was curious, but he also wanted Buckley to be able to get all of the details off of his chest.
“Honestly it's not even that good. The first time, I went over to this guy's house, and he's been doing it for two years or so, and my best friend at school man, he has thick veins, he can carry that shit deep in his veins, but me, mine are thin, so this dude tied up my arm, and when he finally found the one that everyone shoots in, he said, “I found that motherfucker, and now I'm gonna pop it!” And he put that needle in and it spread through my body for like 30 seconds, and I passed out man. I practically passed out for three hours. It’s that fuckin intense. I woke up the other morning feeling like shit like you do some days, and I wanted to tie up. And when I tried to find my vein, because I have thin veins, and I couldn't find it, I was poking and poking, (he made a motion like he was jackhammering one handed with a sewing needle) and I must have pricked 20 or 30 times, and it was a fucking bloodbath man. It was ugly.” Jack's face was sharp and pinned. He looked down the entire time, but felt lighter with each word. He balanced against the history of their friendship like a cane.
The while, Gabriel listened like a shrink, nodding approvingly, thinking about his poor friend, his expectations for his success being washed down the drain by a drug. Buckley looked down at his hands, then up from behind his thick cocoa framed glasses, and wanted to express the pain of his past year and a half.

-Daniel Adler, "Hot Love on the Wing"

Sunday, Sunday

It is Sunday, and people are playing cards in the street, their chairs arranged in circles. They laugh and smile in the hot afternoon sun, wiping their foreheads. At restaurants, bottles of water sit in sweaty ice buckets, and crowds wear sunglasses. The tables are full and there are waits. Everyone is happy that they do not have to work. They drink their coffee and live in the moment.
   But when the light grows softer, and the shadows lengthened, then that feeling, that five day creep would filter into our minds, and we would think about the long week ahead.
    That is what these crowds are doing now that the streets are emptier, emptying, as it quiets and people make dinner. And it gets quieter and quieter as the evening proceeds and everyone embraces Sunday to the last of it, the very end, as they remember their responsibilities and work up the courage to make the work week work.
    
Or, it is gray and cloudy with the sky's impending rain. You eat brunch, and get hungry before dinnertime so you snack and sit idly, not knowing how to spend the rest of the day. Ennui sets in, and you try to watch tv, but nothing's on, so you find a family member, only to leave their presence out of frustrated exhaustion of things to talk about. They're doing Sunday things, like tidying rooms, or sketching, or other solitary activities. And when night comes, you're ready for the week to begin, anything for Sunday to just be over already. This is the wrong way to live a Sunday. 


Try Sunday Funday.


-Daniel Adler (in case you forgot)

Happiness in Post Postmodernism

A recent most popular article in the New York Times exemplifies how the generation of Daniel Adler is jettisoning the “work hard, spend hard” mantra that kept capitalism thriving throughout the latter half of the 20th century. It’s too easy to get stuck in the cycle of buying and shopping, only to go back to work and do it all over again. Alas, a lack of sustainability is changing that.

If you didn’t do well during the recession, you were probably an idiot. If you still have money today, chances are you will probably have money for the next 50 years. If you don’t, wake up, there’s no more upper middle-class. You’re middle class, or lower class, and you can expect the prior to shrink considerably over the next 10 years.

 This weekend my little cousin, 17, said that he wants to experience something different in college, because after that he’s going to be settling into a suburban routine (I paraphrase). But it doesn’t have to be like that. The American Dream doesn’t have to be the American norm.

What if you don’t work as hard, don’t build up as much debt, and instead simplify. Choose a passion, and stick with it – don’t care about what your parents expect, or what your roommate from college is doing. Focus on relationships, high literature, and non-material things. That’s the 21st century American Dream.

It's My Birthday and I'll Party If I Want To.

Daniel Adler : 21st Bday Pic.

I know some of you may be resentful of people like me, but I get what I want on my birthday. Not presents. I don't care anymore about material shit like that. But little things, like the music on the radio. What kind of wine we're having for dinner, etc.

I share the president's birthday, which is cool, because when I'm famous, Aug. 4th will be a birthday associated with great men.

And now that I'm 22, I'll be able to press on in life, and as a writer. When you're 21, you go into the bar and you're the youngest person there. People can still call you a baby. Same goes with 22, but for one, it's even; you feel a little more grounded during even years. And secondly, you' re a little bit older, closer to being at an age when you can make a splash. That means that you can expect more from my work, since I'm not a baby, and I have the extra experience that a year brings.

Anyway, I appreciate you following my thoughts on post postmodernism,  avant garde art, and high literature, and I look forward to getting better. Till next time.