29 Hours Until The Black Crowes Take The Stage

This show is gonna rock!!! Tickets arrived today. Killer seats. Thank you 92.3 K-Rock!!!

This Used To Be My Playground

No, not the Madonna song, but my actual playground. Me and The Kid decided to go way back into our childhood and visit our old neighborhood this afternoon. Neither one of us have seen it for years. I moved out of my childhood home about 20 years ago, but I had the chance to go inside it this afternoon and revisit every room. I know this sounds cliché, but everything looked so much smaller. We pulled into the development around 4 PM, parked the car and just walked, like we used to do.

This is my old bus stop. I remember waiting there kindergarten through 5th grade. I tried waiting for it now, but no bus showed up. My mother used to walk me there each morning, and it was sort of depressing since I was the only kid at that stop. I had a lot of time to myself back then, which probably explains why I’m such a basket case now. Mrs. Kaplan lived on the corner. When my mother finally allowed me to wait there by myself, she had Kaplan spy on me to make sure I wasn’t attacked by Chester The Molester (an actual kidnapper at the time). Needless to say, he never got me.


Below is my actual house on 9 Copper Lane, Hazlet, NJ. Me and The Kid were out there for a few minutes, taking pictures and peeking around the corners until the actual owner came outside and asked what we were doing. She was real sweet though when I told her and invited us in to take a look. I took a few pictures inside, but they didn’t come out unfortunately.



This tree shown below brings back a lot of memories. I used to climb it and hide up there for hours, usually with my Star Wars action figures, drawing out elaborate plotlines and roll playing scenarios. I remember the winters especially, the way snow clung to the branches and the wind remained still. It looks so microscopic now, but I certainly felt the urge to start climbing it, though the fear of being arrested overwhelmed me.



Once I walked inside the house and saw their Christmas tree, I remembered one Christmas where I woke up around 3 AM and tiptoed downstairs without waking my parents (who were together at the time) and opened up all of my Christmas gifts from Santa. I must have been quiet enough for them to sleep through it, but after I was done, I just passed out in a sea of wrapping paper and remained there until they came downstairs around 6 AM and yelled and yelled and yelled. Not such a Merry Christmas that year, but I got a Millennium Falcon, which I had strangely forgotten until today.

Downstairs in the family room, whose name was sort of ironic in my case, I remember sitting in the corner by the fireplace one morning when I heard my mother crying upstairs on the phone. It was the morning after John Lennon was shot. I was only four-years-old, but it’s my first experience with death and the birth of my understanding; sort of weird how it all happened, but my mother tried to clarify the “life and death” discussion that afternoon. I barely remember the words, only the tone of her voice and the gestures of her hands.

Shown below is a picture of the current backyard; notice the pool. It’s only a few years old. I had wanted a pool so bad. When I was in kindergarten, I told all my classmates that I had an underground pool in my backyard that my parents didn’t know about. I told them all I had to do was press this hidden button that was located behind a pine tree (now removed) and the pool would just shift through the layers of grass and dirt and simply appear at night when I wanted to swim unnoticed. Seriously, I don’t know how I made any friends with ridiculous lies like this, but it certainly showed an early side of my need to be creative. But lo and behold, a pool rests there now. Looks like after all these years, my wish came true.



When I entered my first Creative Writing Workshop with Wendy Brenner, she made us do an exercise about an incident that happened to us at age 8. The picture below is where I fell into the creek and nearly drowned until an old Indian man (a neighbor who lived nearby) jumped in and saved me. From what I remember, I was standing on the edge of the railroad tracks and skipping stones across the water until I lost my footing, fell a few feet and through the ice. Looking at it now, it can’t be more than 10 feet from the cliff’s edge to the water’s surface. I could have sworn it was larger. Maybe the water level rose over the years. Or maybe it’s just that “small” theory happening again.



No visit would be complete without the street sign shot.



When we finally arrived at The Kid’s house, which used to be light blue, it was a very bright PINK. The Kid’s house is pink. I said this over and over, all day, between many verses of John Melloncamp’s “Pink Houses.”


Just a little south of The Kid’s house is the old creek where we used to hang out and basically do nothing. We mostly played some kind of fort game (hide and seek, manhunt, etc.) but I remember one afternoon meeting these 2 runaways who were probably about 13 years-old. They had just stolen cigarettes from PathMark, which is the large building behind the fence. I remember thinking they would kick our asses. I didn’t have much nerve as a kid, probably because I was an only child and didn’t have a brother to beat my ass on a regular basis. So we chilled out at the creek and smoked a few cigarettes for a while, wondering where those runaways are now.



This is the bell we used to throw rocks at.



My feet have crossed this little creek 1000 times; one more didn't hurt.

















If you haven’t gone back to your roots, you need to, and do it on foot. Spend the time and walk through it, the way you once did. Such a nostalgic day. I’m sure this kid's dreams tonight will be really fucked up. And I really need to find that bowtie.

Resolutions

Let's hear them...

Babalki Christmas At The Kohli Mansion

Tonight, I discovered I’m Slovak. I had no idea, but apparently it’s true. I’m Hungarian, at least a quarter. My mother’s side of the family (minus my mother who’s in Florida) gathered at the Kohli Mansion for Babalki, a traditional holiday Slovak dish. Here’s some background: Preparations started early in Advent. Buying nuts, poppyseed, flour were all necessary for the holiday baking. A few days before Christmas, the women of the household would start baking the pastries and Babalki eaten during the Svati Vecer. One custom was to give each child a fresh baked Babalki and sent them outside to give the Babalki to the first person they met. This person was to be their friend during the coming year.

Christmas Eve was a day of full of activity in the Slovak home. The house was cleaned from top to bottom in the morning. The afternoon found the women preparing the Svati Vecer or Holy Supper. There was straw scattered under the table to represent the Manger where super baby Jesus was born. The table was covered with a clean white cloth and the places were set. In many houses, an empty place was set; this place saved for the Holy Family who were traveling to Bethlehem. A lighted candle was placed in the window to tell the Holy Family that they're welcome in this home. Even the smallest of the children had an important job. They kept watch for the first star, the Christmas Star, and with its appearance, the Christmas Holiday could begin.




This is a picture of my plate, loaded with Babalki. The Kohli Babalki Dinner comes with a set of strict ground rules. Most important, if any family member chooses to not attend dinner at the Kohli’s on Christmas Eve, he/she will NOT receive any leftover Babalki. This rule was put into question and met with compromise regarding my Aunt Barbara #2. She did not attend dinner tonight, yet she is still getting a plate tomorrow. My question is: Is all of this really necessary? I mean, we are talking about Babalki, which is basically bread and sauerkraut, but there is a science involved in its preparation that my Aunt Peggy has mastered. I’ll admit, I was a Babalki virgin until tonight; it’s not something I’m proud of, but now that I’ve been baptized by Slovak hospitality, I feel the need to bore you with this newfound information.


Mike, George, Jackie, Katrina & Charlie



Grandpa Frank, Me & The Kid. Love his socks. Love em!

The rest of the evening was spent being entertained by my Grandfather, Frank, who is not only losing his patience, but his ability to maneuver past furniture and his memory of our names. He calls me Jason, Charlie, Chris, all within a single evening, and probably has a supply of pain killers that could make Tommy very happy for the rest of this holiday season. One thing I can say is that the man has a relentless appetite. He just puts it all back, and then yells at my Grandmother that he’s in pain and needs to go home.


Me giving Santa a drag off my cigarette. Though this thing just creeps me out. It had a microphone you could talk into and Santa's mouth moved with whatever you said.


The Kid, Me, Elizabeth, Anna, Daniel, Katrina & Charlie

Spent most of the evening trading lines from Anchorman with The Kid and smoking many cigarettes outside the mansion, wishing we had a little mansion of our own. Spent lots of time chatting with my cousin Elizabeth who just finished her first semester at UPENN. It was a good gathering overall, and I will take this newfound Slovak identity and…pretty much do nothing with it except spew out this fact if I should ever encounter another Slovak person, which in the past 29 years hasn’t happened, at least to my knowledge.

Merry Christmas or as we say in Slovakian....Um, Merry Christmas, you Babalki loving freak!

Dysfunctional Family

3 generations of Tom Kunz (me, my grandfather, and my dad)

Yesterday my father asked if I’d go to my Grandfather’s place to set up his DVD player. This was all misleading. When I arrived on the scene, I found my Grandfather, holding three remotes, sitting in his recliner, looking puzzled. He had just gotten digital cable, a new high definition widescreen television, and a DVD player, all of which he had no idea how to operate or hook up.

I spent fifteen minutes setting up everything, which wasn’t a problem except for dodging his questions while I put everything together. I felt like a broken record, repeating, “Let me just get everything together and then I’ll show you.” My Grandfather is 78 years-old and his mind is starting to go. Anytime I see him, he tells me the same story about how he fought in the Battle of the Bulge, sailed the oceans for 14 days straight and ate nothing but cheese the whole time, to which upon arrival he couldn’t go to the bathroom and had one of the Military chefs cook him up some prunes; I’ve heard this story about 120 times in the last year.

After everything was hooked up, I tried explaining to him why he’d want to watch NBC, ABC, and CBS on High Definition channels instead of the traditional ones. This completely baffled him, since he did not know how to use the remote or even access the channel guide no matter how many times I showed him. When it came to operating the DVD player, I thought step one would be turning on the power, but I should’ve known better; he didn’t know how to remove the DVD from it’s case. I had to excuse myself and drop a xanax.

After this tedious electronics tutorial, which I’m convinced did no good at all, my father’s side of the family gathered at my Aunt Barbara’s house in Little Silver. I have so many cousins, about 12 or so, and I’m the oldest, which was the topic of conversation once I arrived. My Dad was no help and I believe took revenge on me for embarrassing him at the tree lot last week.The punchline was that I’m turning 30 in January. Yes, I know it’s not really funny, but all afternoon I suffered through comments like, “Tom, you better not eat that 3rd spinach triangle, gotta watch your cholesterol now that you’re turning 30” or “Wow, you’re officially middle-aged” or “Oh my God, you’re not turning 30 are you?” My Dad just sat back and bathed in his little fiasco he had concocted. But then his wife felt it necessary to bring up a time when my father’s doctor had shown her films of his colonoscopy, and she was grossed out, which clearly embarrassed him. It was certainly holiday cheer all around.

What made things really difficult is that my Aunt Barbara, who hosted this party, lost her husband last June. This is the first Christmas without him, and I couldn’t help notice his stocking above the fireplace next to hers and the 3 kids. My Aunt Barbara is the kindest and most normal member of the family, which just goes to show how life is so fucking unfair, taking her husband like that while I have another idiotic uncle dealing cocaine in North Jersey and neglecting his kids.

So why then would any person in their right mind subject themselves to this ongoing parade of frustrations? Well, the benefits of course. Christmas gifts included: $350 in cash, $25 B & N gift card, bottle of Absolute Vodka, Wine glasses & wine, blank CDR’s & cases, and some homemade Christmas cookies. All of this was worth the trip. My gifts pictured below.

Bon Jovi, E. Rutherford, NJ 12.22.2005

At some point Jon said, “When Bono comes to town, everyone wants to be in his presence, but when I’m in town, everyone wants to take me home as a present.” First off, I love Bon Jovi, but Bono from U2 has more charisma, class, and spirit than Jon Bon Jovi could ever have. Move over Sambora, I hear The Edge kncoking on your huge ego as well.

And Springsteen didn't show up. I was hoping for a blistering encore of "Santa Claus in Coming To Town."

Rockefeller Center, NYC

Well, we decided to hike through the city, walking about 90 blocks roundtrip. It actually wasn’t that bad, and we got to see the tree. While we were there, I sprung Mel’s Christmas gift on her by surprise; it’s a locket from Tiffany’s and she loved it, thank God, though I suppose her going through the Tiffany’s catalogue and writing down the item number and description a few months ago sort of helped me not screw it up.

We accosted lots of couples and policemen to take our picture. It was so sweet, really, some Christmas tunes in the distance, a nice breeze. Certainly had a moment.



Forced Mel into posing with Pooh and Elmo. They were probably middle-aged alcoholics working for minimum wage.

Nice shot thanks to a friendly security guard.


Me freezing my ass off.


Mel's very happy after getting her present!


Post-Present happiness continues



The lady who took this one didn't understand English. Excellent.

NYC #3: Katz's Deli on Houston and Ludlow, NYC

In case you were wondering, this is what a $13 Pastrami sandwich looks like. It was about 2 lbs of meat. When Mel got full rather quickly, I told her it was a big boy sandwich and not for little girls, in which she got upset and looked like this:

NYC #2: A Slow Rising Chaos

New York City is certainly a strange scene today. I’m at Mel’s sister apartment in the E. Village, on Avenue A, about 60 billion blocks from where we’d like to go today. It doesn’t look like we’ll be seeing any plays or even the tree at Rockefeller center unless we commit to walking 80 blocks round trip in 25 degree weather, though at least there’s no sign of rain. The taxis are ripping people off left and right. It’s a $10 flat rate per zone, and chances are, if you need to go more than 15 blocks or so, you’ll need to cross multiple zones, adding additional fees of $10, etc.

We’re probably heading into Soho this afternoon for lunch and shopping. Or there’s The Museum of Sex, which certainly intrigues me since (breaking news) I do, in fact, enjoy sex. Who would have thought? Staying local is probably the best solution.

Certain areas of midtown are blocked off by police who only let cars through carrying 4 or more people, as with cabs, which has put New Yorkers in the position where strangers are hopping in strangers’ cars just to pass the blockade; true, this is united, but also a serial killer’s buffet.

Penn Station is also a nightmare. 2 hours after I arrived yesterday at 3, people started flipping out on the Long Island Railroad lines. An additional 40,000 people took the LIRR yesterday, and police seemed to barely have it organized. The natives were restless.

Well, I’m about to grab a large butcher knife and scare Mel in the shower; this never gets old. Bon Jovi concert tomorrow night, if I make it home of course. Hell, I’ll walk back to Jersey for Jon, cause I'm a fucking cowboy and I'll find a steel horse somewhere.

NYC #1

I'm off to New York City in a few minutes. With the subway strike in full swing, this should be a disaster. Winter and reality are catching up with me. Take that as you will.

Cookie

I’m sitting amongst 1000 cookies. My cousin Charlie’s wife Katrina has been baking since last night. Charlie did laundry. The Kid slept. And I, Thom Kunz, went to see Syriana.

Charlie and his wife gave me a Christmas card, which is one of the memorable things he’s done since he got married. I don’t send out Christmas cards, but secretly, deep down inside, I really want to, so I can spread the joy and laughter to all, sprinkling Christmas dust on all nations, healing the sick, ridding the planet of fathom and suffering like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

Mel thinks sending out joint Christmas cards is a lame idea, and she’s usually right about these things.

Charlie and I are quite tired.

TreeMaster

My father and I picked out a Christmas tree this afternoon. It took about 4 minutes. Felt a few trees, shrugged and then selected one. Been hanging at his place all afternoon, decorated the tree and listened to U2. While at the tree lot, this large 7-footer came tumbling down next to us after a gust of wind rushed through the surrounding wire fences. When everyone turned around, I said, “Nice job, Dad,” just as a joke, but the head treeman or tree clerk, oh let’s just calls him the TreeMaster was not pleased and actually suggested that my father watch his step. I couldn’t tell if my Dad was pissed that I sort of set him up as a punchline, but then again, that’s what makes our relationship so cryptic and special.

I got up early this morning and went to a matinee showing of Walk The Line around 10:30. It was just this 80-year-old woman and me in the theater. Great movie. Reese will win the Oscar: I'm predicting that right now. No doubt. She was truly amazing, and normally, I don’t really care for her.

Been watching Season 4 of 24 at night, reliving through the trials and hardships of the manipulatively confused Araz family. Counting the number of times Jack says, “We’re running out of time,” and “Damnit!” Counting all the times Tony mumbles “alright” after saying something important. Yes, my actions are pretty lame, but Season 5 is on the rise and I need to be thoroughly ready.

I plan to watch the Giants game now with my father. I normally do not watch football. He once brought me back a St. Louis Rams t-Shirt from a business trip he took when I was 17. I was like, “The Rams?” sort of in the tone of “I’m…Ron..Burgendy?” Needless to say, everyone who knew me then and still knows me now, to this day, always asks me about how the Rams are doing this season, in which I drop my head and sigh. I wonder what happened to that Rams shirt. Hmmm.

It’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

Boston #2

For some odd reason, we're listening to Kiss and rocking out.

Boston #1

So we made it to Boston, at the luxurious Hampton Inn, which has a lovely view of an abandoned train yard and many air condition units. We plan on drinking a few beers and some Southern Comfort before hopping aboard the Metro system, which supposedly takes us to the TD Bankworth Center in 2 short stops.

It took us 6 hours to get here, 90 minutes just to get across the GW Bridge. I’m so tired of driving, and if the show sucks tonight, I’m going to find Dave Matthews (probably held up in some fancy hotel) and stab him.

Upon arrival and checking in, the receptionist asked me if a King bed / Non-Smoking room was fine; so exhausted, I just said okay. The Kid is not pleased, since now we shall be sharing a very large bed while suffering through nicotine fits of rage and ill-mannered language.

The Kid might dismantle the smoke alarm, but I’m not sure.

Touchdown

The NJ mornings are freezing. I feel awful today, hence, need to take it easy. I’m a little stuffy, and my throat’s all scratchy, feel some butterflies in my stomach, you know the bad ones. I really don’t need to be sick right now.

The Kid and I are leaving for Boston tomorrow morning. The Dave Matthews Band setlists are looking better by the show, so we‘re both hoping for something unpredictable. The temperature in Boston is 18 degrees right now.

Departure

I’m off on my holiday excursions as of tomorrow, leaving for NJ around 11 a.m. or so. Will post useless ramblings and photos of my journey along the way. Rough itinerary includes:

Dec 13 – Driving Home

Dec 15 & 16 – Hanging in Boston for a few days with my cousin Michael, going to see the Dave Matthews Band at the TD Bankworth Fleet Center.

Dec 17 – Celebrating my Dad’s B-Day.

Dec 19-21 – Will end up in Manhattan for a day or two, visiting Mel and Chrissy, going to see Rent on Broadway, the tree at Rockefeller Center, etc.

Dec 22 – Going to the holiday Bon Jovi concert at the Continental Airlines Arena, E. Rutherford, NJ. I’m hoping for a Bruce sighting, but who knows. (Still no word on if we’re opening up for them, results by Fri of this upcoming week).

Dec 23 – Getting together with Exit 117 for a possible holiday jam session at Red Bank Studios. Followed by copious amounts of alcohol, I hope.

Dec 24 – Christmas Eve at possibly 2 locations (ah, the downfall of divorced parents). Schedules are conflicting so I’m not sure.

Dec 25 – See Dec 24

Dec 26 – 30 Most likely spend the afternoons relaxing, going to a few movies.

Dec 31 – Black Crowes, Madison Square Garden, NYC

Jan 2 – Coming Back to Wilmington.

This feels like a syllabus. I’ll try to post as much as possible while away, cause I’m sure you’re all just hanging on my every word. (sigh).

Sidenote: goodbye, my darling Daisy. I will miss you. At this moment, she’s on the road to California, where she’ll live among the Hobbits in the Shire. No wait, that’s wrong, but there are certainly woods involved. Be safe, Daisy! Hope the U.S. landscapes treat you well on your journey.

The Little Dipper

Two hours of fondue at the Little Dipper last night. Mel and I had a blast, and of course, ate far too much than any human being should. We started with Gruyere Cheese fondue, dipping many types of organic breads, vegetables, and fruits. This took about 45 minutes until the main course came out, called The Big Dipper for 2, which was a large plate of raw shrimp, tuna, filet mignon, and a side of lobster tail.

We cooked everything in a White Merlot and vegetable broth base. Apparently I had a problem with the tongs. I blame it on the Percocet. I didn’t know the tongs were color-coded and therefore ate one of Mel’s shrimp on accident. She was not pleased.

For dessert they gave us a huge warm pot full of dark chocolate and peanut butter, which we dipped bananas, strawberries, cheesecake, puff pastries, marshmallows (which were then dipped in a gram cracker, cinnamon sugar: instant s’mores).

Can You Fucking Hear Me Now?......Good, Damnit!

In a moment of weakness last night, I broke down, surfed the local job listings and called Verizon to see what all the fuss was about—starting positions at a whopping 26,000 sounded good to me. What I didn’t expect was for them to schedule a phone interview for this afternoon, which ended about 20 minutes ago. Now, let me backtrack: being an adjunct / part-time tutor is like sticking paper clips in your eyes, or other places I don’t care to mention at this time. I’ve often urged myself to find another job, something local in Wilmington that would eliminate the 100 mile round trip commute to middle-of-nowhere-ville, but this idea never went beyond talking in my own head, until last night—I called Verizon, said I was interested in a job, and they called me today for a fifteen minute phone interview, which I really really REALLY gave up on after the first 5 minutes. I am so not cut out for corporate life, I really don’t know what I was thinking. I blame it on the water.

The phone rings. And I’ll try to paraphrase this to the best of my knowledge. Her name is Tabitha. She sounds like a computer. She speaks in that fake customer service voice that I am most likely expected to use, if hired. She then, without hesitation breaks into questions like: Describe your last good experience with a customer? Describe your last bad experience with a customer? Describe a time when you’ve felt overwhelmed in your life, in the workplace? Describe a time where you had to work under immense pressure in the work place? Describe an instance where you were at work and had to meet a deadline? Then, after all of these questions, nevermind my answers at this point, she’d say, “Did you find that experience satisfying or dissatisfying?”

This is what really pisses me off, the idea that the entire spectrum of human emotions, when in reaction to an experience, can magically be broken down into two simple categories: satisfied and dissatisfied. Reality just doesn’t fucking work like that. Of course I realized this was merely a psychological phone interview that only results in a face-to-face interview if the interviewee expresses a solid, blast proof, systematic and virtually cold personality, someone who is unaffected by stress or anything remotely overwhelming. I became very disgusted and decided that I would burn, triumphantly, in flames, on my own terms.

“Describe a time in your life at the workplace that you needed to meet a deadline?”

This question came before I flipped out. I start talking about a few times where I had over 50 papers to grade within 48 hrs before submitting my final grades to the registrar. Tabitha quickly cuts me off. “No sir, I mean a specific time when you were at the workplace, not at home.” This really pisses me off. I say, very politely, “Yes, but most of a teacher’s work, prepping, planning and grading, takes place outside of the workplace or during office hours, which is technically inside the workplace.” Yeah, this didn’t register with her. “No, sir, I’m sorry, I need another example. Particularly that centers around the workplace.” I said, “Well sometimes I’d grade assignments in class, or at the workplace, then return the papers to my students.”

Without any hesitation she follows up with: “Would you say that experience of meeting your deadline was satisfying or dissatisfying?” I pause, wondering if this is really happening. I say, “Oh most certainly very very satisfying,” again still forcing a very polite tone, mind you.

“Sir,” Tabitha continues. “Please describe a situation you’ve had with a customer where you felt overwhelmed.”

Naturally the correct PSYCHOLOGICAL ANSWER TO SECURE EMPLOYMENT is “I’ve never felt overwhelmed at work,” but naturally I’m just too sarcastic and arrogant when it comes to dealing with idiotic people.

So I say, “Well…It was summer,” followed by a long dramatic pause. “I was working in my uncle’s pet shop in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I was 18 years-old. Searching…” A long pause, “ for what I wanted to do with my life.”

Oh yeah, and side note, for those of you who don’t know me all too good, this is not true, no Uncle in Lancaster, no pet shop, etc.

I continue. “This little Amish boy ran into my uncle’s store holding his dead canary, crying ‘he’s dead, Fluffy’s dead. I need to give him a proper burial.’” Tabitha is silent and I continue. “Sometimes my uncle kept empty cigar boxes in the back storeroom. He died of mouth cancer not so long after, but that’s not the point. This boy told me his name was Joel and that his parents wouldn’t let him bury the bird on their property, something to do with being Amish, you know?” Tabitha doesn’t answer, but I keep going.

“Although a boy,” I say, “he reminded me of Antigone, pleading to Kreon for a proper burial of her brother. But anyway, these cigar boxes my uncle kept, were often sold for five dollars to customers who wanted to bury their dead pets—birds, gerbils, even fish. The thing is, my uncle ran a tight shop. He never gave anything away for free, no matter the circumstance. My uncle’s mother always thought of him a failure, unsuccessful, which made him very greedy. So when Joel told me he had no money for the cigar box, I had to stand there and watch him cry. I never felt so overwhelmed in my life,” I said, forcing a frog in my throat. “He just looked so sad, Tabitha. Standing there, with his dead bird.”

Tabitha pauses for a few beats, then continues, “Did you find this experience satisfying or dissatisfying?”