JuanMapu

Tuesday. It is kind of a blah day, even with the sun, the storm, the sun's return for a beautiful sunset. The break from the blah is a short stop by the Chelsea Hotel lobby.

All these years trying to avoid writing about the Chelsea Hotel but...The myth. One day me and La Reina took the elevator all the way to the top floor and then walked down the stairs, floor by floor. It is true that is full of art and weird corners. It does have ghosts and they sat down in the hallways. Some cry in panic and others just smoke cigarettes. Some smile at you. The windows are like magnets and it is impossible to not get closer and take a look to the outside world because once you are in the Chelsea Hotel there is an outside world. Everything you heard about the Chelsea Hotel is true.

For the blah day a short stop to cut the bullshit was enough. The haunted is a vivid force.

NYC Subway, the livest metallic creature on Earth.

We all know there is always something sudden in a ride. And what about unforgettable rides. Once I lifted my ahead and look around I noticed the train was very Latino, mostly Puerto Rican. Family people, some of them carrying babies; there was an elder couple talking a little bit loud. Once I noticed the Latin majority I could not help thinking on the possibility of having a whole car speaking Spanish, which is what happened afterwards. It was a smooth ride until a couple of junkies got on. The guy was panicking and the girl was in complete desperation, trying to find a bag of sugar to stop that sort of attack. And here came my Spanish train:

"Están locos," said the lady in front of me.
"Cuando no tienen droga lo que piden es azúcar, ese carajo no tiene nada", said the husband and father of a little girl, two seats away.
"Voy a avisarle al chofer," proposed the elder man.

The conductor came to see if the junkie were ok. He tried to be ok. For the good of his girlfriend and the commuters, he behaved ok.

The ride resumed. "Viste que ahí sino tenía nada," said the husband and father.

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Whatever is happening in Iran sounds terrible but the New York Times pressure over president Obama is non-sense too and a black man is pissed about it. This is the subway chat, Train A Uptown, around Fulton Street Station:

"Don't blame the president you coward...take your stinky ass there and stop that thing yourself!"

He got off in West 4 Street. His substitute was a trumpetist who played some tunes over a recorded track. He was less trouble and committed, but somehow soothed the A Train Uptown.

Sootina wants to share the writer's chair and he wants to feel better. The fact the writer gets strangely sick is call a for action. He definitely needs to take the next step in his life, towards the light.

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The annual party was fantastic and the writer survived it. Is he willing to host another one? Only if he is healthy and feels like writing something worth for his people. It will only happen if his temperature is below 98º. What is funny is that he wants 98º outside.

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Sootina left the writer's chair. He is alone, will try to type a couple of words and get into reading or the rent DVD. The strong medicine is also on the way. "Family Guy" on TV.

Two hangover DJs walk the streets of their beloved neighborhood on a sunny Sunday. Everything is already wonderful. They were magical behind the booth the night before. The dancefloor was packed and hysterical. They kicked ass. Still, there is room for the unexpected scene.

The doorsteps of a brownstone. She is loud. Her voice is as powerful as her whole presence. Black high heels boots. White suit and white hat. Red shirt, red lipstick. She sings loud and the chorus says, "it's the music, it's the music." Something like that. Roaring. She probably does it very often because nobody else cares except for the two DJs. They even stopped to see her big eyes and the modulations of her throat. She points to nowhere while keeps the rhythm with her left foot tapping.

She is loud. They know the "it's the music" roar is for the rest of their lives.

Love when things meet at some point.

Months ago my brother released the "_______ is in your hands stickers." A direct message, good for my soul and perfect for my needs. The message for change I think. I also have Comrade ROP and his "Do It Yourself" all the time.

...And I have my barbers' rejection...I finally did it...Haircut is in your hands. Thanks!