Like I’ve been saying: everything ends. And, so, the end is here. But it’s been a blast, it really has.

The contract that I signed with Take the Handle just over a year ago required me to provide a column every Tuesday for the year 2009 (excepting the two-week summer vacation), and I did just about that. We started this journey on the first Tuesday of the year with a little folkie from Toronto and are ending on the last with a dead DJ from way across the river in Detroit. It’s been rewarding, but I’m just beat, I really am. 50 songs. 50 columns. Enough.

And now: My last donut of the year.
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2009 has been the ____ year ever. Write your answer on a stone and throw it at me.

What were you doing a year ago? What were you feeling a year ago? It’s scary to be able to remember things that happened years ago, but not being able to remember the feelings that came along with them. Some people can recall dates, others can remember faces. I know girls who can tell you what clothes you were wearing on a certain day. Feelings and moods sure are tougher, though.
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I was smoking a joint with Mary J. Blige the other day, and she was all like, “Sammy. No. More. Drama.” And I said, “I know, I know! It’s so hard, though.” And then she was like, “Okay: Fuck, Marry, Kill: me, Jay-Z, Leftovers’ Dan Fetherston.” I stared at her through the smoky haze and made a face that was like the biggest “what” in history. She took a hit and said:

They can kill animals for food. They can get food from farms. They can kill human beings. They wrap up food inside animal skin. They can trade for food. For horses and camels they can grow hay. They can grow crops. They have to grow surpluses in order to feed all the people who work on their building projects.

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Winter’s here—I don’t care what your solstice says. The seasons are so sneaky—they always come up so slow and yet appear so sudden. The leaves never even said goodbye.

It’s easy to take for granted how much the weather affects our lives. Compare a day buried in the snow to a blazing sunner where the blacktop boils. Big difference, I know. It affects your brain. Last time we got a snow day I shaved my head. Who can forget the Blizzard of ’96?

It didn’t snow too much around here last winter, right? That seems like a long time ago. Except some days, when it doesn’t. I think that means it’ll snow a lot this time around. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…
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Recently, I didn’t have a home that I could call my own. This lasted for about 730 straight days, but who’s counting? Some would consider that a long time. It certainly caused some havoc on my sleeping patterns. It wreaked it. Now I have a room that keeps a pretty good darkness even on the sunniest days. My sleep is getting better all the time. How’s your sleep lately?

Dreams are so crazy, riiight? I don’t think I can even climb into that boat right now. How’s your dreaming?
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I’m so mad at America! They/we are always doing things to piss me off. Like, remember when they drove all the Native Americans out of the way so they/we could be so free and all? That was really awful. I’m serious. I’m crying a river. They’re crying a war. It’s fine. Happy Thanksgiving. (Someone please tell me if “Native American” is preferred to “Indian.” I’ve heard both arguments. I don’t know.)

Every time I think about back home, I don’t have to think that far. Everywhere I look it’s right around the corner. It’s all too close. Everybody seems to wonder what it’s like down here, but I’ll tell you it’s not that impressive after long enough.
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Oh I wish I had a girlfriend
I wish I had a loving gal in my life
I wish I had a mother
And maybe then I woulda turned out right
But now I’m just lazy and I’m kinda sad
Yeah I’m just lazy I’m fucked in the head
And maybe if I really tried with all of my heart
Then I could make a brand new start in love with you
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Confession: I left a good job in the city, working for The Man every night and day. And I never lost one minute of sleep worrying about the way things might’ve been.

Big wheel keeps on turning… and now I’m back in the politics game. And I’ve just got to know: Who cares about this stupid election? I know, I know—a lotta people do. I even kinda do.

I know someone’s gotta be in charge, and it ain’t gonna be you or me. But politicians confuse me. On one hand, I do respect people who want to “make a difference” and run this town, but really—that’s what you wanna do? That’s the job you want? Wow, Mom.
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Y’know what’s sad? War. What’s it good for? Business—it’s good for that. And power—that too. And loads of other fun stuff. Chalk up another one for the not-good guys. That must feel weird to be rich and powerful, and then you make some decisions that result in poor, powerless folks dying for your decisions.

When a woman discovers that she’s pregnant in that very special (or very un-special) moment, does she think, “One day I hope my boy can grow up to fight the good fight in some war in so-and-so country”? It’s really, really sad. That’s all it is. Is it possible that the most pro-war mommies and daddies think that way? Do they want their babies doing that? When you zoom out—when you really zoom out… I forgot what I was gonna say—I’m too busy shaking my head.

My baby’s a pacifist.
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Let me tell you about myself. I grew up in New York. I’m worried that that’s made me sometimes complacent. It’s a cute little town, though, this New York here. Empire state of whine. Where’d you grow up? Is it like New York? Probably not, right?

Are you ticklish? Me too. Uncle Eugene once tickled me so hard that I pissed my pants. That was a long time ago. Maybe I dreamt it. Don’t tickle me. (Tickle me.)

You know who I feel bad for? God. He’s got so much work to do. Think about how cluttered his desk must be. That’s stress that I could never handle. He’s probably not even close to taking the handle on his life. Poor guy.

You know what I’ve got? I’ve got neighbors. Fuck my neighbors. Everyone is my friend, though! And I’m worried about them. All of them. I suppose some more than others. All the sweet peas and babes out there. And the straw-chewers, too.

I don’t believe in luck.
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Ow, my neck hurts. My back, too. Ow.

I don’t think I’m owed much of anything in this world—I really don’t. (Sort of.) But if I’m given roads and parks and libraries and parades, then why not some goddamn medicine? If the pittance that is my tax contribution to this inside-out country covers all these amenities, then why not healthcare?

I’ve got one guess: Money. Mo-ney. Muh-nee.

If you ask your average mom what’s important to her, I’d guess more than reality TV or even fruit or a good shower, she’d say her health and the health of her loved ones. It’s only about the most important thing. You can’t appreciate much of anything else if you’re not functional or alive. Obv.
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The days add up to weeks, add up to months, and add up to years. They add up. It was summer with baseball in it, and now it’s fall with football in it. Before we know it, it’ll be winter with hockey. And I’ll be the same guy I’ve always been and you—you will be the same, too.

Don’t you feel like the moon is always full lately? Who’s moonstruck?
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I know it’s all very complicated, but, sometimes, I still can’t believe it’s true.

Someone shoulda warned me romance was goin’ outta style…
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I’m not in love with Massachusetts. I ain’t movin’ there. I’ve not been to Wales yet, but hopefully I will someday soon. I’ve been near there. I’ve ridden the Saw Mill—I like it, but I’m not ready for Westchester yet. I will one day hopefully make it to Medicine Hat, Alberta when I drive trans-Canada, but I know I will never live there. I’ve been to El Paso and purportedly seen Cormac McCarthy’s old lawn, and while I like visiting that town, I know that it’s not for me. I “lived” in Little Compton, Rhode Island and I like it. Maybe someday when I’m ready to settle down and play tennis everyday and like dogs more I could possibly live there, but not in 2009. I played the best wiffleball of my life in Jericho, Vermont but, again, no, not yet. Continue reading this column... « Less

Sometimes the Take the Handle writers get tired of swimming around in their money pools and decide to go out and do something for the people. Preferably something that involves making money.

The following is a series of text messages sent between the hard-working street team to document their deeply patriotic experience. No politicians were harmed in the sending of these text messages.

SGtBB: Up (5:28am)

WIWD: Don’t vote (7:20am)

AitZ: Only five hours until only eight hours! (7:58am)

WIWD: Ethnic group most likely to accept flyer: Hispanic. (8:39am)

SGTBB: Paper sluts (8:42am)
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Well, I try my best to be just like I am, but everybody wants you to be just like them.

Personality makes the man. I hope. Would you rather be boring or annoying?

People talk so much shit about me and Kanye West at barbershops, they forget to get their hair cut. So much so that we’ve decided that we ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.
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New Jersey’s near New York, right? I’m new to town, I haven’t learned my way around yet. I heard the Sopranos and The Van Pelt are from there—I wanna check it out. But I’ve been so busy since I got in to Brooklyn. I’ve been in pre-production all week on My Bagel with Sammy. Principal photography starts in less than thirteen days! Pitchers and catchers report on Friday!

How come we never learned about the Black Tom Explosion in school? It seems like such a big deal. It probably was back then. How come some events get so much press and others not so much? Maybe there’s just not enough time in the day. Do you think if there weren’t already so many national holidays, that September 11th would have become one? Stop thinking about September 11th!
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And… we’re back! Apologies for the delay.

Can you believe summer’s already over? August 32nd has come and gone. I’m so bummed we’re goin’ back to school so soon. I’ve got so much white to wear before Labor Day, though! Fuck. Don’t be surprised if you see me struttin’ down Bedford Ave. dressed like a sheet of paper.

Quick question: Would you pay to see a movie called My Bagel with Sammy? Kind of like our generation’s My Dinner with Andre. How ‘bout if it was playing at the two-dollar theater? Lemme know.
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Arizona is a sort of wasteland. Man was not meant to live here. Okay, name your favorite product of this state. The Meat Puppets? Not a ton of options, I know. Cities just don’t belong in deserts. I know that I’m not the most “normal” person in the world, but this place is weird. Also: there’s no such thing as “normal.” Particularly not out here in the simmerin’ hills of Scottsdale.

It’s 109 in the shade, except there is no shade. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m razing Arizona.

The sheriff wants to run us out of town. What a bastard. You should read about him. He marches his (not convicted) prisoners through Phoenix in pink underwear and pink handcuffs. Nice guy. Nice place.
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