visit if you can…

Aphrodites Return by Alvinthethird on Mixcloud

the music of love, however, makes me happy…

the strings, the horns, the beard, the scott… pharaoh monch, i love it, thank you. and you people, you have a fantastic time off and do something worthwhile, you hear?!

he was taken by lupus in 2006 and miss his contribution terribly…

ok, and a little bonus…

oh, and what the hell…

that is all.

that was the best!
worst feeling in the world!
right back at ya!
if you think about it…
you didn’t have to do that.
trials and tribulations.
let’s touch base.
this is not your father’s…
what’s up?
tell me about it!
to be honest…
can’t complain!
perfect!
in the eye of the beholder.
let me be devil’s advocate for a second.
boys will be boys!
the buck stops here!
innovation.
it took blood, sweat and tears!
hang in there.
sky’s the limit.
that’s a catch-22.
i’ll stop at nothing!
let’s circle back by tuesday!
the company’s dna…
yes and no.
(and many, MANY more!)

what you are guilty of is to rely, not just on the old man’s money, but also on the pre-fixed meaning of certain areas of language which you trust to convey what you mean, which, by and large (see, i did myself!) is not such a terrible linguistic shortcut. the problem is that we have outsourced meaning to the expression because it happened to fit the occasion without specifically figuring out if it was what we actually believed to be true. jargon has become an epidemic suffered by most who have been somehow persuaded that a feeling we all agree is reasonable is better for us than an original thought, originally put. that makes me sad.

but on the plus side (dammit!) all we have to do is be conscious. a considered life, as opposed to a reasonable one, does not take anyone else’s opinion into account in order to act. a considered life is risky. a considered life is one during which obstacles are examined at face value and then either triumphed over or put aside but they are not ignored for fear of failure, which is what a merely reasonable life tends to lead us to. we must not be afraid to let our children see who we are and we must not be afraid to let our parents know who we are and we must not be afraid of the mirror on the wall. the only repercussion is knowledge. and we need knowledge because too long we have acted without it. and without knowledge there is no understanding.

i’m pretty sure…

to that end, have a wonderfully conscious week!

we agreed with him that what was needed first and foremost was not to make a logo but rather to find ways to convince americans to seek better productivity, not more as they have been tasked to by protestant ethics this side of martin luther. to accomplish that, his strategy included creating a physical space where people would feel safe to compose themselves, with the help of a highly and specifically trained staff who understood and cared for personhood, not just wallethood, and worked to soothe each of its facets. and so we dug deep to understand social and behavioral processes, to understand the science of stress, the science of natural recovery, the science of well-ness. and through studying different forms of reflexology, chromatherapy, aromatherapy, skin care and more, we arrived at a cogent vision: that help, different than mere service, was what the launch city with a sleeping disorder needed.

and so we got to work, inventing new paths, procedures and YeloCabs™ along the way so that said help would be available in ingenious ways, even available to come to you when you couldn’t come to us. so deeply entrenched we became in the new brand that their success depended on ours, at every level of the company. and now, after 4 years of successful operation, having profits go up at the same time that competitors’ stagnated, it is time to go deeper still… as alan kay so rightly advanced, “the best way to predict the future is to invent it” and it is paramount, once in a frequent while, for companies to take stock, keep all the good ideas and clear one’s brain and inventory of all the ones that didn’t work in order to stay ahead, not of any competition, but of our own ambitions.

and that is why i am delighted and feel extremely fulfilled to have accepted nicolas’ offer to help him do just that and become yelo spa’s chief creative officer (on top of my job here, of course) and expand on all matters that impact the brand and its beloved customers. i could not be happier or more proud to be able to shepherd this amazing concept into roads heretofore undiscovered, especially in a field that rarely takes the kind of risks we at the apartment have built a reputation on! when a business understands design to be a strategic cog and not mere marketing gloss, it allows its entire hierarchy to function holistically and take its cues from very simple, customer-oriented goals and it is to nicolas’ credit to trust me to play thus with his baby and i hope not to disappoint.

it is then my pleasure to invite you to visit our website and make a reservation at yelospa.com, visit our location at 315 W57th street, get acquainted with our specials on our Facebook page and get involved in YELOlife on twitter @YeloSpa! there will be MUCH MORE in months to come as we continue to imagine the YELOfuture, be part of it and have a wonderful week!

(theaptBROADCAST novelist-in-training divad q. nead is back from his year in shanghai. his return ride is worth the trip…)

complimentary scotch is the only way to lubricate an international extraction. this particular journey “home” necessitated more than my usual two nip share. at some point in the fourteen hour flight from pudong airport in shanghai, the flight attendants quit charging me for the bottles as long as i stashed them out of sight. they stopped giving me ice, as i just sipped from the bottle. by the time the wheels had touched down in newark, i could have made a nice candlepin lane arrangement of dewars white label screw tops.

it was three hours till new year’s eve when i hit customs for my connection. the agent was pit bull built and my jersey shore stereotype generator began winding its springs.

“what was the purpose of your visit in china,” he asked, not making eye contact, staring at my chinese visa. it still looked fresh in its place on the page. had i aged?

“drinking,” a disembodied voice replied, while my mouth said “teaching.”

“welcome home, mr. stone.” he handed my passport back to me, again without making eye contact. i could have stuck my tongue out at him, but this is jersey.

as i walked the concourse, i thought about the six cuban robusto cigars i had in my carry-on luggage. i wanted to be searched. i wanted to lie to the authorities.

america, i have nothing to declare!

apparently, on new year’s eve, nobody in the united states wants to be working at an airport. six months of staring contests with the greater peasant population of shanghai and now nobody in this empty american airport would curiously glare at me, check out my shoes. my chinese fashion show was over.

at my connection gate, an airline employee was telling a group of confounded chinese tourists to back up, step back and give him some room behind his largely empty desk. they had their passports and tickets out, waving them like they were on fire. america wants to see your papers. show us your papers.

“what is with these people tonight,” i saw him say to a patiently waiting first class white traveler.

i desperately wanted to walk over and shoot my mouth off about freedom and liberty. instead, i made a call to grandma on a pay phone.

“if you go away again, then i’m going too,” she said, definitely referring to death, in her 92nd year. she’s a dry, depression-era humor kind of woman.

“don’t worry, grandma, there’s no way i can go back again.” was i lying? yes, i was lying. lying over pay phones feels easier than mobile phones. the slam of the receiver validates the transgression, like in the movies.

three police officers met me at the airport. sadly, i wasn’t being arrested, but taken to a bar for celebration. i had my gray don draper suit in my luggage, but no cuff links.

“did you remember the cuff links,” i asked my brother, one of the three cops.

“no, i can’t even find my own,” he said as i handed him three cigars.

he sort of looked around like some omniscient customs officer was watching the handoff.

“these are perfect grease for the captain,” he said, referring to my contraband.

the ride out of logan airport in boston is a series of tunnels, ramp exits at 60 miles per hour, on two wheels if you drive with the cops, and a placid zip by the charles river. it is a blink compared to the long march from central shanghai to the airport in pudong. during the ride from my apartment in china to the airport, the van driver offered me double happiness cigarettes a number of times. he also patted his jade-colored buddha on the head, asking me if i had a god; carcinogenic, theistic gestures of kindness.

“no cigarettes. beer and whiskey. no god,” i said, looking at him in the rearview.

it is strange how easy it is to get talked into smoking chinese cigarettes while in china. the entire country seems attached to a chimney. smoke in the elevator to the 17th floor. smoke in the cab on the way home from the nightclub. smoke in bed with the french student from marseilles. i probably smoked, but i’m home now, so i deny everything.

i ordered a toronto cocktail at the bar, which was packed with revelers three deep, most of whom were speaking english, i assumed. a beehive of my native language, not necessarily uncomfortable, but now the words make sense to me. i hear commentary.

“i need a fucking kiss in five minutes,” a woman said from the landing above our heads.

we stood, the cops and i, in a tight circle by the service bar. they all had girlfriends. i had a custom made burberry knockoff overcoat and a shot of fernet branca. kissing her at midnight would have been an easy job.

midnight passed without a glass of champagne. it didn’t matter, for my body clock had toasted the new year in china from my dewars time machine. i asked for a glass anyway, drank it as a tall brunette sauntered over.

“do you remember me from the summer,” she said, asking the worst question any woman can ask a man besides “what’s my name?”.

“i’ve just returned from china, so i’m foggy. remind me, please.”

“we had a wager that you were gay, or that you were in your thirties,” she said, looking me nearly straight in the eye, chin lifted a bit to accommodate my height.

“what happened,” i said, looking down into my empty glass and then back at her.

“i don’t really remember, but i do remember you.”

losing your anonymity hurts. i could wander my neighborhood in shanghai for hours and not a soul would pick me out by name or face and vice versa. standing at the smoke shop, looking at pipes, no recognition. staring at a mother pissing her baby in the street, no recognition, no memory of me. i had been forgettable.

now i’m a native. gone was the snakelike weaving between chinese hookers to the big foreign fish, a greek or a norwegian. gone was my ability to slip away. the american and i threw anecdotes and commentary back and forth until my jet lag had me yawn in her face.

“are you going home with her or what,” my brother asked me as i waved for another drink, one still in hand.

“i don’t think it’d be a solid performance,” i said. “i scotched my way here and i’m going to rye my way out.”

“guy, this is america. america welcomes you with tall hotties.”

yawn. “i’m not that hungry. i’ll decide later.”

on the sidewalk, a petite, cheshire stranger pressed me for a cigarette, then hugged me. she was blonde and her face, due to the fernet and rye, looked like sailor moon or some kind of excellent manga. her new year’s eve hat was cocked to the right.

“sadly, dear, i didn’t bring home any cigarettes.”

“home? do you live in the hotel,” she pointed back towards the bar.

“where are you off to,” i said, thinking that maybe i was good for a hustle, forgetting my earlier excuses.

“my house. my house with my roommates. wanna come?”

behind me, in china, i had left the panoramic window of my 17th floor apartment on tian mu jong lu, lost all of my chinese made ikea flatware, my gypsy motorcycle rides, a set of muji sheets, five pirated penguin novels and a bottle of hongfu spring water in the fridge. i couldn’t take her home. i couldn’t go home with her. tie me to the main mast, i’m finished.

“dude, you’re re-tah-ted,” my brother said as i hopped in the car. “america fucking loves your junk.”
“i got her number, the tall one,” i replied, feeling it on the paper in my pocket. i crumbled it up in a ball, tossed it out the window, felt around for the cubans in the cup holders.

“is there more fernet at home,” i asked, hoping for the good medicine to put me to bed again.

“yah, i got a sweet kit to make torontos for christmas from the bar.”

“we couldn’t get fernet in china,” i said, looking out the driver’s side window as we passed fenway park.

“well you’re not in fucking china anymore,” said one of the cops. “merr-ca!”