P.D.T

DEC 9, 2008

An amazing soul took me to a basement hot dog stand outside of Brooklyn. He took a phone call in a phone booth that hasn't worked in 40 years. His eyes shifted then the back wall of the phone booth opened into another room. A lady in a black dress peered around and said' "how many?.". Behind her, an old world bar was thriving. You could smell the ale and rye as the low lights and conversation swooped out the door and into taste buds, with allure. We drank old Fashions and toasted to a city with an incredible heritage. God is alive in the pain of saints. His shadow is all over the contour of our struggle for existence. i'm thankful for dudes like rusty ralston. i'm grateful for bars titled with code acronyms P.D.T (Please Don't Tell) hidden behind phone booth's with secret entrances that emanate espionage. i'm thankful to have a drink with great pal and a good one at that on my road to wholeness.

what an amazingly vibrant city - a home to poets and artists, entrepreneurs and CEO's with in-gorged infastructures. whatever that means! a place where subways are groaning in the undercurrents and fashion is buzzing on the pavement - a place where i was confused as a homeless man and a gap employee in the same 30 minutes.