No, It’s not me…ha, ha! I would have loved that status but missed my chance when I moved to L.A. ….not that anyone would have been likely to induct me anyway. Well, here is my actual interview for the week about a really amazing woman who supports the arts and tries to keep the NY scene alive. You can read it here.
Quite possibly my weirdest to date. This one went to dark places but funny enough my recorder cut out at just the right time and, while I could have relied on memory, I chose to omit it anyway. In any case, an interesting, though unpaid, job for sure. Let me know what you think of Robert Butcher and his controversial art. Here’s the link.
Mr. Butcher did not know where his cigarettes were but he did know one thing…they definitely were not on his person. And they definitely were not on the park bench at Tompkins Square Park where he had just been sitting. Oh well. He supposed this was just another step on his path to Eternal Damnation which started long ago. But sitting in the middle of a playground, puffing away, while parents looked on disdainfully, probably advanced him quite a bit.
But to hell with them. He remembered this park when a kid wouldn’t step foot in it for fear it would be scurried over by a rat. Those were the days when he and Skeeter ruled the streets…or so they would have liked to have thought. Those two…they always had some kind of scam going. They lived on the streets and worked them for all they could get…cigarettes, drugs, sex… Butcher thought he had made it for sure the first day he could even afford his own pack of smokes.
And Skeeter…what happened to him? Butcher heard that he was now filed under Married with Children, headed for a life of yuppiedom with a woman who was seriously looking into converting to Krishna, if she hadn’t already.
In the meantime, somewhere blocks across The East Village, Skeeter hadn’t completely lost his edge. Behind his wife’s back, he was meeting with a group of conspiracy theorists who believed that one day, when everybody realized that you didn’t have to pay $22 for a sandwich, the punks would take back the Lower East Side…and they were getting the next generation ready.
Every Saturday at 2, when Skeeter’s wife Emily was getting ready for her knitting circle, she’d send Skeeter and their son Mason off to yoga…only that’s not where they ended up. Once well out of her sight, Skeeter would take off his son’s yoga pants and headband, and replace it with (authentically) ripped jeans and a Cannibal Corpse t-shirt. Then Skeeter would take Mason to Juvenile Delinquent’s Class where he learned the finer points of looting, pickpocketing and becoming a successful drug lord.
No one could quite believe it when they saw Mason running around Tompkins Square Park with an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth so they all just assumed it was candy. “Nice job son” Skeeter said, as he extracted one from the pack and lit up.
I’m kind of excited at my foray into short story writing and am looking forward to your comments and criticisms. The story was inspired by my trip to New York and partially based on truth.
Hello friends of the blogging world! The Rock n’ Roll Supermom has been doing some calendar consulting and I realize that I’m coming up on my 3 year blogiversary and you know what that means… I look nothing like my profile picture anymore. It also means I am getting pretty burned out on blogging so I’m taking a break. I may publish if a moment of brilliancy hits, but I’m actually going to try not to. I need to refuel. I will still be reading your blogs but maybe not to the point that I had been.
From June 7-14 I will be going on a spiritual pilgrimage to the holy city of New York. There I will be undergoing a metaphysical rejuvenation which will consist of shopping therapy, the ingestion of sacrificial chocolates and pizza, and deep healing sessions with Subway Station Stan. It is during this time that I will be away from the blogging world completely, so you probably shouldn’t even bother publishing anything during this time (mark your calendars). When I come back from this soul searching journey, I may be blogging less or experimenting with different formats and genres which may or may not include a collection of zen writings in limerick form.
On a more serious note, I have not been back to NY since pre-911 so if anyone has any recommendations as far as non-touristy things to do, and relatively inexpensive places to eat and (thrift) shop, I’d love to hear. I’ll be staying in Harlem and plan to spend a lot of time in the East Village and some visiting the boroughs. I don’t think many of you are from the area but if you are and would like to meet up, let me know.
I’ve been floating in 1975
Between Mick Jagger and Stayin’ Alive
Cause that old Beatles haircut just would not do
Said Johnny Rotten so I died it blue
With old bell bottoms from my mom
Put on my shades and I’m Elton John
With platform shoes so fine and showy
I must be Prince or David Bowie
I’m feeling a little bit down these days
I dress like John Lennon in his heroin phase
My sister’s dressed up just like dead great eccentrics
Somewhere between Joplin and Hendrix
My mother she laughs at my short little skirts
And wonders why I rip all my tee shirts
Searching the wardrobe for that perfect blouse
And if I don’t find it well I don’t leave the house
On a shopping spree of the Lower East Side
I pack all my bags as I swallow my pride
I’ll haggle I’ll bargain I’ll buy it by mail
Just blindfold and guide me to a sign that says sale
Lookin’ all over for my pretty stuff
And no matter how much its never enough
Cause I’m lookin so fine from my head to my toes
I never have money but I always have clothes
Go go boots seersucker suits
Consult my wardrobe dye my roots
Bell bottom blues front page news
Psycho psychedelic hues
Color me silver color me gold
But never mess my pretty clothes
I’ve been a bit braindead this weekend so decided to post lyrics from a song from my old band Sisters Grimm.
That morning had been a rough morning. Just 6 weeks along and I was already in the throes of intense morning sickness. My breakfast definitely did not look any more appealing after being regurgitated into the toilet.
We were supposed to meet at Katz’s Deli on Houston. As I walked along the New York City streets, the stench which I thought I had grown immune to, built in my nostrils to the point where I had to stop several times to compose myself, lest risk making the contaminated streets so much more so. After being jostled around by the crowds I had learned to zig zag through, I finally reached my destination.
Katz’s was, as it always had been, a bustling, delightful mix of New York’s East Village. Autographed pictures of the restaurant’s famous patrons hung on the walls. Most of the tables were occupied by old Jewish men having a bagel and a schmear, arguing about what a Meshuggah Nixon was. At other tables, prostitutes coming in after a long night’s haul, bleeding hearts and artists, girls gathered around giggling in mini skirts and platform boots, hair straightened. I thought about how I could have easily been one of those girls, except, except…
There was a table in the back occupied by a bum, covered in filth, lucky enough to have secured enough income from a hard night begging on the streets to afford himself the warmth of a table with endless coffee refills. I knew it was only a matter of time until the manager would throw him out.
It was hard to say whether it was the stench of urine and body odor coming off the bum, or the smell of boiled cabbage coming from the kitchen that, once again, almost sent me reeling into the bathroom, but luckily I was able to get myself to the table with little incident.
As usual he was smiling, always obnoxiously positive. My speech started running through my head; what I would say, how I would say it. My pregnancy. How I had love for him and wanted him to be a part of the baby’s life, but I was not in love with him. I wanted to raise this baby on my own. It was 1970 after all, and more and more women were taking control of their own destinies. My mother might disapprove but after the baby was born she would come around. After all, didn’t I owe this baby a happy life?
It seemed Katz’s only had one portion size; incredibly large. Just as I was approaching, the waitress placed down a mammoth piece of their famous cheesecake on my setting. Under any other circumstances I would have been immensely pleased. This was, after all, my favorite.
I could see the confused look on his face when I did not immediately dig in and I could tell my deviant behavior could lead to a string of questions which would throw me off my guard, ruin my carefully rehearsed speech, and possibly make me lose my nerve completely.
Ah, it might not be so bad. I took a bite.
That’s when I discerned, in the confines of the rich sweet taste of whipped cream that I had so grown to love over the years, the unmistakable taste of metal. I could detect the circular form as the heavy sweetness melted in my mouth. I rushed to the bathroom as quickly as I could.