The Godmother of The Lower East Side

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.


American Madonnas And Liars

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.unnamed-3unnamed-2



Brandon The Emotional Cat From Hell

There once was a poor cat named Brandon
Whose owner did all but abandon
He took him out nights
To eat up the mice
He cried nightly by our ground floor landing

Did he need to be taught a strong lesson?
Did he need a good therapy session?
As it was clear to see
Sep’ration anxiety
Had become the poor kitty’s obsession

Owner said “throw him back up the stairs!”
But dear reader I would not have dared
As it was clear to see
He had 10 pounds on me
From that caper he’d far better fare

We decided to leave him among us
He was emotional and humungous
Showed him we sympathized
But we left him outside
Lest he might well have eaten my youngest

Well, I’m back from NY and slowly getting back in the swing of things. I’m attempting to chronicle my adventures, the first being about a cat named Brandon who had just been downgraded from a plush Harlem apartment to living on the back patio of the building which just happened to be outside of our Air BnB rental. Sorry I have been so bad about responding to comments and reading posts but this time off was much needed. I’m still not sure if I will return to blogging with as much vim and vigor as before but thought this one worth publishing.


Brandon Himself

Mass Market My Heart

My MC bought out on the street
Down at Saint Marks place
I wore it proudly til the day
It saw it’s fall from grace

A trend in Brooklyn it became
Was it sweet irony
Worn by all the awful kids
Who always picked on me

And that was the beginning of
What was soon to fall
For soon Doc Martens would be found
Sold at suburban malls

And once exclusively U.K.
Indeed what could be finer
But something lost as they’re outsourced
And mass produced in China

And for 100 bucks or so
Most anybody can
Have their 2 year old appear
The biggest Ramones fan

Though I suppose they have the right
I can’t help think it’s vulgar
The price tags and the plastic wraps
Mass market counter culture

So take the spikes from my wristband
And just rip out my heart
I bought this T-shirt at the show
Not at the Walmart


I Really Need A Hobby

I’m in The Who, Black Sabbath and Judas Priest,
And many a rockin’ foursome,
I’m 65% New York, and a wife that’s,
Just 42% awesome.

I’m a hipster mom who’s fit for kindergarten,
And if you think that’s peculiar,
I bet you didn’t know I’m Super Girl although,
My nickname should be Junior.

I’m some kind of peculiar creature from Star Wars,
That I never knew existed,
And apparently I’m on Facebook way too much,
Taking those asinine quizzes.


Becoming That Person

It seems that Los Angeles,
is not a 24 hour town,
When we moved here from NY,
neighbors told us to turn it down.

They didn’t like our high heels,
clomping up and down the stairs,
And when I played my bass guitar,
It so did offend their ears.

And though we thought they were uptight,
and we scoffed at their restrictions,
It seemed our rebelliousness,
could lead to an eviction.

Now I have a job and kids,
and do not mean to complain,
But it sure is difficult
to wake up at 6 am.

And though the neighbors are lovely,
they sometimes party at night,
So am I hypocritical,
when I ask them to be quiet?


The Girl From Brooklyn

She swore that she would be,
Anything but what she was,
A hardcore biker mama,
After the highest buzz.

Out ’til all hours of the night,
Always raising hell,
Then she changed her name to Jezo Black,
(Short for Jezebel).

And swore her tattoos and her travels,
Her life experience,
Would serve to separate her from,
The girl that she was then.

So they took the girl out of Brooklyn,
To live a life of sin,
Only what would happen,
When she decided to come back in?

Which is exactly what did occur,
When with her new, cool, city friends,
She decided to see a concert,
Located where the D train ends.

Though she tried to hide under tables,
And avoid the stare,
Of a girl who’s conversation started,
“Hey, I know you from somewhere!”

And despite the mystique she laid out,
To me, she was from then on known,
As a plain, little girl from Brooklyn,
By the name of Laurie Cohen.


Road Trip!! (A True Story of Sisterly Love)

Just me and my girlie lookin’ for action,
Headin’ out to Cali from Manhattan,
It was New Year’s Day and we set out like truckers,
Packed the coatcheck, grabbed the tips and said, “See you suckers!”

8 long days driving through strange towns,
And it would have been 7 if we didn’t break down,
So we called our mother and said, “Hook us up!”
And a few hours later we were stylin’ in a Uhaul truck.

And I know the Scorpions said Arizona was a gas,
But not after hitting into a hotel’s overpass,
Sorry about the major interference,
But who knew the truck didn’t pass the clearance?

Checked in and let the cats out of their coop,
They decided it would be a good time to poop,
Packed up our stuff, moved back in the car,
And told them all we wrecked hotel rooms just like rock stars.

Then as luck would have it, wouldn’t you know,
Got back on the road when it started to snow,
So another set back before arriving,
Got a moving violation for erratic driving.

Causing all kinds of mayhem and drama,
Moving down the freeway like outlaw mamas,
Laying our heads wherever we roamed,
And the fuzz couldn’t catch us ‘cause we had no home.

Glad we saw the Hollywood Freeway cause after a while,
Got sick of eatin’ 7-11 like it was going out of style,
Takin’ a road trip it’s California or bust,
Cause Thelma and Louise got nothing on us!



You Can Take The Girl Out Of Brooklyn…

People now I have to warn ya’,
If moving from New York to California,
It might not just be the way you talk,
That gives the natives culture shock.

Perhaps more spread out than lofty,
Wait a little longer for your cawfee,
Be sure to watch the sarcastic tongue,
And control the impatience to get things done.

Work on the ingrained avoidance of people’s eyes,
When passing on streets try to say ‘Hi’,
But when all this forced politeness,
Paired with unbearable niceness,
All does reach a fever pitch,
And you get the undeniable urge to bitch,
Watch the shocked faces of the natives looking,
At the girl that was taken out of Brooklyn.


Oh, Alice You Remind Me Of Manhattan

I think I was 17 when I fell in love with Manhattan. Unlike the closed minded Brooklyn community in which I grew up, it was there, among the freaks and the weirdos, that I felt truly accepted.

Give us your different, your strange,
Your misguided, your misunderstood

Our apartments like cubicles, piled one on top of the other, outrageously painted, posters on the wall, not unlike a college dormitory. People wonder, why put up with the crowding, the masses, the limited amount of space? But it is here where community grows strong, it is here where we know this is a small price to pay for living in the greatest city in the world.

My neighbors, the T.V. hooker with the heart of gold, the rock star, the guy who sells comic books on St. Marks, the homeless guy who sells words of wisdom at 25 cents a pop, and Mr. Schindleheim at 3rd and C who makes the city’s best bagels, and you know in NYC, that is saying a lot.

Give us your tired, your poor
Your huddled masses yearning to be free

If I can make it here, I’ll make it anywhere

But the best is the night time, when the energy of the street beckons you. And so we emerge from our tiny cages, in our platform boots, our tight jeans, our short fur jackets, the beautiful wrecks, the 5 AM perfection, the glitter in the gutter, the screwed up eyes and screwed down hair-dos

Oh, Alice, you remind me of Manhattan
The seedy and the snaz, the shoe boys and the satins
Like a throne made of gilt that too many johns have sat in

I’ll never forget the last morning, as the grey light of day descended over a city still asleep, or maybe still awake from the night before, he left my bedroom, leaving me a wreck, crying on the disheveled bed, saying goodbye to a city I would never see again.

Now I live in Los Angeles, with all it’s sharp angles, it’s elegant curves, it’s austere white mansions, it’s eminence front, and it’s perpetual blue skies and sunshine, where you could almost forget the heavy layer of smog that hovers outside the atmosphere, where I look at the people around me
and wonder
if they know what it’s like
to love a city.

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