L.A. Woman was a student at Pace not long ago and I, a guest at her table. She acted like my friend. She had talent.
I, a broken Chevy of a talent, watched her exploits on the stage, in film, music video and TV back before she was posing in her underwear on myspace.
One night, the Jimmy Kimmel show was on in the background when I heard a familiar voice. Jimmy and Kathy Lee Gifford were performing karaoke at a local bar and L.A. Woman was the emcee, wearing a rainbow-colored wig that reminded me of a snow cone.
Now I envision myself, dressed like Jack White, blowing into that bar. She doesn't notice until I take the stage and then her curious brown eyes quiz me.
I practice all the time, in the bathroom, in the car, in front of the mirror; one head phone on, the other dangling to the beat.
And she smiles like she's practiced a thousand times as I belt out U2's Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses, which may be Bono's most challenging vocal. The crowd wants to send a text message on my behalf when I hit the falsetto like a long jumper off the lift and nail it like Lindsey Jacobellis wished she had.
I am trampled by euphoria and see her tap you rock! with her eyelashes as Jimmy and Kathy Lee help me from the stage like I'm Elvis.
Sidebar:
The Velvet Underground knew what they were doing on Heroin.
Hunter S. Thompson
"So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a shotgun." - HST, "What Lured Hemingway to Ketchum?," National Observer, May 25, 1964.
On this, the first anniversary of Hunter's death, Anita Thompson published one of her favorite photos at gonzostore.com:
Hunter once wrote he learned from Hemingway that he could get away with just being a writer. But like any artist, he never had a choice. Hunter had tremendous talent and like Hemingway, he achieved a celebrity rare among writers, where his actual life seemed to dwarf that which he put down on paper. He set a torch to our imagination and in the end, when there was nothing left, he was the first to admit it.
The genesis of his legend can be found before Fear and Loathing:
"But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right ... and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it ... howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica ... letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge ... The Edge ... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really no where it is are the ones who have gone over." - HST, Hell's Angels, 1967
Vote Freak Power
On this, the first anniversary of Hunter's death, Anita Thompson published one of her favorite photos at gonzostore.com:
Hunter once wrote he learned from Hemingway that he could get away with just being a writer. But like any artist, he never had a choice. Hunter had tremendous talent and like Hemingway, he achieved a celebrity rare among writers, where his actual life seemed to dwarf that which he put down on paper. He set a torch to our imagination and in the end, when there was nothing left, he was the first to admit it.
The genesis of his legend can be found before Fear and Loathing:
"But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right ... and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it ... howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica ... letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge ... The Edge ... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really no where it is are the ones who have gone over." - HST, Hell's Angels, 1967
Vote Freak Power
Claustrophobic
Pint-size plane down to the Bahamas, palm trees and open bar of Miller Lite and sweet, fruit laden concoctions composed of cheap rum. Start day with Bloody Marys at La Guardia, then unnecessary bus ride to the prop before vicodin brunch.
Sun drenched dream later, Booze & Cruise crowded, drunk lady on action speedboat jerking at bikini top yelling I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Playful applause.
Snorkeling by nearby cliff. Afloat in endless ocean, breathing through a narrow tube, seeing through a narrow screen. Bread crumbs and rib meat cast overboard to stir a feeding frenzy of exotic aquatics looking at me with contempt. Tourists thrashing about like bait for bigger fish.
Return to ship deck. Spy beautiful mermaid piercing serene bathwater with Cuban cigar mashed in my countenance like a Kerouac be-bop before the breakout beach blanket dance fiasco and obligatory eardrum plea for peace.
Exit flight canceled due to snowy sarcophagus. Three block long line to contentious customs agent. Board kite to Atlanta, then jumbo jet to Jacksonville to catch moody prop back to La Guardia.
Can too small to crouch for dump, pilot pleads for patience as we wait for an open gate. Crowd ornery, try to calm frayed flight attendant nerves as she pours gasoline on the fire. Two point two hours later, we deplane on the runway and board a mystery van back to the terminal, where miraculous luggage spits out first and cab line moves quick, but wired driver assaults my nap like a backseat snap-shot on the way to Senor Frogs ...
Sun drenched dream later, Booze & Cruise crowded, drunk lady on action speedboat jerking at bikini top yelling I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Playful applause.
Snorkeling by nearby cliff. Afloat in endless ocean, breathing through a narrow tube, seeing through a narrow screen. Bread crumbs and rib meat cast overboard to stir a feeding frenzy of exotic aquatics looking at me with contempt. Tourists thrashing about like bait for bigger fish.
Return to ship deck. Spy beautiful mermaid piercing serene bathwater with Cuban cigar mashed in my countenance like a Kerouac be-bop before the breakout beach blanket dance fiasco and obligatory eardrum plea for peace.
Exit flight canceled due to snowy sarcophagus. Three block long line to contentious customs agent. Board kite to Atlanta, then jumbo jet to Jacksonville to catch moody prop back to La Guardia.
Can too small to crouch for dump, pilot pleads for patience as we wait for an open gate. Crowd ornery, try to calm frayed flight attendant nerves as she pours gasoline on the fire. Two point two hours later, we deplane on the runway and board a mystery van back to the terminal, where miraculous luggage spits out first and cab line moves quick, but wired driver assaults my nap like a backseat snap-shot on the way to Senor Frogs ...
 |
| Photo courtesy of Tom Kelsch. |
Requiem for an Angel
I am at a loss for words this week, so I will defer to William Butler Yeats:
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand
I ask the good readers of this blog to remember my friends Danna and Brian Richardson in your thoughts and prayers for the abrupt departure of their angel, Alexandra.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand
I ask the good readers of this blog to remember my friends Danna and Brian Richardson in your thoughts and prayers for the abrupt departure of their angel, Alexandra.
Nude
Acid flashback to Buffalo, I'm partying with hipsters, noticing nude photos strung out on the way to the bathroom down the hall. Meredith the photographer catches me staring at one, a side-view of a model holding a bicycle tire like an aureole around her naked torso, conjuring the image of a hula-hoop. I tell her about my fascination with tires and she presents it to me as a gift.
Eight years later in Brooklyn, I find the image in a forgotten stack and put it on the wall. I ask my girlfriend if she wants to see it, but she's distracted by the TV. Later in bed, I can feel the weight of her frustration. She doesn't like the portrait. I defend its artistic merit, but she doesn't want to hear it.
The next day, I'm in the locker room at the gym and there's a fat old naked man sitting on a bench like a centurion at a Roman bath. There are other white-haired, decrepit things prancing around the locker room without towels. I never see them in the gym lifting weights or hitting the treadmill, only back here among the steam and sweat of other men.
My girl doesn't have to say a word to get me to take down the picture. All she has to do is invite me over her house and have that fat old naked guy walk around, asking me if I saw today's Post.
When they ate the apple, Gwyneth (Eve) and Chris (Adam) realized they were naked and looked for clothing. And nude has been awkward ever since.
It is ethereal and repugnant. Sought after and rejected. It is Michelangelo and Spencer Tunick. Comported and vulgar like Kate Moss.
It is in the eye of the beholder.
Eight years later in Brooklyn, I find the image in a forgotten stack and put it on the wall. I ask my girlfriend if she wants to see it, but she's distracted by the TV. Later in bed, I can feel the weight of her frustration. She doesn't like the portrait. I defend its artistic merit, but she doesn't want to hear it.
The next day, I'm in the locker room at the gym and there's a fat old naked man sitting on a bench like a centurion at a Roman bath. There are other white-haired, decrepit things prancing around the locker room without towels. I never see them in the gym lifting weights or hitting the treadmill, only back here among the steam and sweat of other men.
My girl doesn't have to say a word to get me to take down the picture. All she has to do is invite me over her house and have that fat old naked guy walk around, asking me if I saw today's Post.
When they ate the apple, Gwyneth (Eve) and Chris (Adam) realized they were naked and looked for clothing. And nude has been awkward ever since.
It is ethereal and repugnant. Sought after and rejected. It is Michelangelo and Spencer Tunick. Comported and vulgar like Kate Moss.
It is in the eye of the beholder.
Cosmic Coffee Shop
Beneath the muted glow of the expensive Time Warner Center, I headed south on Columbus Circle to a solitary figure standing on the corner where the Cosmic Coffee Shop went dark. My friend Melissa, who I had asked to meet me there, was waiting outside, not sure if she had the right place.
Apparently the proprietors of the coffee shop have relocated to 8th Ave., fleeing the exorbitant rent that could not be sustained by two eggs scrambled, hash browns, bacon, rye toast and a piping hot cup of industrial strength java.
Back when I worked nearby, I would often go to the Cosmic Coffee Shop for lunch. Once I sat at the counter beside Philip Seymour Hoffman and a gentleman, who was wearing a neatly pressed blue suit. I ordered my usual fare and paid them no mind until Hoffman excused himself, presumably to use the restroom.
The check was delivered in his absence. Hoffman's acquaintance seemed a bit befuddled before paying it and leaving a tip. Just then, Hoffman returned and thanked him for picking up the tab before hastily gathering up his coat and newspaper on his way out.
I thought of Hoffman and all the checks he must have stuck on unsuspecting people when he didn't have steady work.
The Cosmic Coffee Shop was the second corner joint I've lost to inflation. The other being Joe's Pizza on Carmine and Bleecker, which moved just a few doors down, relinquishing the convenience (and expense) of its original address.
I was there the last night it was open, sometime after 3:00 a.m., and bought the remaining two slices that were available on the counter. Then a black Town Car pulled up and Owen Wilson got out, wearing a L.A. Dodgers baseball cap and a black suit. He had to wait for a new pie while a late night crowd congregated.
While it seems that running into celebrities is common fodder for N.Y. conversation, the nostalgia of locales, come and gone, is greeted with as much intrigue as the weather. But when a place you've come to lean on is no longer where you remember, its memories become surreal, and the bummer lingers a bit longer than an ordinary rain out.
Apparently the proprietors of the coffee shop have relocated to 8th Ave., fleeing the exorbitant rent that could not be sustained by two eggs scrambled, hash browns, bacon, rye toast and a piping hot cup of industrial strength java.
Back when I worked nearby, I would often go to the Cosmic Coffee Shop for lunch. Once I sat at the counter beside Philip Seymour Hoffman and a gentleman, who was wearing a neatly pressed blue suit. I ordered my usual fare and paid them no mind until Hoffman excused himself, presumably to use the restroom.
The check was delivered in his absence. Hoffman's acquaintance seemed a bit befuddled before paying it and leaving a tip. Just then, Hoffman returned and thanked him for picking up the tab before hastily gathering up his coat and newspaper on his way out.
I thought of Hoffman and all the checks he must have stuck on unsuspecting people when he didn't have steady work.
The Cosmic Coffee Shop was the second corner joint I've lost to inflation. The other being Joe's Pizza on Carmine and Bleecker, which moved just a few doors down, relinquishing the convenience (and expense) of its original address.
I was there the last night it was open, sometime after 3:00 a.m., and bought the remaining two slices that were available on the counter. Then a black Town Car pulled up and Owen Wilson got out, wearing a L.A. Dodgers baseball cap and a black suit. He had to wait for a new pie while a late night crowd congregated.
While it seems that running into celebrities is common fodder for N.Y. conversation, the nostalgia of locales, come and gone, is greeted with as much intrigue as the weather. But when a place you've come to lean on is no longer where you remember, its memories become surreal, and the bummer lingers a bit longer than an ordinary rain out.
 |
| Cosmic Coffee Shop, New York City. |
Bluff
Paint my face
and smile like a joker
now that I learned to
lay off poker
There was nothing funny
in losing all my money
What goes up
must comes down
Bet my smile
will become a frown
because like a one-eyed jack
I'll be back sitting at the table
until I'm no longer able
to walk away
Running up debts
I cannot pay.
and smile like a joker
now that I learned to
lay off poker
There was nothing funny
in losing all my money
What goes up
must comes down
Bet my smile
will become a frown
because like a one-eyed jack
I'll be back sitting at the table
until I'm no longer able
to walk away
Running up debts
I cannot pay.
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