Some poor soul was searching for "women who like sitting on beards" and Google turned up The Land of Men With Flaming Orange Beards and this blog.
I can't imagine the seeker of such women would be satisfied with that Web yield, so I clicked on Images, but only found a picture of an old Land Rover and a logo for The Punjabees.
Groups seemed promising with its first entry, "Twenty-five things you'll never hear a woman say ..." In the comments, a man gave examples of things you'd never hear him say like "How are you on beards? (Well ... actually ... how are you on men having beards? Not how are you when you're sitting on beards.)"
News presented something about "bearded ladies live" at which point I gave up the ghost. The search for women who like sitting on beards is best left to the more intrepid Internet explorers.
In other news, March Madness.
Happy St.Patrick's Day
Long ago there was a wish
For a day to be called Irish
It would happen each year
The drinking of beer
In amounts that could drown a fish.
For a day to be called Irish
It would happen each year
The drinking of beer
In amounts that could drown a fish.
 |
| The Old Bushmills Distillery, Northern Ireland. |
The Strokes
The Commute
I was standing center aisle on the subway, one hand on the pole, the other propping up my book, when this guy started yelling at the woman sitting next to him.
"Bitch, you better shut the fuck up; you don't know me; I'm sitting here, reading my book, I'll fucking hurt you; you don't understand, I'll fucking hurt you; I don't care if you're a woman; you gonna talk shit and you don't even know me."
I looked up from my book and the guy was flashing a mouthful of gold teeth in this girl's face. There was another lady to his left, who had a concealed dog in her purse that started barking.
"Ah, shit, now I'm making the dog cry; you don't know what kind of serious shit I'm capable of; you don't know who I am, let's keep it that way."
We pull into Jay Street where I cross the platform and make my connection. A mariachi was picking the guitar all precise and singing with his gal. When they were done, he went around hawking his CD.
The Strokes
I saw The Strokes at the Hammerstein Ballroom on Saturday night. The show had the electricity of Pearl Jam at the War Memorial in Rochester, N.Y., during the Five Against One tour.
The kids were going crazy. I had to have a couple of Red Bull and vodkas to keep up. Luckily, the bartender had a heavy hand. We hooked up during the Eagles of Deathmetal, who were good, just in a different league.
The Strokes came up on Manhattan's Lower East Side like modern day Ramones. This was their third show back from a month in Europe, where their last two stops were Dublin and Belfast, Ireland. And now they were home, eating well, smoking great dope. Casablancas actually looked like he showered and put on a clean shirt for the occasion. He said, "It's gonna be a real shit storm tonight. You guys are great!"
This cute girl was dancing in front of me, tight ass jeans, t-shirt, tilted cap. I tried to give her room, but she kept rubbing up against me like I was meant to sire her children. The Strokes hit us with everything they wrote. Man, it was tight, Razorblade, Someday, Last Night. The stage was drenched in purple haze with the crowd bubbling over like a pot of boiling water, and this girl kept thrusting her hips at me like I was a hula hoop. Later, outside on the curb, I saw her, but she looked away.
Speaking of Strokes
Life is Kirby Puckett, who played baseball with the kindred enthusiasm of a little leaguer. Who won championships. Who got hit in the eye socket by a fastball from his friend, Dennis Martinez. Who was elected to Baseball's Hall of Fame. Who died of a stroke at 45.
And the Award Goes to ...
Sure Keira Knightly and Salma Hayek were ravishing, but one cannot overlook Jessica Alba, and for all you haters out there who say that's the closest she'll ever get to an Oscar, she was sitting a few rows in front of Keanu Reeves.
I was standing center aisle on the subway, one hand on the pole, the other propping up my book, when this guy started yelling at the woman sitting next to him.
"Bitch, you better shut the fuck up; you don't know me; I'm sitting here, reading my book, I'll fucking hurt you; you don't understand, I'll fucking hurt you; I don't care if you're a woman; you gonna talk shit and you don't even know me."
I looked up from my book and the guy was flashing a mouthful of gold teeth in this girl's face. There was another lady to his left, who had a concealed dog in her purse that started barking.
"Ah, shit, now I'm making the dog cry; you don't know what kind of serious shit I'm capable of; you don't know who I am, let's keep it that way."
We pull into Jay Street where I cross the platform and make my connection. A mariachi was picking the guitar all precise and singing with his gal. When they were done, he went around hawking his CD.
The Strokes
I saw The Strokes at the Hammerstein Ballroom on Saturday night. The show had the electricity of Pearl Jam at the War Memorial in Rochester, N.Y., during the Five Against One tour.
The kids were going crazy. I had to have a couple of Red Bull and vodkas to keep up. Luckily, the bartender had a heavy hand. We hooked up during the Eagles of Deathmetal, who were good, just in a different league.
The Strokes came up on Manhattan's Lower East Side like modern day Ramones. This was their third show back from a month in Europe, where their last two stops were Dublin and Belfast, Ireland. And now they were home, eating well, smoking great dope. Casablancas actually looked like he showered and put on a clean shirt for the occasion. He said, "It's gonna be a real shit storm tonight. You guys are great!"
This cute girl was dancing in front of me, tight ass jeans, t-shirt, tilted cap. I tried to give her room, but she kept rubbing up against me like I was meant to sire her children. The Strokes hit us with everything they wrote. Man, it was tight, Razorblade, Someday, Last Night. The stage was drenched in purple haze with the crowd bubbling over like a pot of boiling water, and this girl kept thrusting her hips at me like I was a hula hoop. Later, outside on the curb, I saw her, but she looked away.
Speaking of Strokes
Life is Kirby Puckett, who played baseball with the kindred enthusiasm of a little leaguer. Who won championships. Who got hit in the eye socket by a fastball from his friend, Dennis Martinez. Who was elected to Baseball's Hall of Fame. Who died of a stroke at 45.
And the Award Goes to ...
Sure Keira Knightly and Salma Hayek were ravishing, but one cannot overlook Jessica Alba, and for all you haters out there who say that's the closest she'll ever get to an Oscar, she was sitting a few rows in front of Keanu Reeves.
Orange Crush, Yo!
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.
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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