About this time last year I tried to put together an article for Reader's Digest on Crohn's disease, but the editor I was working with eventually turned it down because it wasn't a life-and-death illness. Having lived with it for 18 years, I can tell you it sure feels that way sometimes.
What is Crohn's disease?
It's a chronic, gastrointestinal disorder caused by an overactive immune system that attacks the harmless bacteria in the digestive tract causing inflammation in its deepest layers. It was named after Dr. Burrill Crohn, who with his colleagues, Dr. Leon Ginzburg and Dr. Gordon D. Oppenheimer, published a paper about the illness in 1932.
Dr. Crohn's old office is still in use on Manhattan's east side. I was there for an upper G.I. series, drinking some chalky-white barium, when a doctor with a God-awful toupee told me I was on hallowed ground. I tried to imagine how the place might have looked 70 years ago when Dr. Crohn was in his prime, but the technician kept barking orders at me while he took x-rays.
How is it diagnosed?
Dr. Timothy Sentongo, a gastroenterologist at Children's Memorial Hospital in Chicago, says the process can take up to three weeks sometimes before a diagnosis is made. Tests need to be done and the patient's history examined for stomach pain and decreased appetite, which can lead to significant weight loss.
Also, Dr. Mary Harris at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore says, "Common symptoms such as abdominal pain in the right lower quadrant, diarrhea, and fever can appear to be appendicitis at first."
Who does it affect?
According to the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America (www.ccfa.org), more than 500,000 people have the disease in the U.S., but you wouldn't know it. "People are reluctant to talk about stomach pain and diarrhea with others who are unaffected, but the disease is very common," says Dr. Joseph Sellin, Director of the University of Texas Medical Branch at Galveston Inflammatory Bowel Disease Center.
There does seem to be a higher concentration of Crohn's in the Northeast, but incidences have been on the rise across the country in recent years.
How's it treated?
"Each patient's Crohn's is his or her own. The goal of treatment is to find the magic combination of drugs to maximize the anti-inflammatory effect with minimal side effects, but what works for one patient may not work for another," says Dr. Sellin.
Since the time of my diagnosis, the drugs used to treat Crohn's have improved somewhat. For example, I was prescribed the steroid Entocort EC during my last flare up, which I found to be as helpful as Prednisone with less unwanted stuff, namely irritability and the dreaded moon-face. The reason for this is that Entocort is absorbed more fully in the bowel, where Prednisone affects the whole body.
Dr. Barry Jaffin of Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York (my current doctor) is optimistic about the future of treatments, saying that as we learn more about the cascade of inflammation, more potent treatments will be developed, ones that alter the natural history of the disease, which can provide patients with long-term remission.
Remicade is an intravenous therapy that is relatively new to the scene. While I have not tried it, yet, I've heard good things from people who have.
Other aspects to consider:
Dr. Jaffin says while Crohn's is not caused by stress, it can increase the volatility of the disease, so patients need to develop effective ways of managing it in their lives.
Diet varies case by case. I'm reminded of a simple philosophy I learned from my childhood gastroenterologist, Dr. Jeremiah Levine of Long Island Jewish Medical Center. When I complained that every time I ate Chinese beef and broccoli, I got a terrible pain in my stomach, he told me to order something else next time.
How bout a cure?
While there is no cure for Crohn's, there have been positive developments in research, particularly genealogy, which may point to the possibility that Crohn's is hereditary.
"We know the disease has three factors: genetics, environment and a trigger in the immune system," says Dr. Sentongo.
"It's like a domino effect, we understand why four, five and six fall over, but we still don't know what tipped the first one," says Dr. Harris.
In the meantime:
"Try not to consider yourself a person with a disease. Live your life," says Dr. Jaffin.
While fatigue, pain, and frequent bathroom trips are not the easiest obstacles to overcome, they are manageable with treatment and a good frame of mind. The editor at Reader's Digest had a point, Crohn's is not a matter of life and death, so on those tough days I remind myself that what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger.
The Girl You Wanted and Never Got Because You're a Loser
In fourth grade, I was playing C.Y.O. basketball in a small gym on a weekday night. My coach's daughter Cindy, who was my age, was hanging upside down on the chin-up bar when her shirt fell over her head. Of course she wasn't wearing a bra, she didn't have boobs then, but after she corrected herself, her face was flush with embarrassment. That moment began a life-long obsession I had with her. One so bad I played the bass clarinet in band to sit near the flutists and be closer to her. One so bad I dropped out of the honors program to increase my chances of getting into one of her classes.
In eighth grade, I made the school basketball team, which was significant because Cindy played volleyball and we shared the same bus home after practice. I used to make her laugh and when I was scolded and moved to the front of the bus for "causing a ruckus," she came up and sat beside me. I had her all to myself for that one fleeting moment.
Don't get me wrong, I was obsessed with basketball, too. I dreamt of making the NBA, where I knew in my heart I could play against Larry, Magic, and Michael. And I knew if I succeeded, Cindy would go for me, but I could not overcome my short, slow white ass and six-inch vertical.
Well, I got part of the equation right.
Cindy was an All-American soccer player, who went to school on a scholarship where she met her future husband, Raja Bell, who had a breakout season this year playing alongside MVP Steve Nash on the Phoenix Suns. He's a handsome man, even got some beefcake shots up on his Web site, and, of course, his single season salary is worth more than the sum of my career. You'd think I'd be green with envy watching him stick the J against Kobe in the playoffs, but man, I'm happy for him. A fan posted this behind-the-scenes picture of Raja and Cindy on his site and said they were a down-to-earth couple with a good sense of humor. I don't doubt it. (BTW clown, it's Cindy, not Sindy.)
Last time I saw Cindy was at our 10-year high-school reunion about four years ago, and I was actually hoping there might still be a chance. Then I saw her ensconced in bling that served like a "Beware of Dog" sign on a ritzy piece of property. I heeded its warning.
If only I had made the NBA. If only I had cashed in on my dreams. If only I wasn't so horribly common and usual, but I can't say things like that less I offend the few people in this world who believe me when I tell them "I'm Rick James, bitch!"
(Like Jake LaMotta.) I don't need no diamond rings and wild hoopster dreams. I got me a girl prettier than the magnolia trees swaying in the Prospect Park breeze. I don't need no hardwood millionaire pose, I got Google posting up my prose. And I don't need to school Kobe Bryant like a puppy dog on a fire hydrant. I play with all-stars I need not mention, although you may recognize some from the last Blogger convention.
In eighth grade, I made the school basketball team, which was significant because Cindy played volleyball and we shared the same bus home after practice. I used to make her laugh and when I was scolded and moved to the front of the bus for "causing a ruckus," she came up and sat beside me. I had her all to myself for that one fleeting moment.
Don't get me wrong, I was obsessed with basketball, too. I dreamt of making the NBA, where I knew in my heart I could play against Larry, Magic, and Michael. And I knew if I succeeded, Cindy would go for me, but I could not overcome my short, slow white ass and six-inch vertical.
Well, I got part of the equation right.
Cindy was an All-American soccer player, who went to school on a scholarship where she met her future husband, Raja Bell, who had a breakout season this year playing alongside MVP Steve Nash on the Phoenix Suns. He's a handsome man, even got some beefcake shots up on his Web site, and, of course, his single season salary is worth more than the sum of my career. You'd think I'd be green with envy watching him stick the J against Kobe in the playoffs, but man, I'm happy for him. A fan posted this behind-the-scenes picture of Raja and Cindy on his site and said they were a down-to-earth couple with a good sense of humor. I don't doubt it. (BTW clown, it's Cindy, not Sindy.)Last time I saw Cindy was at our 10-year high-school reunion about four years ago, and I was actually hoping there might still be a chance. Then I saw her ensconced in bling that served like a "Beware of Dog" sign on a ritzy piece of property. I heeded its warning.
If only I had made the NBA. If only I had cashed in on my dreams. If only I wasn't so horribly common and usual, but I can't say things like that less I offend the few people in this world who believe me when I tell them "I'm Rick James, bitch!"
(Like Jake LaMotta.) I don't need no diamond rings and wild hoopster dreams. I got me a girl prettier than the magnolia trees swaying in the Prospect Park breeze. I don't need no hardwood millionaire pose, I got Google posting up my prose. And I don't need to school Kobe Bryant like a puppy dog on a fire hydrant. I play with all-stars I need not mention, although you may recognize some from the last Blogger convention.
Morrison Right! People Are Strange
Back when I was a janitor at the junior high school under the Manhattan Bridge, my morning routine involved sweeping the perimeter of the building. As it was a big job, I split it up with Willy, who worked the overnight shift.
Willy wore a beat-up blue cap, an olive-drab army jacket, and kept a .38 revolver tucked in his jeans. I asked him why he carried a gun and he said, "Shit, in this town, you never know."
We would start at the main entrance, across from the highly-surveiled beauty salon, which Willy believed was a front for the Chinese mob. He'd go one way and I the other.
The yard was filled with ancient Chinese people performing tai chi every morning. They were waiting for their grandchildren to go to school, so they could go home and rest, sharing the very same bed.
One morning the tranquility was broken by a desperate crack whore, who told me she would suck my dick for ten bucks. She was no more than a skeleton with paint on its bones and she had sores around her mouth. I was repulsed, but I gave her two dollars out of pity.
The next day, Willy and I went about our routine. We usually met at the halfway point, but there was no sign of him. I waited a bit, then I walked around the corner. His bucket and broom were against the building, near a closet, which contained garbage bags, spare brooms, and a slap sink.
On cue, the door opened and the crack whore came out. Willy followed behind her, tucking in his shirt and adjusting the revolver in the small of his back. He walked over to me and said, "That bitch wanted ten bucks to suck my dick."
"Oh yeah. Did you take her up on it?" I said.
"Hell no! I gave her five," Willy said as he flashed his toothless smile.
As usual, we got a cup of coffee from the donut shop around the corner and went down to the locker room for a break. Neither one of us had much to say.
Willy wore a beat-up blue cap, an olive-drab army jacket, and kept a .38 revolver tucked in his jeans. I asked him why he carried a gun and he said, "Shit, in this town, you never know."
We would start at the main entrance, across from the highly-surveiled beauty salon, which Willy believed was a front for the Chinese mob. He'd go one way and I the other.
The yard was filled with ancient Chinese people performing tai chi every morning. They were waiting for their grandchildren to go to school, so they could go home and rest, sharing the very same bed.
One morning the tranquility was broken by a desperate crack whore, who told me she would suck my dick for ten bucks. She was no more than a skeleton with paint on its bones and she had sores around her mouth. I was repulsed, but I gave her two dollars out of pity.
The next day, Willy and I went about our routine. We usually met at the halfway point, but there was no sign of him. I waited a bit, then I walked around the corner. His bucket and broom were against the building, near a closet, which contained garbage bags, spare brooms, and a slap sink.
On cue, the door opened and the crack whore came out. Willy followed behind her, tucking in his shirt and adjusting the revolver in the small of his back. He walked over to me and said, "That bitch wanted ten bucks to suck my dick."
"Oh yeah. Did you take her up on it?" I said.
"Hell no! I gave her five," Willy said as he flashed his toothless smile.
As usual, we got a cup of coffee from the donut shop around the corner and went down to the locker room for a break. Neither one of us had much to say.
Women Who Like Sitting on Beards
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.
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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