Shine On Harvest Moon.
We had a lovely day here in Brooklyn, the kind of day that keeps you wanting to live in Brooklyn.
Somehow we all managed to be up and out the door at 11:00 am on our way to the Greenwood Playground – about a mile away - Harvest Festival. There was a marinate show, music, free pizza and of course the newly refurbished Greenwood Play Ground. Everyone was civil and having a great time as usually happens when you pack about a hundred New Yorkers together. (I am excluding the vicious world of the NYC Transit which brings out the snarling beast in even the elderly and infirm.) Ella was front and center doing an interpretive dance to the band that was playing and it would have been a perfect Fall day if it weren’t for the 84 degree heat and whopping 90% humidity, nothing like sweat running down you back as you try and carve a pumpkin.
After being blasted by the sun for an hour or so we walked over to deposit our change, $150 thank you, at the Commerce Bank where my wife employed her super power of meeting people who need help and then helping them. We meet a lovely gal from Iowa who had just moved to New York with her husband and was looking for work. Persephone sprang into action, there was the taking of emails etc. Jennifer was her name and she was very nice to complement my new Frank Miller Batman t-shirt. After soaking up the blasting AC we walked the three blocks to where Jenifer worked a coffee shop right next to Prospect Park. We sat in the Adirondack chairs right on the street, drank our coffee and ate pastries. Life was good, better than good, it was grand.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Monday, October 01, 2007
Thank God For Married Life.
You can buy almost anything here in Kensington, food wise that is, provided its fresh produce, pickled, alcoholic, or mineral water so dense in…well, I guess minerals, that it gives your bowels marching orders. Ice cream is not high on the needs of the community it seems. But some pickled beets cold vodka and some mineral water to flush yourself out with and I guess you’re good to go.
I was in a store on 18th Ave tonight to buy fresh produce and beer and thought I would like some ice cream. The frozen case in the Gala Apple International Foods was interesting and mostly in Russian so I looked closely at the pictures. There, in a tub, was what I was after, ice cream. Oddly enough it was “CCCP” brand vanilla. Raised on Regan era cold war paranoia I felt I couldn’t trust this “taste of the Soviet Union,” and back in the case. Begrudgingly I went to our local Met Foods. The Met on 18th Ave sucks. It has a lot of beer and Mexican soda but not much in the way of ice cream, or sanitation. Happily I found some Ben and Jerry’s and went to the register. As soon as I got there a Russian woman demanded to know where the, “Vesson korn oil vas,” and I was left standing there. Eh? That’s life. I did however giver her a look that elicited a “sorry” from the woman. (I’m counting that as a personal victory.)
As I stood there listening to Ella talk about the number 6 she had just seen a man started to unload his basket on the counter:
2 bags no sugar ice pops
2 ½ gal. generic fruit punch.
1 loaf generic white bread
2 bags potato chips
3 diet type frozen dinners
The corn oil problem was solved I was rung up and went out onto 18th ave with Ella. We stopped and looked over the EL at the beautiful setting sun. The soft pink clouds, a gentle breeze, the murmur of the outdoor restaurant. It was a nice moment with my little girl. I told her how I had seen the sun set while camping in South Dakota. “Would you like to go to the Badlands with Dad?” I asked, “Yes.” Said Ella and we strolled home.
I complain a lot here at Brooklyn Dad but not tonight. I’m happy that the days of the sad grocery basket are over. I’m married to a beautiful and vivacious woman, and we have a happy-go-lucky little girl. I may never see the glorious sunsets on The Great Planes again but I’m also not going to be the guy with the generic white bread. Thank God for married life.
You can buy almost anything here in Kensington, food wise that is, provided its fresh produce, pickled, alcoholic, or mineral water so dense in…well, I guess minerals, that it gives your bowels marching orders. Ice cream is not high on the needs of the community it seems. But some pickled beets cold vodka and some mineral water to flush yourself out with and I guess you’re good to go.
I was in a store on 18th Ave tonight to buy fresh produce and beer and thought I would like some ice cream. The frozen case in the Gala Apple International Foods was interesting and mostly in Russian so I looked closely at the pictures. There, in a tub, was what I was after, ice cream. Oddly enough it was “CCCP” brand vanilla. Raised on Regan era cold war paranoia I felt I couldn’t trust this “taste of the Soviet Union,” and back in the case. Begrudgingly I went to our local Met Foods. The Met on 18th Ave sucks. It has a lot of beer and Mexican soda but not much in the way of ice cream, or sanitation. Happily I found some Ben and Jerry’s and went to the register. As soon as I got there a Russian woman demanded to know where the, “Vesson korn oil vas,” and I was left standing there. Eh? That’s life. I did however giver her a look that elicited a “sorry” from the woman. (I’m counting that as a personal victory.)
As I stood there listening to Ella talk about the number 6 she had just seen a man started to unload his basket on the counter:
2 bags no sugar ice pops
2 ½ gal. generic fruit punch.
1 loaf generic white bread
2 bags potato chips
3 diet type frozen dinners
The corn oil problem was solved I was rung up and went out onto 18th ave with Ella. We stopped and looked over the EL at the beautiful setting sun. The soft pink clouds, a gentle breeze, the murmur of the outdoor restaurant. It was a nice moment with my little girl. I told her how I had seen the sun set while camping in South Dakota. “Would you like to go to the Badlands with Dad?” I asked, “Yes.” Said Ella and we strolled home.
I complain a lot here at Brooklyn Dad but not tonight. I’m happy that the days of the sad grocery basket are over. I’m married to a beautiful and vivacious woman, and we have a happy-go-lucky little girl. I may never see the glorious sunsets on The Great Planes again but I’m also not going to be the guy with the generic white bread. Thank God for married life.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
The Time of Purification is at Hand
Our new apartment affords me the luxury of being able to write in one room while my little girl sits in the other and watches Teletubbies and Sesame Street in the mornings. I don’t get much done, maybe only a few emails or what have you but it’s nice to have the separation and I don’t have to listen to the Teletubbie’s. Unfortunately for me my daughter now comes to get me and takes my hand and we sit and watch TV together on the floor. I can’t say no it’s so cute and she does it with such love I can suck it up and watch yet another Teletubbies.
I sat on the floor with her the other day not paying attention to the TV my mind filled with thoughts of when we would go out what park we should go to and so on when I heard the Teletubies Narrator (for some reason a Britt doing an American accent) say :
NARRATOR – One day in Teletubbie Land it was time for justice.
My eyes snapped to the screen, Poe - the red one - stood alone in the space pod thing they live in, his lifeless eyes staring out at me, taunting me with the prospect of Teletubbie justice.
Would Poe call the other Teletubbies into the space pod and sit at the Tubby-Custard table, then produce a baseball bat, and start talking about team work?
Would he derive bloody satisfaction in a sword fight to the death with O-Ren Ishii – La La?
Was Poe going to reveal who Costello's rat was in their orgonization? Or would he smash the windows of Tinky Winky’s car collection, fill them with gasoline, then blow them all up?
The shot widened and Poe went to the control panel behind him and started pulling levers. The levers made animal noised and made lights flash. The other Teletubbies joined in the lever pulling and animal noise making with much merriment. My mind reeled, “Where is the justice!” I thought back on what the Narrator more likely said now that I saw the Teletubbies pushing buttons and what not:
NARRATOR – One day in Teletubbie Land it was time for adjustments.
(Sigh)
I had envisioned a climactic battle, Dipsy’s bullet riddled green body, stained with blood, clutching the end of a water cooled Browning M1917 firing at the sky, at God himself, as Poe, taking hit after hit, vainly blazing away with his white hot automatics at the Mexican Army closing in on them, shouting, “Dipsy…Dipsy…Poe full of lead…one last…biiiig hug…”
I'll watch "The Wild Bunch," with Ella some day and tell her this story. Cain't wait to see the look on her face
Our new apartment affords me the luxury of being able to write in one room while my little girl sits in the other and watches Teletubbies and Sesame Street in the mornings. I don’t get much done, maybe only a few emails or what have you but it’s nice to have the separation and I don’t have to listen to the Teletubbie’s. Unfortunately for me my daughter now comes to get me and takes my hand and we sit and watch TV together on the floor. I can’t say no it’s so cute and she does it with such love I can suck it up and watch yet another Teletubbies.
I sat on the floor with her the other day not paying attention to the TV my mind filled with thoughts of when we would go out what park we should go to and so on when I heard the Teletubies Narrator (for some reason a Britt doing an American accent) say :
NARRATOR – One day in Teletubbie Land it was time for justice.
My eyes snapped to the screen, Poe - the red one - stood alone in the space pod thing they live in, his lifeless eyes staring out at me, taunting me with the prospect of Teletubbie justice.
Would Poe call the other Teletubbies into the space pod and sit at the Tubby-Custard table, then produce a baseball bat, and start talking about team work?
Would he derive bloody satisfaction in a sword fight to the death with O-Ren Ishii – La La?
Was Poe going to reveal who Costello's rat was in their orgonization? Or would he smash the windows of Tinky Winky’s car collection, fill them with gasoline, then blow them all up?
The shot widened and Poe went to the control panel behind him and started pulling levers. The levers made animal noised and made lights flash. The other Teletubbies joined in the lever pulling and animal noise making with much merriment. My mind reeled, “Where is the justice!” I thought back on what the Narrator more likely said now that I saw the Teletubbies pushing buttons and what not:
NARRATOR – One day in Teletubbie Land it was time for adjustments.
(Sigh)
I had envisioned a climactic battle, Dipsy’s bullet riddled green body, stained with blood, clutching the end of a water cooled Browning M1917 firing at the sky, at God himself, as Poe, taking hit after hit, vainly blazing away with his white hot automatics at the Mexican Army closing in on them, shouting, “Dipsy…Dipsy…Poe full of lead…one last…biiiig hug…”
I'll watch "The Wild Bunch," with Ella some day and tell her this story. Cain't wait to see the look on her face
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Raped in the Prison Shower of Friendship
Life is a little like prison. It’s isn’t always hard time but it isn’t always easy either. We all showed up here and we don’t always understand why. We are thrown in with a lot of people we don’t like and a few we do. Some make the most of it others cry, “why me?” to the heavens the whole time. If we are lucky we meet a few other inmates and form a friendship. Friends are necessary in “the joint” to get us cigarettes and watch our back lest we get shived by a pointed cafeteria spoon. There is a lot of trust in The Joint because you need it. We need trust more than water. With out trust there is no love, no friends, and we spend hard time cursing the walls and waiting to be moved to the Chain Gang so at least we will be forced to be with other people.
The hardest time is in “The Hole” Middle School through High School. Some of the hardest screws you will ever meet are in the Hole. But through this tribulation we form, in some cases, lasting nearly permanent friendships. Then, we go to Work Release, collage. With a sigh of relief we meet the new inmates all at the same prison by choice. We drink contraband hooch together, some fall in love, and we feel like we can make it on, “the outside.” After all we have friends with whom we have heard the chimes at midnight. And if we all stayed on good behavior the warden would let us be cell mates for a good long while.
I turned 36 two weeks ago. I’ve been on the outside for along time. The outside has been good to me over the last few years. I have learned a lot, meet new inmates I love and adore, and my cell mate and I made a third to share our Brooklyn cell with.
But as I stepped into the prison shower this summer my friends turned on me and I got rapped.
I thought at 36 I was beyond this shit but I’m not. Trust doesn’t have to be the largest component in a friendship on the outside. Trust turns to respect and that respect breeds love and understanding. We don’t judge and we stay in touch over thousands of miles waiting for that brief moment every few years were we can meet in the yard and say, “isn’t this just like the old days.”
I hate writing about friendship because of my old friends from The Hole I’m down to one, Barry, and he lives in Istanbul. From Work Release I am also down to one, Mike. I love them both and would be devastated if I lost them. I know this because for my birthday my friend, Jeff, from collage broke my heart. Oscar Wild once said, “A true friend stabs you in the front,” and that’s what he did. I loved Jeff and I’m mourning his loss. Ten years ago Jeff and I went on a cross country trip and back packed in The Grand Canyon. We said we would go back in ten years to celebrate all our travels and so many years of friendship. Jeff moved to LA about eight years ago and we of course stayed friends. We spoke less, emailed a lot, then it all slowed down and it got harder to talk with him. As this year approached I was sending him ideas for our trip to Utah. I never really heard back from him and after I broke my foot I figured I wasn’t going anywhere. But I still had respect for Jeff and though he had the same for me. Until last week when I opened the mail box and out came a post-card with Jeff’s handwriting on it. I turned it over, “Zion National Park, Utah!” it read. Tears rolled down my face. Jeff no longer had respect for me. We had been friends for more than 13 years, and now it was over…he had gone without me.
I emailed him telling him I was hurt that he didn’t even tell me he was going but that too was a week ago and I haven’t heard from him.
All this on top of my friend from The Hole disappearing after my daughter was born, I think in an attempt to deny that he was getting older, turning up in Queens living with my ex-girlfriend. And a “friend” from collage I was trying to reconcile with reminding me why I cut him out of my life to begin with.
I have more love and respect for the people in my life now. That is usually the group of folks who read my tirades on this blog. Thanks for having my back in the shower, and I’ll see if I can trade my smokes for some Green & Blacks chocolate for you.
9/5/07 Post Script. Thanks for all your cards and letters. The night I posted this my wife came home with some G&B chocholate for me.
Life is a little like prison. It’s isn’t always hard time but it isn’t always easy either. We all showed up here and we don’t always understand why. We are thrown in with a lot of people we don’t like and a few we do. Some make the most of it others cry, “why me?” to the heavens the whole time. If we are lucky we meet a few other inmates and form a friendship. Friends are necessary in “the joint” to get us cigarettes and watch our back lest we get shived by a pointed cafeteria spoon. There is a lot of trust in The Joint because you need it. We need trust more than water. With out trust there is no love, no friends, and we spend hard time cursing the walls and waiting to be moved to the Chain Gang so at least we will be forced to be with other people.
The hardest time is in “The Hole” Middle School through High School. Some of the hardest screws you will ever meet are in the Hole. But through this tribulation we form, in some cases, lasting nearly permanent friendships. Then, we go to Work Release, collage. With a sigh of relief we meet the new inmates all at the same prison by choice. We drink contraband hooch together, some fall in love, and we feel like we can make it on, “the outside.” After all we have friends with whom we have heard the chimes at midnight. And if we all stayed on good behavior the warden would let us be cell mates for a good long while.
I turned 36 two weeks ago. I’ve been on the outside for along time. The outside has been good to me over the last few years. I have learned a lot, meet new inmates I love and adore, and my cell mate and I made a third to share our Brooklyn cell with.
But as I stepped into the prison shower this summer my friends turned on me and I got rapped.
I thought at 36 I was beyond this shit but I’m not. Trust doesn’t have to be the largest component in a friendship on the outside. Trust turns to respect and that respect breeds love and understanding. We don’t judge and we stay in touch over thousands of miles waiting for that brief moment every few years were we can meet in the yard and say, “isn’t this just like the old days.”
I hate writing about friendship because of my old friends from The Hole I’m down to one, Barry, and he lives in Istanbul. From Work Release I am also down to one, Mike. I love them both and would be devastated if I lost them. I know this because for my birthday my friend, Jeff, from collage broke my heart. Oscar Wild once said, “A true friend stabs you in the front,” and that’s what he did. I loved Jeff and I’m mourning his loss. Ten years ago Jeff and I went on a cross country trip and back packed in The Grand Canyon. We said we would go back in ten years to celebrate all our travels and so many years of friendship. Jeff moved to LA about eight years ago and we of course stayed friends. We spoke less, emailed a lot, then it all slowed down and it got harder to talk with him. As this year approached I was sending him ideas for our trip to Utah. I never really heard back from him and after I broke my foot I figured I wasn’t going anywhere. But I still had respect for Jeff and though he had the same for me. Until last week when I opened the mail box and out came a post-card with Jeff’s handwriting on it. I turned it over, “Zion National Park, Utah!” it read. Tears rolled down my face. Jeff no longer had respect for me. We had been friends for more than 13 years, and now it was over…he had gone without me.
I emailed him telling him I was hurt that he didn’t even tell me he was going but that too was a week ago and I haven’t heard from him.
All this on top of my friend from The Hole disappearing after my daughter was born, I think in an attempt to deny that he was getting older, turning up in Queens living with my ex-girlfriend. And a “friend” from collage I was trying to reconcile with reminding me why I cut him out of my life to begin with.
I have more love and respect for the people in my life now. That is usually the group of folks who read my tirades on this blog. Thanks for having my back in the shower, and I’ll see if I can trade my smokes for some Green & Blacks chocolate for you.
9/5/07 Post Script. Thanks for all your cards and letters. The night I posted this my wife came home with some G&B chocholate for me.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Mind Your Fucking Manners You Fucking Cocksucker!
Today I wished I lived in Deadwood cause I wanted to smash a cocksuckers teeth out of his smarmy head real bad. What are manners? What does it mean to be polite? I would guess that it means doing something “right” without having to be asked, giving your seat up to the elderly or a pregnant woman, holding a door, offering a tissue, that sort of thing.
I was in a local sandwich shop today which is notorious for being slow and crowded. I stop in sometimes and get a sandwich to eat while Ella eats or takes a nap. I got in the door with Ella in her stroller with no problem. The place was packed so I deiced not to wait. There was this man standing in front of the door, “Excuse me I’m going to leave,” I said politely. The man steps to the side ignoring me. Not being able to stop myself I said, “Don’t hold the door or anything.” Thankfully someone did open the door and I started to drop Ella down the stairs. Then he says, “I’m under no obligation to help you,” again, unable to stop myself I said “Fuck You! What? You can’t be nice and open a door you can see I need help!” And on it went for another few seconds. The crowed did seem to be on my side cause this guy starts telling me if I had asked he would have helped that sort of thing. For all the problems I have had with my upbringing being Catholic and all, I go out of my way to help people or at least offer because it’s the way I want to be treated but moreover because it’s polite and the right thing to do. No obligation. That’s what’s wrong with this country we all think everyone is out to fuck us so we don’t even engage in common courtesy at least in my opinion. This guy was a white middle class, middle aged man who should fucking know better.
Later that afternoon on our way back from the doctor - Ella had a fever but she was OK- I stopped to get her a doughnut for a snack. As I moved toward the Dunk’n door a huge and I mean huge black dude with big guns and like two feet on me, the kind of guy you wouldn’t say boo too, rushes in front of me, then stops, opens the door behind him and says with a smile on his face, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you there,” “No problem. Thanks.” I said. Then he gave me his place in line. Just goes to show you can never tell about people. I have to say in the almost two years since I have been pushing that stroller a black man has never let me struggle with a door.
Today I wished I lived in Deadwood cause I wanted to smash a cocksuckers teeth out of his smarmy head real bad. What are manners? What does it mean to be polite? I would guess that it means doing something “right” without having to be asked, giving your seat up to the elderly or a pregnant woman, holding a door, offering a tissue, that sort of thing.
I was in a local sandwich shop today which is notorious for being slow and crowded. I stop in sometimes and get a sandwich to eat while Ella eats or takes a nap. I got in the door with Ella in her stroller with no problem. The place was packed so I deiced not to wait. There was this man standing in front of the door, “Excuse me I’m going to leave,” I said politely. The man steps to the side ignoring me. Not being able to stop myself I said, “Don’t hold the door or anything.” Thankfully someone did open the door and I started to drop Ella down the stairs. Then he says, “I’m under no obligation to help you,” again, unable to stop myself I said “Fuck You! What? You can’t be nice and open a door you can see I need help!” And on it went for another few seconds. The crowed did seem to be on my side cause this guy starts telling me if I had asked he would have helped that sort of thing. For all the problems I have had with my upbringing being Catholic and all, I go out of my way to help people or at least offer because it’s the way I want to be treated but moreover because it’s polite and the right thing to do. No obligation. That’s what’s wrong with this country we all think everyone is out to fuck us so we don’t even engage in common courtesy at least in my opinion. This guy was a white middle class, middle aged man who should fucking know better.
Later that afternoon on our way back from the doctor - Ella had a fever but she was OK- I stopped to get her a doughnut for a snack. As I moved toward the Dunk’n door a huge and I mean huge black dude with big guns and like two feet on me, the kind of guy you wouldn’t say boo too, rushes in front of me, then stops, opens the door behind him and says with a smile on his face, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you there,” “No problem. Thanks.” I said. Then he gave me his place in line. Just goes to show you can never tell about people. I have to say in the almost two years since I have been pushing that stroller a black man has never let me struggle with a door.
New Political Term
Anyone who knows me knows that I very often have more free time and curiosity than I do sense. The other day was no exception. A "gentleman" stopped me on the street as I passed and asked if I wanted to hear some information on impeaching Cheney. "It'll never happen but sure lay it on me," I said. Now to make things clear I don't want anyone in the current admin impeached I want them out of office and for our country to move on, but this seemed good for a laugh. The guy went on about how a bill is before congress with so-and-so attached yada yada yada. I asked who was behind this bill, he turned his head and lowered his voice so I didn’t catch it all but I head the magic words, the verbal equivalent of a warning hiss from a Cobra, throes words? Lyndon Larouche. "Sorry I said I don't listen to anything he has to say, sorry." I said trying to leave gracefully. "Why is that?" he asked. Now there are a thousands lies I could have told but the truth came spilling out, "Because he's crazy," said I thinking that somehow this wouldn't lead to more problems. We talked and again I said that nothing I could say to him would make him see things my way. He wanted issues. I didn't have any, then again if he wanted to debate a stranger about the battle of Gettysburg he might be surprised to see the facts I have tucked away in my head. But I didn't have any other than the general stuff about Larouche and his global conspiracies theory etc. Normally I take exception being compared to McCarthy but in order to end this and have this guy stop following me I reiterated that we would never see eye to eye and said good day.
So I propose a new name to enter the political lexicon (ahem) "Larouche-bag"
Anyone who knows me knows that I very often have more free time and curiosity than I do sense. The other day was no exception. A "gentleman" stopped me on the street as I passed and asked if I wanted to hear some information on impeaching Cheney. "It'll never happen but sure lay it on me," I said. Now to make things clear I don't want anyone in the current admin impeached I want them out of office and for our country to move on, but this seemed good for a laugh. The guy went on about how a bill is before congress with so-and-so attached yada yada yada. I asked who was behind this bill, he turned his head and lowered his voice so I didn’t catch it all but I head the magic words, the verbal equivalent of a warning hiss from a Cobra, throes words? Lyndon Larouche. "Sorry I said I don't listen to anything he has to say, sorry." I said trying to leave gracefully. "Why is that?" he asked. Now there are a thousands lies I could have told but the truth came spilling out, "Because he's crazy," said I thinking that somehow this wouldn't lead to more problems. We talked and again I said that nothing I could say to him would make him see things my way. He wanted issues. I didn't have any, then again if he wanted to debate a stranger about the battle of Gettysburg he might be surprised to see the facts I have tucked away in my head. But I didn't have any other than the general stuff about Larouche and his global conspiracies theory etc. Normally I take exception being compared to McCarthy but in order to end this and have this guy stop following me I reiterated that we would never see eye to eye and said good day.
So I propose a new name to enter the political lexicon (ahem) "Larouche-bag"
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