I forget who first made the statement-if you want to know if a politician is lying ask them if they understand women. If they say yes they'll lie about other things.
Anastasia and I finally get out for her birthday some five days after the event. We wind up in the Indian Cafe on 107th and Broadway. Living as I do near Curry Hill, this' the type of place that reinforces my theory that it's the company as well as the food that makes a date. Firstly we spend more time there then usual, a couple of hours as opposed to the usual one. It seems as if I'm pulling teeth when I try to pay for everything. Lately most of the women I've dated have gone Dutch, which I both appreciate and feel a little insulted by. I finally get her to understand that it's her birthday, and I'm paying for her and that's that.
When we get to Times Square I'm waiting for the N train with her. She understands (I think) that I feel it's a safety thing and I'm appreciative of the extra time I spend with her. The train starts to pull into the station when she does something she's never done before. She gives me a big hug and kisses me on the cheek. Startled, I reciprocate.
My trip downtown is entirely airborne. I feel as if we've crossed some type of barrier. It's impossible to sleep, so I put down the poem that's in my head.
She comes over to the stand the next day all smiles (as usual) and I read her the po-em, as her accent would have it. She sees it as a little daring. To which I said if you really think that I'll destroy the copy I've got.The one thing I don't want to do is hurt her. My first thought is that it's not at all daring, as I explain to her. To myself I think, baring your soul to anybody you're interested in is daring. I think I made her understand.
Throughout this budding whatever I've been a perfect gentleman. I've never tried to force myself on her, nor did I make a big thing about not having her phone number. (Though the day I had to cancel a date it would have been easier than going through the CU phone service. She even complimented me on doing that. That should have showed her I need her number) I've never even made an issue about her not coming into the city for a weekend date.
Like I said, I don't think there's any problem. But thanks to the holiday and the weather I probably won't see her until Tuesday or Weds. We'll see then.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
brooklyn book bash
I usually don't use blogs like this. Correction. I never do blogs like this. But seeing as this was my first book fair I decided to put down my impressions.
September 12 dawned cool and wet. I decided to hit the 79th Street flea before I went into Brooklyn. Found some good CDs too; Carpenters, Smiths, Geri Allen, a few others. Hit the cell to call Vern before I went underground. She wasn't feeling that well, but was still on her way. Okay, all was normal.
Hoping they'd let me into Brooklyn w/out my passport, as my "Where Is Hip" says. Got lucky as the fair was right outside the Borough Hall station. Took me a while, but finally found Seventh Story/Fractuous Press. The 2 women at the station said Vern wasn't there yet, but as they knew me from Columbia we chatted a while. One said she tried to get Vern to stay home, but hadn't received an answer. I wandered around, and found that most of these small presses aren't that cheap. By the time I got back to the stand Vern had arrived (yeah Vern!) and we set up Fractuous' stand. Next arrival was a 'zine editor whom I'd try and date if I was some 20 years younger. Oh well.
I was slightly bemused when somebody asked me to sign Blonde, Blue-Eyed and Handsome. Talked to a couple of people who were reading it were amused. I think that's where my strength lies. I see the funny side of things...
Which I couldn't do for long as it started raining. We covered up as best we could (I should be an expert, right?) and sold a few more books.One person who'd seen me at the Ding Dong wanted me to do an improvisational piece with a laser harpist. That's the type of thing I'd love to do.
Saw the cover, obi and pages of Mr. Manners. Vern was getting it together. My 2nd book! I've had a lot of editors, but she's the best I've worked with so far. For her birthday I'll get her either a 50-hour day or a time compressor, but she'll have to make do w/ a paper cutter.
Wandered around and picked up a book by the vocalist with the New Bomb Turks. Good book. One of the people at the stand is the owner of my fave CD store, Academy. He was surprised when he heard I had a book out, and when I said I was working on a book on NY rock he said he wanted to see it. Publishing opportunity?
Grabbed Vern and myself lunch at Tim Horton's. They've got surprisingly good food, and they're Canadian. So's Vern.
Raining in ernest, so we packed up for the day. Everybody went to Watt Street to dry out books and I went home. Hoping to hear from the laser harpist and zine editor sometime over the week. Considering how many people showed up in the rain, this must be a total blast in nice weather.
September 12 dawned cool and wet. I decided to hit the 79th Street flea before I went into Brooklyn. Found some good CDs too; Carpenters, Smiths, Geri Allen, a few others. Hit the cell to call Vern before I went underground. She wasn't feeling that well, but was still on her way. Okay, all was normal.
Hoping they'd let me into Brooklyn w/out my passport, as my "Where Is Hip" says. Got lucky as the fair was right outside the Borough Hall station. Took me a while, but finally found Seventh Story/Fractuous Press. The 2 women at the station said Vern wasn't there yet, but as they knew me from Columbia we chatted a while. One said she tried to get Vern to stay home, but hadn't received an answer. I wandered around, and found that most of these small presses aren't that cheap. By the time I got back to the stand Vern had arrived (yeah Vern!) and we set up Fractuous' stand. Next arrival was a 'zine editor whom I'd try and date if I was some 20 years younger. Oh well.
I was slightly bemused when somebody asked me to sign Blonde, Blue-Eyed and Handsome. Talked to a couple of people who were reading it were amused. I think that's where my strength lies. I see the funny side of things...
Which I couldn't do for long as it started raining. We covered up as best we could (I should be an expert, right?) and sold a few more books.One person who'd seen me at the Ding Dong wanted me to do an improvisational piece with a laser harpist. That's the type of thing I'd love to do.
Saw the cover, obi and pages of Mr. Manners. Vern was getting it together. My 2nd book! I've had a lot of editors, but she's the best I've worked with so far. For her birthday I'll get her either a 50-hour day or a time compressor, but she'll have to make do w/ a paper cutter.
Wandered around and picked up a book by the vocalist with the New Bomb Turks. Good book. One of the people at the stand is the owner of my fave CD store, Academy. He was surprised when he heard I had a book out, and when I said I was working on a book on NY rock he said he wanted to see it. Publishing opportunity?
Grabbed Vern and myself lunch at Tim Horton's. They've got surprisingly good food, and they're Canadian. So's Vern.
Raining in ernest, so we packed up for the day. Everybody went to Watt Street to dry out books and I went home. Hoping to hear from the laser harpist and zine editor sometime over the week. Considering how many people showed up in the rain, this must be a total blast in nice weather.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
CENTER OF THE WORLD
We've all got different ways of getting thru
Men act Manly, act like they don't care (but they do)
Women go all girly, oh you shouldn't have (oh yes you should)
Maybe we don't make a big deal of it
with presents, cake, favors and pin the tail on the donkey
But we'd still like to be noticed by other than our family
Shown that we mean something to our friends
Get all fussed over
and for that day be
Center Of The World
Men act Manly, act like they don't care (but they do)
Women go all girly, oh you shouldn't have (oh yes you should)
Maybe we don't make a big deal of it
with presents, cake, favors and pin the tail on the donkey
But we'd still like to be noticed by other than our family
Shown that we mean something to our friends
Get all fussed over
and for that day be
Center Of The World
Thursday, September 2, 2010
ON RESPONSIBILITY
Still the wheel of blame blindly spins, and blind justice again pins blame everywhere but where
she should. Another child loses her (invulnerable) life and society again avoids the right choice.
Let's run this down, shall we? A 17 year old ambassador's daughter, by her own admission in love with getting and being high, climbs a 34th story balcony to snap a photo of herself and plummets to a 6 AM demise. Blame gets spun, for some there's none.
While some fault lies with the bar that served her, its unrealistic to totally blame them. As the owner of a Columbia area deli states, you see IDs from every state in the union and overseas and verification is hard if not impossible. College age women nowadays empathetically do not look like those I went to school with and in order to imbibe will claim a different birth date. I stopped a local bar from serving my then 17 year old niece, who had both the looks and ID to pass for 21. To blame the apartment owner is equally wrong, for as with the bar, how is he to know his guests' age?
Missing in the blame game are the by now grieving parents. While Daddy was off playing ambassador and Mommy was off doing whatever, their daughter was indulging in a hedonistic lifestyle that led to her untimely demise.
In death she also had a full house. Being attractive, rich and white meant the media turned its full attention on her. Had she been of merely average looks, black or Hispanic there would have been considerably less media attention.
On an equal level I blame the media. We are bombarded with the news that the smirking cebultard Paris Hilton has gotten off on yet another possession charge or that the celebrity train wreck Lindsay Lohan is crying that well-deserved jail time will cut into her film career. Those reading these gossip column tidbits disguised as news feel that they also deserve the breaks the glitteri are getting.
Consider this a wake up call for society to shift blame from the schools, government and police to where it justly belongs. Its way past time for society to put the blame on non-caring and non-present parents.
she should. Another child loses her (invulnerable) life and society again avoids the right choice.
Let's run this down, shall we? A 17 year old ambassador's daughter, by her own admission in love with getting and being high, climbs a 34th story balcony to snap a photo of herself and plummets to a 6 AM demise. Blame gets spun, for some there's none.
While some fault lies with the bar that served her, its unrealistic to totally blame them. As the owner of a Columbia area deli states, you see IDs from every state in the union and overseas and verification is hard if not impossible. College age women nowadays empathetically do not look like those I went to school with and in order to imbibe will claim a different birth date. I stopped a local bar from serving my then 17 year old niece, who had both the looks and ID to pass for 21. To blame the apartment owner is equally wrong, for as with the bar, how is he to know his guests' age?
Missing in the blame game are the by now grieving parents. While Daddy was off playing ambassador and Mommy was off doing whatever, their daughter was indulging in a hedonistic lifestyle that led to her untimely demise.
In death she also had a full house. Being attractive, rich and white meant the media turned its full attention on her. Had she been of merely average looks, black or Hispanic there would have been considerably less media attention.
On an equal level I blame the media. We are bombarded with the news that the smirking cebultard Paris Hilton has gotten off on yet another possession charge or that the celebrity train wreck Lindsay Lohan is crying that well-deserved jail time will cut into her film career. Those reading these gossip column tidbits disguised as news feel that they also deserve the breaks the glitteri are getting.
Consider this a wake up call for society to shift blame from the schools, government and police to where it justly belongs. Its way past time for society to put the blame on non-caring and non-present parents.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
"UN"CIVIL SERVANTS
Lately there's been a lot of talk in the media about politicians and other civil servants who rack up huge amounts of overtime. (Wait, that's the civil servants, not the politicians) We're already aware of MTA attendants sleeping on the job and sanitation workers and police officers who take non-scheduled breaks to sleep, or firemen who use their posts as party central. Lately I've become aware of civil servants who feel they can insult the public because they're protected by unions. These very people are the kind that give the unions a bad name. We've got nothing against the unions except when they protect the bad with the good.
I know of a postal employee who spends most of his working day combing the thrift shops on 23rd Street. Lord only knows what his route looks like. Then there are the workers who are just plain disrespectful. On my way to work one day I was caught in a traffic jam on 111th Street between Amsterdam and Broadway. Lined up and causing chaos were the usual number of double parked cars, which could be driven around, but in front of the pack were a Postal truck and a sanitation truck. The driver of the first was working on sorting out bags of mail while blocking traffic, while the sanit truck guys were hanging out and sometimes throwing garbage bags into their vehicle. When drivers started yelling at the postal employee to move his truck and let them through he looked at them as if they were crazy and continued work. One of the sanit men told the crowd that the mailman was a federal employee. At that point more people started yelling and giving the sanit men nasty comments. He answered with some nasty comments of his own, which I punctuated with my middle finger. At the point one of the sanit workers started banging on my cab door, threatening me and calling me some biological impossibilities. Finally the jam broke and we were able to get to our destinations.
Someday somebody will release a "New York Noise" CD for expat New Yorkers. It will consist of fire and police sirens, garbage trucks, horns and subway sounds. These will be sure to soothe any New Yorker stuck in Florida or some other location with an inordinate amount of silence. At least this disc's listeners will be able to choose when to hear it. New Yorkers themselves won't have this luxury. We'll still have to hear car alarms going off anytime, usually in the middle of the night, during a rainstorm of whenever another car passes. Not that anybody ever answers the things anyway. Which brings us to the next incident.
Tempers were already frayed with 97 degree temperatures when a car alarm sounding like a horn went off. A quick glance showed a truck blocking a car, and people felt while the driver may have been overdoing it a little he was within his rights. When the same alarm went off ten minutes later it was noticed that (a) there was nobody in the car and (b) the car had official plates. I'd started treating some bystanders, including the owner of Milano and the manager of Deluxe with the probable lineage of the car owner, when somebody came into my face with a loud "you talking about me?" I told him his horns were blaring for 10 minutes at least twice, and that he should turn off the damn thing. That was the way the city set them, and he was on the fourth floor of a Columbia building and couldn't hear anything.
"Oh, you're a flunky?" I answered. He then loudly threatened me with jail, which galvanized the crowd and propelled me to new heights. I took my phone and snapped pictures of both he and his license plate. "I'll hsve my state trooper friend run these plates. In this country I can legally call an insensitive boor an insensitive boor without being threatened with jail." Others in the crowd echoed my sentiments and he started to back down.
The very fact that people like this work for the city and state is an affront to any hard working American. These people work for us and not the other way around. And calling the Mayor's 311 is another joke. With over three hundred city agencies its impossible to get action on anything.
But I still like the idea of a New York Symphonies disc.
I know of a postal employee who spends most of his working day combing the thrift shops on 23rd Street. Lord only knows what his route looks like. Then there are the workers who are just plain disrespectful. On my way to work one day I was caught in a traffic jam on 111th Street between Amsterdam and Broadway. Lined up and causing chaos were the usual number of double parked cars, which could be driven around, but in front of the pack were a Postal truck and a sanitation truck. The driver of the first was working on sorting out bags of mail while blocking traffic, while the sanit truck guys were hanging out and sometimes throwing garbage bags into their vehicle. When drivers started yelling at the postal employee to move his truck and let them through he looked at them as if they were crazy and continued work. One of the sanit men told the crowd that the mailman was a federal employee. At that point more people started yelling and giving the sanit men nasty comments. He answered with some nasty comments of his own, which I punctuated with my middle finger. At the point one of the sanit workers started banging on my cab door, threatening me and calling me some biological impossibilities. Finally the jam broke and we were able to get to our destinations.
Someday somebody will release a "New York Noise" CD for expat New Yorkers. It will consist of fire and police sirens, garbage trucks, horns and subway sounds. These will be sure to soothe any New Yorker stuck in Florida or some other location with an inordinate amount of silence. At least this disc's listeners will be able to choose when to hear it. New Yorkers themselves won't have this luxury. We'll still have to hear car alarms going off anytime, usually in the middle of the night, during a rainstorm of whenever another car passes. Not that anybody ever answers the things anyway. Which brings us to the next incident.
Tempers were already frayed with 97 degree temperatures when a car alarm sounding like a horn went off. A quick glance showed a truck blocking a car, and people felt while the driver may have been overdoing it a little he was within his rights. When the same alarm went off ten minutes later it was noticed that (a) there was nobody in the car and (b) the car had official plates. I'd started treating some bystanders, including the owner of Milano and the manager of Deluxe with the probable lineage of the car owner, when somebody came into my face with a loud "you talking about me?" I told him his horns were blaring for 10 minutes at least twice, and that he should turn off the damn thing. That was the way the city set them, and he was on the fourth floor of a Columbia building and couldn't hear anything.
"Oh, you're a flunky?" I answered. He then loudly threatened me with jail, which galvanized the crowd and propelled me to new heights. I took my phone and snapped pictures of both he and his license plate. "I'll hsve my state trooper friend run these plates. In this country I can legally call an insensitive boor an insensitive boor without being threatened with jail." Others in the crowd echoed my sentiments and he started to back down.
The very fact that people like this work for the city and state is an affront to any hard working American. These people work for us and not the other way around. And calling the Mayor's 311 is another joke. With over three hundred city agencies its impossible to get action on anything.
But I still like the idea of a New York Symphonies disc.
Monday, August 9, 2010
A FAKER'S FABLE
Once there was a girl who wanted to be Whole. By which I do not mean in her body or demeanor, which were pleasing and pleasant, but in knowledge. She realized she did not Know all she should and had no idea of what she should read, hear and see to help her attain her goal. She thought about this quite deeply, being a rather precise girl. College taught her enough to attain her career, but to learn Arts she needed specialized knowledge, taught by Artists. But how was she to attain it? She thought and she thought. Then one morning as she passed her mirror she got an idea. She could lure young men to teach her what she wanted to Know, using her pleasing and pleasant demeanor. One for each Art would be enough. Say three or four. One for Literature, one for music, and one for painting and sculpture. She could even attract a brainless good-looking hulk to act as arm candy for a sham boyfriend. After all, she reflected, she can carry on a decent conversation and looks fairly good. Lead them on, and just give in enough to get what what I want, she thought. With her goal well established in her mind she set out to find some suckers-er, teachers (though suckers is the right word, I do not want to offend anybody. Not even fellow suckers. After all, whom do you think is writing this?
She claimed to come from Florida and spent a lot of time in Philadelphia. She took some classes at Columbia, which is where I met here. She came over to my bookstand and Used Her Demeanor to get me to recommend books. It got to the point where I was lending her volumes from my personal library, so attracted was I by her Looks and Personality. I do not know if it worked on the other Artists, but it worked on me.
From the beginning she sustained an Air Of Mystery. Now that I look back it probably meant she didn't want to get caught. I never learned her last name, where she worked, or her address, and she was very reticent to give out personal information. Although she had a cell phone she never spoke on it, instead using it for texting. Even her mother had to text her, but her mother would get calls back. To give the devil her due, I only saw her talk on the phone once, and that was for a few seconds. She would vanish for several days, usually over weekends, and claim that it was for work. If she thought I was that stupid, why would she want my help? I stockpiled some books for her and suggested we meet at a cafe close to us both, as she had now moved fairly close to me. To get her to agree to even this was a struggle, but I think she saw she would have to make some concessions to achieve her goal. She would only spend an hour with me, and that was grudgingly given. Sometimes I would ask her if she'd like to go to dinner, or to a concert or movie, and she'd claim she didn't have the time. While I didn't believe her I'd go along, not wanting to lose what I had. Which was probably why she chose me. Somebody more sure of himself would have told her to go to hell.
Finally she applied the straw that broke the camel's back. When I said one day that I didn't like feeling I was there just as a book supplier she told me that's what I was, and she respected my knowledge and liked me, but sort of said she had "friends" to help her with other things and a sort of boyfriend whom, I guess, had learned not to make too many demands.
Two weeks later the crack appeared. She came by claiming her phone was broken and she was too sick to make our date, but thanks for the books and she'd reschedule. When I tried her phone some fifteen minutes later it worked. Smoke started to come out of my ears since after a while even an idiot should be able to see what was going on.
The next day I tried to reschedule and was told she'd be busy all week. I angrily replied that nobody's so busy they can't slot in an hour for a friend.
Finally the Artist decided to stop masquerading as a doormat. I texted her goodbye and when she asked where I was going I said I was walking out. I didn't consider her a friend, didn't like being used and would rather be by myself than be used. This evolved into an almost daylong series of texts which one call would have made superfluous. You can't show emotion on a text, as was proven when she said she was texting me to see if I was all right. Nope, I said, we were fighting. We finally got together, and she told me she was moving to Philly. She'd keep in touch by looking up my blogs (which she'd only do if she didn't have to leave her E-mail address. Anything to keep somebody from finding her0
I wasn't certain about the Philly move. I never saw her except when I saw her, if you catch my drift, and she never looked at my blogs. Never texted me either. I finally and against my better judgment, texted her and got the usual BS that she'd be in NY in a couple of weeks and see me then.
Yesterday I was on my stand when somebody came over and purchased a lot of paperbacks. They asked me to pick out some SF and some CDs for next week. Seems they're a medical person living on 109th and Amsterdam, about where she lived. This' the type of stuff she'd have bought. Picking up a phone and telling somebody to do this for her is something she's fully capable of. After all, her puppet cut its strings, right? I'm gonna subtly question this person if they show up next week, and if they are indeed doing this for her I'm going to tell them if she needs anything from me she can damn well call me and make plans to see me. Thw worm's got teeth!
She claimed to come from Florida and spent a lot of time in Philadelphia. She took some classes at Columbia, which is where I met here. She came over to my bookstand and Used Her Demeanor to get me to recommend books. It got to the point where I was lending her volumes from my personal library, so attracted was I by her Looks and Personality. I do not know if it worked on the other Artists, but it worked on me.
From the beginning she sustained an Air Of Mystery. Now that I look back it probably meant she didn't want to get caught. I never learned her last name, where she worked, or her address, and she was very reticent to give out personal information. Although she had a cell phone she never spoke on it, instead using it for texting. Even her mother had to text her, but her mother would get calls back. To give the devil her due, I only saw her talk on the phone once, and that was for a few seconds. She would vanish for several days, usually over weekends, and claim that it was for work. If she thought I was that stupid, why would she want my help? I stockpiled some books for her and suggested we meet at a cafe close to us both, as she had now moved fairly close to me. To get her to agree to even this was a struggle, but I think she saw she would have to make some concessions to achieve her goal. She would only spend an hour with me, and that was grudgingly given. Sometimes I would ask her if she'd like to go to dinner, or to a concert or movie, and she'd claim she didn't have the time. While I didn't believe her I'd go along, not wanting to lose what I had. Which was probably why she chose me. Somebody more sure of himself would have told her to go to hell.
Finally she applied the straw that broke the camel's back. When I said one day that I didn't like feeling I was there just as a book supplier she told me that's what I was, and she respected my knowledge and liked me, but sort of said she had "friends" to help her with other things and a sort of boyfriend whom, I guess, had learned not to make too many demands.
Two weeks later the crack appeared. She came by claiming her phone was broken and she was too sick to make our date, but thanks for the books and she'd reschedule. When I tried her phone some fifteen minutes later it worked. Smoke started to come out of my ears since after a while even an idiot should be able to see what was going on.
The next day I tried to reschedule and was told she'd be busy all week. I angrily replied that nobody's so busy they can't slot in an hour for a friend.
Finally the Artist decided to stop masquerading as a doormat. I texted her goodbye and when she asked where I was going I said I was walking out. I didn't consider her a friend, didn't like being used and would rather be by myself than be used. This evolved into an almost daylong series of texts which one call would have made superfluous. You can't show emotion on a text, as was proven when she said she was texting me to see if I was all right. Nope, I said, we were fighting. We finally got together, and she told me she was moving to Philly. She'd keep in touch by looking up my blogs (which she'd only do if she didn't have to leave her E-mail address. Anything to keep somebody from finding her0
I wasn't certain about the Philly move. I never saw her except when I saw her, if you catch my drift, and she never looked at my blogs. Never texted me either. I finally and against my better judgment, texted her and got the usual BS that she'd be in NY in a couple of weeks and see me then.
Yesterday I was on my stand when somebody came over and purchased a lot of paperbacks. They asked me to pick out some SF and some CDs for next week. Seems they're a medical person living on 109th and Amsterdam, about where she lived. This' the type of stuff she'd have bought. Picking up a phone and telling somebody to do this for her is something she's fully capable of. After all, her puppet cut its strings, right? I'm gonna subtly question this person if they show up next week, and if they are indeed doing this for her I'm going to tell them if she needs anything from me she can damn well call me and make plans to see me. Thw worm's got teeth!
Sunday, August 8, 2010
SCIENCE OF ORGASM-New books makes sex boring
Outside of a couple of ex-girlfriends, this reviewer has found nothing that can stop or even slow up the human sex drive. Until now. Put together by the trio of Komisaruk, Beyer-Flores and Whipple by Johns Hopkins University Press, this book teems with passages such as "the oxytocin is maximally released at least one minute. Or try this line-"Orgasm is affected by particular agonists and antagonists. To which this reviewer says-do me, mama!
There are a few mildly tittilating passages and some photos, but the passages are overshadowed by the science and the photos are of skeletal structure. While the book has achieved kudos from members of Columbia University, the Kinsey Institute and the 16th Surgeon General of the United States, this reviewer recommends those old stained Playboys one keeps in the bathroom. If you're reading this for stimulation, purchase Sports Illustrateds Swimsuit Issue ASDAP.
There are a few mildly tittilating passages and some photos, but the passages are overshadowed by the science and the photos are of skeletal structure. While the book has achieved kudos from members of Columbia University, the Kinsey Institute and the 16th Surgeon General of the United States, this reviewer recommends those old stained Playboys one keeps in the bathroom. If you're reading this for stimulation, purchase Sports Illustrateds Swimsuit Issue ASDAP.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
DEAR OLD DAD
I walked away and I'm so glad
I never apologized or made up
With dear old dad
He swatted my dreams like a pesky fly
sat stone faced while I went and cried
Gay boys write po-ems, rhyme and poetry
Hit me a homer and we'll see
I was playin' music, had any girl I saw
Still my old man's comments ripped open a sore
I told the old bastard to go off and die
When he did I didn't even cry
I walked away and I'm so glad
I never apologized or made up
With dear old dad
I never apologized or made up
With dear old dad
He swatted my dreams like a pesky fly
sat stone faced while I went and cried
Gay boys write po-ems, rhyme and poetry
Hit me a homer and we'll see
I was playin' music, had any girl I saw
Still my old man's comments ripped open a sore
I told the old bastard to go off and die
When he did I didn't even cry
I walked away and I'm so glad
I never apologized or made up
With dear old dad
I HEAR VOICES
I hear voices
Unseen ghosts call my name
-Steve-
I know it's not Her
Because She calls me Steven
And I wonder
-What did I do wrong this time-
Coz' nobody calls me Steven
Not even my mother
And there's something about my full name
That makes me think of ruler-armed nuns
And I'm not even Catholic
Unseen ghosts call my name
-Steve-
I know it's not Her
Because She calls me Steven
And I wonder
-What did I do wrong this time-
Coz' nobody calls me Steven
Not even my mother
And there's something about my full name
That makes me think of ruler-armed nuns
And I'm not even Catholic
SONG FOR YOU
You're the daughter of Satan
Mephistoles' spawn
You lie to keep me waitin'
Daughter of the Golden Dawn
666 men have named you
Alstair Crowley's Beast
Amoral men have made you
A succubus and a priest
I lie in bed I'm not sleepin'
I'm waiting for the day
Try to stop myself weeping
Demon spawn hear what I say
Mephistoles' spawn
You lie to keep me waitin'
Daughter of the Golden Dawn
666 men have named you
Alstair Crowley's Beast
Amoral men have made you
A succubus and a priest
I lie in bed I'm not sleepin'
I'm waiting for the day
Try to stop myself weeping
Demon spawn hear what I say
Sunday, August 1, 2010
I WISH
I wish I had the will, he said
To end this mis'rable role
to take my sleep in the six foot deep
and miss the sonorous toll
Never to hear the lying words
of the woman I once knew
and have the hipsters all compete
haute coutere of the darkest hue
I fear some might never know
of my last opening
For if its not on a texting scroll
They will not know a thing
To end this mis'rable role
to take my sleep in the six foot deep
and miss the sonorous toll
Never to hear the lying words
of the woman I once knew
and have the hipsters all compete
haute coutere of the darkest hue
I fear some might never know
of my last opening
For if its not on a texting scroll
They will not know a thing
I CANNOT
I canNOT communicate with this typewriter
you call a telephone
No emotion in cold keys
You do not see frustration when you don't answer
Hate and hurt when I'm blown off
Pain when you can't see me for days
plucking not even an hour from your beebusy day
What I can do for you
Not you for me
Phone words- stone words
I cannot touch you
with still words
Distance mangles meaning
Over a brain boiling with feeling
you call a telephone
No emotion in cold keys
You do not see frustration when you don't answer
Hate and hurt when I'm blown off
Pain when you can't see me for days
plucking not even an hour from your beebusy day
What I can do for you
Not you for me
Phone words- stone words
I cannot touch you
with still words
Distance mangles meaning
Over a brain boiling with feeling
RUNWAY BRIDES
Now that Chelsea Clinton's married it might be a good time to talk about divorce. I'm a rarity, an American male above thirty whose never been married. This in itself can be an interesting thing, as I found out in Berkeley. On nights when my friend had to work late at the lab she'd auction me off to lab mates whose great looks would insure them of a line of suitors in New York. When I asked one of these women about it I was told that all the men in San Francisco/Berkeley are either gay or married. (Is it any wonder that when I first saw Castro Street I thought of it as the world's largest drag strip?)
Serving papers on somebody can be hit or miss. Usually the intended recipient doesn't want the papers. This was especially true of one of Bergdorf's models, a cute brunette whose husband simply couldn't control her. They were separated but the divorce papers were still out, which meant our model was receiving all the benefits and none of the bad parts of marriage. Part of the reason the papers hadn't been served was that she was no longer living with her husband, and finding her at home wasn't easy. We were taking bets on how long this would continue.
Better Dresses was having a major runway show. Great catering, lots of A-line guests, and lots of eye candy, including our heroine. Most of the models had admirers presenting them with flowers once they got off. No sooner had our heroine stepped off the runway when an admirer handed her flowers and a note. Words were exchanged, and said model sat down heavily in a chair, alternately crying and cursing. Her husband found the one place she had to be, and justice, as well as the model, was serve
Serving papers on somebody can be hit or miss. Usually the intended recipient doesn't want the papers. This was especially true of one of Bergdorf's models, a cute brunette whose husband simply couldn't control her. They were separated but the divorce papers were still out, which meant our model was receiving all the benefits and none of the bad parts of marriage. Part of the reason the papers hadn't been served was that she was no longer living with her husband, and finding her at home wasn't easy. We were taking bets on how long this would continue.
Better Dresses was having a major runway show. Great catering, lots of A-line guests, and lots of eye candy, including our heroine. Most of the models had admirers presenting them with flowers once they got off. No sooner had our heroine stepped off the runway when an admirer handed her flowers and a note. Words were exchanged, and said model sat down heavily in a chair, alternately crying and cursing. Her husband found the one place she had to be, and justice, as well as the model, was serve
WHY THE ASIANS ARE TAKING OVER THE WORLD
Ten years ago I traveled to San Francisco to visit a friend. Three days on Greyhound made me realize the coiner of the phrase "tenderfoot" knew little of human anatomy. I arrived somewhat sore and sleepy about one thirty in the morning. Mentally doing handflips at the prospect of a nonmoving sleep I fell onto a couch and tumbled into sleep.
The next morning I was awakened by my hosts three year old daughter, who sat on the edge of the couch and asked "Do you read and write Chinese, Uncle Steven?"
Instantly notice the difference between an American and Asian child. An American child would have asked "who are you, m***er?" and perhaps whipped out a Glock. This child had never seen me before in her life. I could have been a murderer, a rapist or even a Republican. But she was polite enough to use the honorific Uncle, bestowed on an older person. When I told her I didn't, she told me she spoke and wrote both and was teaching her one year old brother.
While the Chinese maintain a polite distance between Occidentals and themselves they do anything but among themselves. The second day I was there my friend and I went to Embarcadero Center to see a movie. When I told her brother it was Joan Chen's "The Sent Down Girl" he angrily made a comment about Chen being an ABC. Puzzled, I asked what that meant. My friend told me it meant "American Born Chinese." Upon expressing further puzzlement my friend told me that I work near Columbia, I see them every day. Her brother added that they were "Americans with slanted eyes". His sister commented that they dress and act like Americans, not Chinese.
And as of today, anybody walking that epicenter of the hippie era, St. Marks between 2nd and 3rd Aves., are excused for thinking they're in the middle of Shanghai or the Asian Invasion. I believe only two of these stores aren't owned by Asians.
No, I'm not prejudiced. Just observant.
The next morning I was awakened by my hosts three year old daughter, who sat on the edge of the couch and asked "Do you read and write Chinese, Uncle Steven?"
Instantly notice the difference between an American and Asian child. An American child would have asked "who are you, m***er?" and perhaps whipped out a Glock. This child had never seen me before in her life. I could have been a murderer, a rapist or even a Republican. But she was polite enough to use the honorific Uncle, bestowed on an older person. When I told her I didn't, she told me she spoke and wrote both and was teaching her one year old brother.
While the Chinese maintain a polite distance between Occidentals and themselves they do anything but among themselves. The second day I was there my friend and I went to Embarcadero Center to see a movie. When I told her brother it was Joan Chen's "The Sent Down Girl" he angrily made a comment about Chen being an ABC. Puzzled, I asked what that meant. My friend told me it meant "American Born Chinese." Upon expressing further puzzlement my friend told me that I work near Columbia, I see them every day. Her brother added that they were "Americans with slanted eyes". His sister commented that they dress and act like Americans, not Chinese.
And as of today, anybody walking that epicenter of the hippie era, St. Marks between 2nd and 3rd Aves., are excused for thinking they're in the middle of Shanghai or the Asian Invasion. I believe only two of these stores aren't owned by Asians.
No, I'm not prejudiced. Just observant.
TWO GIRLS
Lest you think otherwise, just because you're born here doesn't necessarily mean you speak the English language as she is spoken, or even American. Just recently I had the privilege (?) of having two college age girlies in front of my stand, where for some fifteen minutes I heard nothing but "oh my god", "awesome" and "like" in various combinations. Unable to take any more obliteration of my mother tongue I leaned over the stand and asked the two if by any chance they were English students.
The comely blonde informed me she was an architecture student, to which all I could think was that the student body was in great shape (or hers was). When the second said she did indeed take English I looked at her and archly said-"as a second language?"
The comely blonde informed me she was an architecture student, to which all I could think was that the student body was in great shape (or hers was). When the second said she did indeed take English I looked at her and archly said-"as a second language?"
IT'S JUST ME
The black band tightens on my life
To the strains of the Zombies' "What More Can I Do"
What more can I do?
As loneliness crashes in on me
Like waves assaulting the shore
Phone and computer conspire
No messages from no one
You? Have mail?
Don't make me laugh
You? Have female?
Don't make me cry
Je'accuse friends of not calling
even when they don't
after they say they will
After all
It's just me
To the strains of the Zombies' "What More Can I Do"
What more can I do?
As loneliness crashes in on me
Like waves assaulting the shore
Phone and computer conspire
No messages from no one
You? Have mail?
Don't make me laugh
You? Have female?
Don't make me cry
Je'accuse friends of not calling
even when they don't
after they say they will
After all
It's just me
Friday, July 30, 2010
AN INCIDENT IN WORCHESTER
Politics and music make strange bedfellows, mainly because politics and musicians make even stranger ones. My beliefs on the idea can be encapsulated by a line in Mort Garson's "Wozard Of Iz", a takeoff on the "Wizard Of Oz" where The Lyin' Coward (guess who?) tells Dorothy-"though I'm listened to and trusted, those who listen all get busted". I was further reminded of this while we were opening for The Only Band That Thinks It Matters, The Clash. I was backstage when Joe Strummer came over and commemnted on a White Panther button I was wearing. I remarked that it had been given to me when music mattered. Strummer said American music hadn't counted for a while.
Angered, I asked why the Clash only sang about American politics and not their own. Further, I asked how they had the balls to sing "Jail Guitar Doors" when the MC5's Wayne Kramer went on right before them. He had more political honesty in his little finger, I further said, than the Clash had among the whole band.
As Strummer turned away I went on to ask that didn't they realize if they were regular English kids instead of stars, as in "Guns On The Roof", they'd still be in jail instead of on the road? The inspiration for the song was the band shooting live ammo off their recording studio roof.
The next day we were off the tour. Gee, was it something I said?
Angered, I asked why the Clash only sang about American politics and not their own. Further, I asked how they had the balls to sing "Jail Guitar Doors" when the MC5's Wayne Kramer went on right before them. He had more political honesty in his little finger, I further said, than the Clash had among the whole band.
As Strummer turned away I went on to ask that didn't they realize if they were regular English kids instead of stars, as in "Guns On The Roof", they'd still be in jail instead of on the road? The inspiration for the song was the band shooting live ammo off their recording studio roof.
The next day we were off the tour. Gee, was it something I said?
I LOVE YOU
I love you
I-love-you
And that scares the crap outta me
'coz when you love somebody
really love them
Stomach wrenching-heart aching love
Your soul is theirs to do with as they will
and every action brings a reaction
Loving you is a perpetual state of upset stomach
I don't think Pepto Bismal could cure
I-love-you
And that scares the crap outta me
'coz when you love somebody
really love them
Stomach wrenching-heart aching love
Your soul is theirs to do with as they will
and every action brings a reaction
Loving you is a perpetual state of upset stomach
I don't think Pepto Bismal could cure
FIE ON SHAKESPEAR
Shall I compare thee to a summer day?
as somebody or other said?
Never!
Far more are you the heart beating in my chest
The blood coursing through my veins
Far more to say
You are my soul
For a summer day ends
With blissful night
While heart
blood
and soul
wax eternal
as somebody or other said?
Never!
Far more are you the heart beating in my chest
The blood coursing through my veins
Far more to say
You are my soul
For a summer day ends
With blissful night
While heart
blood
and soul
wax eternal
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A part of "Mr. Manners' Guide To Electronic Etiquette"
If somebody had informed me of this chances are I would not believe at. As I observed this myself I still have some trouble with it. A couple were hand in handing it up Broadway and stopped in at an outdoor cafe. They sat down and ordered. While they were waiting the femme received a phone call. Some fifteen minutes later she was still speaking, while ignoring her companion. It was hot enough so those could have been heat waves radiating from his head rather than signs of anger. Another ten minutes passed and she was still on the phone. Without saying a word her companion emptied his water glass on her head and stormed off. She blissfully continued talking, albeit somewhat cooler.
If somebody had informed me of this chances are I would not believe at. As I observed this myself I still have some trouble with it. A couple were hand in handing it up Broadway and stopped in at an outdoor cafe. They sat down and ordered. While they were waiting the femme received a phone call. Some fifteen minutes later she was still speaking, while ignoring her companion. It was hot enough so those could have been heat waves radiating from his head rather than signs of anger. Another ten minutes passed and she was still on the phone. Without saying a word her companion emptied his water glass on her head and stormed off. She blissfully continued talking, albeit somewhat cooler.
JEWELED SCIMITAR
Jeweled scimitar in sweltering heat
Without a wielder incomplete
What child left you after pleasure
Pint size pirate imagining treasure
What seas did imagination sail
Boundless horizons, skua wail
Hydrant spray is endless sea
Jeweled scimitar, speak to me
What child's hand once held this toy
Unfettered imagination gives off joy
WHERE IS HIP?
Hip is not an address in Brooklyn
Complete w/ porkpie hats, porkpie pies and emaciated whities
Hip is not an oh-so-trendy restaurant you can't get in
(And if you do you wish you hadn't)
Do you have reservations?
Yeah, but it's de rigeur to be here, dig
Nor is it a 3AM club with trendy music you can't stand, but do
Let me hip you bro
Hip is where I stand
The author's chapbook "Blonde, Blue-Eyed And Handsome", can be ordered from
Encylone@Yahoo.com
Jeweled scimitar in sweltering heat
Without a wielder incomplete
What child left you after pleasure
Pint size pirate imagining treasure
What seas did imagination sail
Boundless horizons, skua wail
Hydrant spray is endless sea
Jeweled scimitar, speak to me
What child's hand once held this toy
Unfettered imagination gives off joy
WHERE IS HIP?
Hip is not an address in Brooklyn
Complete w/ porkpie hats, porkpie pies and emaciated whities
Hip is not an oh-so-trendy restaurant you can't get in
(And if you do you wish you hadn't)
Do you have reservations?
Yeah, but it's de rigeur to be here, dig
Nor is it a 3AM club with trendy music you can't stand, but do
Let me hip you bro
Hip is where I stand
The author's chapbook "Blonde, Blue-Eyed And Handsome", can be ordered from
Encylone@Yahoo.com
First Postings
Somebody once said "the rich are different because they're rich". Having worked at New York's Bergdorff Goodman's for a couple of years, I humbly beg to differ. The rich are different because they're-uh-different.
Models have exciting life styles, and those at Bergdorff's are no different. Way before it was hip to be Asian, there were several Asians who were promoting an expensive Japanese designer's line. I was trying to find out something about the clothes, and in halting English attempted to question one of the models, who promptly turned to me and, in an accent Fran Drechsler would have thought was too Brooklyn, proceeded to answer my question. On the other side of the coin, there was the model who told most men that they "couldn't afford to go out with her". When she got injured in a car crash, people were sending her drop dead letters.
You didn't have to be a model to have the belief you were better than most. Just to work there was enough. I had gotten invited to a party at one girl's Gramercy address, and when I asked her what apartment it was was loftily informed that "we own the building". As Fleetwood Mac would say-Oh well".
Models have exciting life styles, and those at Bergdorff's are no different. Way before it was hip to be Asian, there were several Asians who were promoting an expensive Japanese designer's line. I was trying to find out something about the clothes, and in halting English attempted to question one of the models, who promptly turned to me and, in an accent Fran Drechsler would have thought was too Brooklyn, proceeded to answer my question. On the other side of the coin, there was the model who told most men that they "couldn't afford to go out with her". When she got injured in a car crash, people were sending her drop dead letters.
You didn't have to be a model to have the belief you were better than most. Just to work there was enough. I had gotten invited to a party at one girl's Gramercy address, and when I asked her what apartment it was was loftily informed that "we own the building". As Fleetwood Mac would say-Oh well".
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