Goodbye Blue Monday

about a year into scrap bar’s life, they arrived.

tall, handsome, high-cheeked, exact-twin brothers with huge manes of black, beaded hair that fell from their shoulders to the small of their backs. they were african-american but i remember one of them telling me they were also part american-indian. i said ok.

they came to new york as a two-piece pop/dance-band that, until this point, were working the times-square sex circuit; tim was the “fluffer” and dave was the “feature” in sex-on-stage shows that, even now, are shrouded in pre-giuliani-regime legend.

they didn’t drink or take drugs and were driven to be the stars they believed they can be. they had clear, pleasant, high-pitched kentucky drawls when they spoke and a singular sense of fashion; e.g.- their bodies greased, head-to-toe, wearing nothing but loincloths and sneakers, walking along macdougal street on a summer day-fashion, for instance.

or sensible rock/dance gods as seen in the background of this pic from a scrap bar/MTV shoot. they were obviously not the subject;

MTV’s Kevin Seal and Zodiac Mindwarp in the foreground. Tim and Dave behind them.
they came for the porter/maintenance position available at scrap bar and they got it.

the meticulousness of their appearance (when clothed) was translated in the way they took after the bar. they were highly organized and incredibly neat. it was an easy gig. scrap bar had a commercial-tile and cement floor, polyurethaned-granite foundation walls, found-metal, welded-furniture and a crane-boom bar-frame with half-inch wire-glass on top and a corrugated tin ceiling. you could literally hose the place down if you wanted to, but they used mops, sponges, bleach and windex.

their arrival on the music scene had coincided with that of Milli-Vanilli and a west german recording-industry scandal that branded them as frauds. i don’t know if or how much this impacted the jones twins, but i’m sure it didn’t help.

they stopped working the sex shows and also stopped paying rent on their apartment. their earnings were spent on career-related items — keyboards, synthesizers, recording devices, costumes and dance classes. this became evident when they asked if they could sleep, live and practice in the bar. they reasoned that their YMCA memberships offered everything else they would need. besides, this would be a temporary situation.

that’s when “the wall” came into play.

in the above photo, to the right of the recessed bench in the center of the picture, is a door. in the middle, there’s a gray-steel pressbar that opens it. behind it is a small hallway, and to the right, another door that leads to a 4′ x 12′ room. it was the old meter and electrical room. now it was now theirs. you know, a temporary situation.

almost three years later, dave, the more assertive of the brothers, announced that he was going to germany. he secured a meeting with a music producer.
now, almost 30 years later, i can’t help but wonder if it was the same producer who milli vanilli got involved with, but it’s academic at this point.

tim remained at scrap bar working and living in “the wall,” until the call came to join his brother in germany. on the answering machine message that dave left, he said that he got a record deal. as the message went on, the anger and frustration of these years came out, announcing, “victory over my oppressors” and used our name in the same sentence with the nazis and other murderers. the only way i could look at this was, it’s what happens when “a temporary situation” spills into years.
the “room behind the wall,” became a prison, whorehouse (oh yes!) and everything else he hated about new york, his employers and probably this country.

black AND openly gay in the ‘80’s? whoa….,

tim maintained his pleasant demeanor till the end, when the airline ticket arrived. the day he left, we wished him well and gave him a goodbye envelope. he thanked us and apologized for his brother’s outburst(we played him the tape). a few days later, we went into the room behind the wall. it was horribly infested with what seemed to be fleas or some other kind of “dine on your blood,” insects and had to immediately bomb the hell out of the place, throw everything into plastic bags and call the exterminator to fog the entire bar, just to be safe.

in preparing this story, i spoke to john favorite, an artist and friend who used to work security for me and became friendly with them. he told me that much of their music was composed on a small keyboard/synthesizer with a four or eight-track recorder that they mixed themselves and was popular in the NYC underground/gay/after-hours clubs. they produced a poster, shot at Governor’s Island, with them standing atop “Castle Williams,” glistening in their loincloths at an old historic military outpost in new york harbor that was selling well in the christopher street novelty stores of the day. i say “fabled,” because they gave me one. it was nothing short of amazing, as were they.

castle williams on governor’s island, facing lower manhattan
john told me that tim and dave had gotten “thisclose,” but couldn’t get a US record deal or a financial situation that would extricate them from the room in “the wall.” he also related a story they told him about when they were living in central park, and sleeping beside a NYC sidewalk heat exhaust grate and had to repel a dawn robbery-attack. that’s when i found out they carried knives and were not to be taken lightly.

well, they were gone. it wasn’t until then, that i realized they were hardly as entertaining to us as we probably were to them. here’s an example;

every couple of months in the first year or two of business, there were spontaneous painting parties. some planned, some not-so-planned. one night, both myself and John Favorite had gotten blotter acid. he had something like five or ten hits, i had gotten ten or twenty. it didn’t matter. we ate a bunch before last call at 3:45am. this meant we’d be coming up by the time we had everyone out the door and the room prepped to paint. we decided we’d start at the back, where the bathrooms were, and work our way to the front. john had picked up a power painter and this was going to be the first time we used something like this here. we figured we’d be finished in two?—?three hours at the most. as we started, the acid was kicking-in and of course, this meant we were required to eat more of the blotters, in keeping with my drug-taking lessons having come from hunter s. thompson. after that, it didn’t matter anymore. i don’t know how much acid we both ate, but all of it was gone. we were trapped in the bathrooms; blithering acid-laughter, switching off paint-gun for paintbrush, howling uncontrollably until we heard tim and dave begin cleaning the bar area. time ceased. painting ceased. the two scrap bar bathrooms sure were bright! all i remember is that when they offered us “chips and dip,” which were placed neatly in the bar, we didn’t eat any but we carried that phrase for the next 12 hours, meaning we were certifiable maniacs when the bar opened at noon the next day, up until that evening when we were finally thrown out, still laughing.

the jones clones walked out from the room behind the wall some one-thousand-times-plus, into after-hour parties with the biggest names in music at the time, during a period of drug and alcohol abuse in a bar that had a reputation for excesses. oh, yes. even now, when i speak to people who frequented scrap bar, they invariably had periods of hazy to no-memory of episodes there. it was a blackout bar of high incidence.

well, tim and dave were gone and so were their memories of whatever madness they might have witnessed. one other thing; they never openly judged anyone.
i always thought that was pretty classy. that’s all i’m going to say about that.

around eight months after tim boarded his flight to germany, my partner and i were sitting in the office in back of the bar. there was a phone call from someone in the US state department. my partner pressed the “speaker” button on the phone base. the official notified us that tim and dave jones had drown in the tiber river outside of rome. the story he told us was that they were working as models in a fashion shoot that was on a narrow walkway or platform suspended over the river. he mentioned that there might have been people watching who were racist, anti-gay or both, that prompted an episode that caused one of the brothers to fall from the platform into the river.
“some italians are pretty hateful to homosexuals,” he said, then went on, “according to witnesses, it was tim who fell in first. he couldn’t swim, panicked and screamed, calling out for his brother, who immediately dove in after him. apparently the weight of their hairpieces when wet dragged both men under, drowning them.”

it sounded almost funny. like, horrible-funny, but funny nonetheless.
“why did you contact us?”
“according to information supplied on their passports and at customs, you were their last employers and this was the contact number in case of emergency. apparently, they have no family. we were wondering if you would claim the bodies. you’re not required to, but we’re required to ask.”

there was silence all around.

“we wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

“i understand,” said the official.

a week later, there was a story in, “the national star” or, “the enquirer,” that someone brought into the bar with a photo of madonna, weeping over the death of her friends, tim and dave jones. “they used to take dance classes together when she was starting out,” the story said.
the weeping madonna photo may have been a stock photo. who knows?
i thought, maybe she claimed their bodies and gave them a final resting place. by now, she was a big star.

i’ve been looking for that story ever since “google.”
that and the poster.

at last year’s scrap bar reunion in 2014 i saw fran, an old friend and someone who may have been joey ramone’s girlfriend back in the day. i was never sure.
it was…25 years since we saw each other?……at least.
the reunion was fun and at one point, she recounted something that happened in late 1987/early ‘88, between joey and me at around five-thirty in the morning at a long-running after-hours called, “save the robots,” located around avenue B and second street.
it operated as an “art and performance gallery,” by day and an after hours at night, doling out vodka from canada dry ginger-ale bottles and canned beer.
to put it simply, we had words and i told him to fuck off and walked away.
he grabbed me by the neck and began choking me.
i spun around and saw his chin almost a foot above me and hit it.
he is a tall man. it was all chin. simple.
immediately unconscious, he fell flat on his back, his head dully hitting the floor.
i don’t know how drunk he might have been, but i was sober because of an alcohol-poisoned stomach-lining.
drinking would land me in the hospital.
there was sand?—?“Robots,” had a beach motif at this time, with copious amounts of beach sand, three to six inches in spots?—?that cushioned the fall, but no one could rouse him. i was alarmed. a group of people had to pick him up and carry him out.
i held my breath until the next night at the bar when i got word he was ok.
there’s a lot more to the story and i’m writing it somewhere else.
that night was a small part of a larger story.
as is this;
i need to move back in order to move forward, so please bear with me;
scrap bar opened on april 19th, 1986.
in june, i think, i got a phone call from my friend mary, manager of electric lady studios on eighth street.
she was one of my daytime customers at the be bop cafe on 8th street and macdougal, a half-block from the studio.
she came in for lunch regularly and ate at the bar. we became friends.
when i moved to the night shift, she moved with me and when i opened scrap bar, i made sure she knew about it.

anyway, she called me around three in the afternoon and asked me how i felt about having a record-release party.
“when?” i asked.
“in about two hours,” was her reply.
“who for?”
“the ramones”
“the ramones?”
“yes. the ramones. you heard of them, right?” she mocked. “word’ll get out fast,” she added.
“what do i have to do?”
“i don’t know. buy pizza. they like pizza. beer and pizza,” she said.
it was june, but it was hot as july?—?steaming.
among the things scrap bar didn’t yet was air-conditioning.
we did, however, have a really big fan, the kind found in sweatshops.
it had metal blades with a 24-inch-wingspan, encased in steel-wire housing where you can lose fingers.
you can almost reach your entire hand through the fan-housing. scary.
it was mounted atop a six-foot, stainless-steel pole on a cast-iron base.
when switched-on, it sounded like an airplane was preparing for takeoff in the bar.

the record release party was scheduled for five pm.
streams of skinny, tattooed, pasty-skinned kids in black jeans, crossed the rubicon that was fifth avenue and milled in front of this basement space in the west village with the day-glo scrap-metal sculpture and no name, which brought in even more people.
it was a curiously bright and sunny, east-village-sight in the heart of the west village.
around six, members of the band walked in, one of them brandishing the newly-completed, “animal boy” album on cassette tape.
by seven, the place was jam-packed with strains of, “bonzo goes to bittburg,” running through it, the album on auto reverse and the only music that night.
the big, humming fan up front moved sweat and cigarette smoke through the room and out the opened-back door.
boxes and boxes of pizza from “ben by frank’s,” up on the corner of west 3rd street, were being delivered and devoured on aluminum slaughterhouse slabs that served as tables.

suddenly, everything stopped.
the room stood dark and silent, except at the front and rear doorways where the days’ light continued to stream and ongoing conversations continued.
then, it became apparent there was a problem.
all at once, people mobilized; some running out to get candles, others to grab a boombox and batteries.
tap beer doesn’t need electricity to flow, so we were fine.
it was already a hundred-twenty degrees inside. what difference were candles going to make, anyway?
after a few minutes, with tall, glass religious candles on the bar and tables, hundred-fifty-plus people resumed talking and a minute later, the animal boy cassette came back to life on the boom box.
the crowd roared.
the building’s super came to the door and said it was a “house fuse”, an old-style fuse about the size of a can of red bull and headed out to get one, but it didn’t matter anymore?—?the party was ON and so was scrap bar.

this was almost a year before MTV “discovered” us.

i always tried to show deference to the bands and musicians, but as was happening to a lot of punks at this time, age and uncertainty was rearing-up in a lot of drug and alcohol-abused bodies and minds. these guys were my age and i knew what was happening to ME.
change was, among other things.
elsewhere, i’ll dissect the last pages of legs mcneil’s “please kill me,” and the story of the fight that occurred between dee dee ramone and johnny thunders. i was literally in the middle of that.
but i digress….

for months, joey stopped coming to scrap bar.
in the spring of ‘88, Limelight’s Sunday “Rock’n’Roll Church” featured Joey Ramone’s Mother’s Day Show, starring Joey Ramone’s Mom.
i can’t recall who led me to the area at stage left, (maybe it was Fran again?), but i found myself in a small area with Joey, his mother Charlotte and a small crowd of friends, common to both of us.
i thought i had been set-up and maybe i was, but with two grown men (pretty-much) and one mom, we behaved after a few choppy words and a threat from his mom who pick-up on us, immediately.
“behave, you two,” she ordered and we did.
i introduced myself and wished her a happy mother’s day and wished them luck with the show.
joey and i had let it go. it felt good. it felt right.

a year later, some time in 1989, scrap bar got involved in the first Sting-inspired/promoted, “Save the Rain Forest Fundraiser” that got us caught up with a celebrity pool tournament at a chic restaurant/pool-parlor on broadway around 20th street and a concert at a new venue called KAOS that had just opened on the west side, also in the 20’s. i would end up beaten unconscious in front of that place, for any “karma” fans out there. that’s another story as well.
during this time, one of the organizers asked me if i could ask any music people who frequented scrap to help out with the album.
all i did was aim debbie harry at joey or vice/versa and they did something wonderful.
we hung out for an extended period only one more time. it was at his apartment on third avenue. a small group?—?maybe myself and another friend or two went to his place instead of after-hours. our conversation that night involved old music?—?standards, louis jordan, billie, louis armstrong and bing crosby. i remember this because i dialed a crosby maniac i knew and put joey on with him and they had a pleasant conversation. their chief topic may have been joe franklin. they were both friendly with him.
we were cordial. hellos at ritz shows (uptown), acknowledging one another on the street. that sort of thing.

i moved to georgia to build another scrap bar, was gone for two years and when i returned it was over, for the most part.
so was my drinking. my last bottle (stoli) was in scrap bar and yes, that’s another story.
a year or so later, i moved a block and a half from him, but at best, “hello,” was a nod or wave.
i didn’t go out much and was starting a new warehouse business, first in hoboken, NJ, then bushwick, brooklyn.

on april 15th, 2001 i was driving in manhattan’s upper east side when i heard of his passing.
i do not know why, but i began to cry, which is fine, but was unable to stop for hours.
i cancelled the appointment i had and just drove; through to brooklyn, then across the verrazano bridge to staten island and still, i could not stop crying, so i just kept on driving. i don’t know.
maybe mortality punched me in the head that day and joey delivered it. maybe now, we’re even.
it took about fourteen years to say it….or is it 29?
me and scrap bar thank you.

a couple of days ago, i observed one of those “anniversaries.”
you know, the “life-altering” ones. i’ve had a few.
they caused things like scrap bar and goodbye blue monday to happen.
i’m writing a book about it.

it was two years ago in the holding cell behind the brooklyn criminal courts building, my head resting on the black wool cap i’m wearing right now, when i had the detroit dream that propelled me from New York, the town of my birth, to the great upper-midwest and this moment.
granted, it took a few months to get out of town, what with court appearances and court-appointed work details in maria hernandez park, but in my heart and mind, i was gone while awaiting the dawn, a lawyer and arraignment that morning.
in that dream, i was told to move to detroit, write a book and make pasta fagioli.
i have done and am doing these things.
as a matter of fact, just before i sat down to write this, i delivered four portions of “edie’s gourmet spicy-sausage pasta fagioli.”

this isn’t about money or business. it’s about dreams and direction, or at least, that’s what i choose to believe.
but that’s another story.
i’m chock-full of those things. stories.
on this anniversary, i received a text message.

in january, a young woman named kelley contacted me through the website, writing this as a comment posted about the closing of the store. it’s still there;
“Hey, I’m planning to move to Detroit next month and think Goodbye Blue Monday should move with me. Please contact me…..”
i answered her and a series of IM’s went on, with me telling her i was the creator of the goodbye blue monday, and such.
she went on, the gist being…
“when i saw GBM closed, i was unhappy. things are changing way too fast in brooklyn. i don’t like it here anymore and i’ve decided to move to detroit. would you mind if i tried to open a goodbye blue monday there?”
“ha,” i replied, “i’ve been living in detroit for a year and a half and if you want to open a goodbye blue monday here, i’ll help you!”
we exchanged numbers and had a long conversation the following day.
she said her plan was to leave new york at the end of february.
early into this chat, i let her know that i had nothing to invest and was finished with this part of my life.
i think the red-stripe-beer-bottle to the cheekbone, three weeks before the arrest, made that decision for me. that, plus this dream-book-thing.
(a drunk guy i lured away from the counter and possible bartender assault, threw it in my face from five feet away. severe black eye and almost broken cheekbone.)
“hey, kelley,” i said, before signing off, “contact me a week before you leave and let me know if you have room to bring the store’s airplane and sign with you.”
i explained that my friend tito cut down the sign for me and was storing it until i could get it.
she said that she’d make room and she did.

so, on the two-year anniversary, i got this text;
“got the sign. see you tomorrow,” and the next day, there she was.

is there gonna be a goodbye blue monday here in detroit?
i don’t know, but when i met kelley as she got out of her pickup truck, her cat sitting on a high pile of whatever on the passenger seat, i peered at the tarped mountain rising from the back of the truck and thought….”she can do anything.”
i believe this.
and if she opens up a goodbye blue monday here and wants the airplane and sign, i’ll mount it in front of her store.
thanks, kelley.


that universe was the cranium (mine – the one that was shattered on january 22nd, 1962 by a 1953 chevy) that bore it in 1984 and has been whirring, clicking and sizzling ever since.
the store, which hasn’t been mine for some years now, is closing sunday, november 30th and this website will spring back to life as i return to write stuff, sorta-like what’s happening this very moment.

in good company….

May 7th, 2014

the little junk store that could was mentioned in a story about where to find the next big thing.
that’s what Goodbye Blue Monday was ten years ago, before it sold coffee, beer and had live performance.
but we digress….
OK, Qantas airlines targets a demographic about 13,000 miles away, bit still….
i’ve flown there in one of those big, giant planes that are eight-stories tall (at their highest point) and loved perth and sydney and actually had dinner with “the voice of qantas,” who welcomes you onboard and tells you how wonderful everything’s gonna be.
i would later find out that she’s in the new “mad max” series of films.
imagine that!
so read about us here, in their magazine!.
this is why we fought to keep GBM’s doors open and if we said thanks and you didn’t hear it, we’re saying it again.
and thanks Qantas Airlines!

posting this on january 22nd in some odd way, makes perfect sense.
you see, i was run over by a car 51 years ago on this date.
i was supposed to either be dead, a vegetable or paralyzed from the neck down (i guess this covers about everything).
just by chance, the first black U.S.neurosurgeon was visiting coney island hospital that day and changed the odds, markedly.
probably, because of this man – doctor thomas matthew – i survived quite extraordinarily.
there have also been examples of luck spun in an entirely different direction.

with this in mind, please read;

a few days ago, i was walking on broadway, here in bushwick, bk.
it was around 3:30 in the afternoon.
approaching, about twenty-five feet in front of me, was a man walking with who i assumed was his daughter.
she looked to be about four or five years old. like most kids, she was filled with “kid energy,” or sugar, chattering away, looking up at her father who was slowing his “dad” steps to even up with his daughter’s little-kid steps, while engaged in conversation with her.
i heard none of the words but assumed it was what dads and daughters must speak about after the school day.
the sprightly girl’s steps were switching between walking normally, then sideways, sliding her feet side-to-side, then returning to stepping forward.
this was what? three? five seconds?
somewhere, as i watched them draw closer, then pass by, i remember asking myself – almost out loud – “how could he do it? how do you shoot one of those little things? these kids?”
it was almost as if i forgot that a child is a human being.
i couldn’t connect a person with a gun even aiming a gun at a child.
i did my best to conjure up a mental picture of a little kid being blown away by a guy with an assault rifle and couldn’t do it.
by the time we passed each other, i was a wreck.
i opened the door to my loftspace and ran upstairs.

the photo that circulated in the press, the one of those policemen huddled together weeping, appeared behind my eyes.
i can’t imagine walking into a room like this. a room of slaughtered little kids.
those poor guys; what a day’s work.
i do not envy their gig.
a wave of horror caused a shiver to run up my back. i had to shake it off, literally.
“a room of slaughtered little kids” – that should be carved in stone somewhere, preferably nearby the NRA’s main office.

with the newtown slaughter over a week old, the well-worn procedure followed by the likes of the NRA, now burrowing out of their nickle-plated corporate trenches, began their defense of guns argument, this time pointing at everything and everyone except the item itself – guns.
it pitched the need for more guns, as if we didn’t see that coming.
it pitched the need for more cops with more guns, everywhere.

you know what guns are; they kill firemen battling blazes set by monsters who want to play arcade games, like what happened a few days later, on christmas eve.

i can’t recall what their (the NRA’s) approach was in defending themselves after the colorado movie theater slaughter, the wisconsin temple slaughter or the gabby giffords assassination attempt and massacre.
they said either the same thing or nothing at all.
i could almost see them sitting at a table somewhere, speaking in hushed tones, “maybe we should lay low on this one, right wayne?”
that’s about what you get with the likes of these people.
add to that, how the press cycle winds down the horror with replacement fodder after selling the crime, the tragedy, the memorial services and the future.
the press walks on eggs after trumpeting bombastic headline news waiting for the signal from either side that it’s safe to lurch forward.
it’s a well-worn dance. it, like so much of america’s politics, is a brain-numbing exercise in circular behavior that relies on memory lapses, other drama, more memory lapses, the marketing of panic, political spin and bullshit.
more of the latter than the former.
dial up the other noise – any other noise, quick.
there IS no future here.

if presidents and five year olds are in the bullseye for fifty years, nothing will change.
that’s a guarantee.
take it from “a kennedy.”
if common-sense gun owners agree that assault rifles, insanely large gun clips and magazines aren’t a good idea, yet the NRA and the gun lobby stymie any change to this insanity, rest assured that whatever deal that’s made will be cosmetic at best.

all we have is faith in our collective jesuses, buddhas, krishnas, flying spaghetti monsters and a rabbit’s foot to protect us.
oh, or a gun if all other options won’t work.

in march, 1990, i got a remarkable phone call informing me that my brother was murdered.
he was executed with a bullet to the brain, just as i so vividly remembered november 22nd, 1963.
i became “a kennedy,” that moment.
the next morning, we headed across the country to claim my brother’s body.
triple murder-suicide in cody, wyoming.
the killer was a convicted felon who was able to procure a gun from a pawnshop in town without a background check;
a simple background check would have made his purchase impossible, but i understood – we were in the wild west, the land of mountain men, cowboys and rugged individualism.
while in town, as we made arrangements for the memorial, i ate enough valium and drank enough beer to float through the ordeal.
besides, when a murderer turns the gun on himself, it becomes a package deal; his suicide being the bright, red bow that ties it all together.
no muss, no fuss. no judge, no jury.
in-between the tears, i thought about how lucky we were. another kind of luck – a winding-double-gainer kind of luck.

unfortunately, this luck did not work well for my mother.
on march 3rd, 1990, i lost not only my brother, but the person who bore and raised me.
i mean, she was on this planet for another sixteen years, but the glaze was in the eyes till she made her way to halleluja boulevard and eternity avenue about six years ago.
one day, she confided to my sister that she starts her day – everyday – making a promise to not commit suicide.
every day.
for her, a successful day is a day you can fall asleep with the possibility of waking up seven hours later and rest assured the paxil and valium became the math for a couple of thousand days and nights.
plus, the no-suicide pledge was so she won’t be condemned to the firey depths of hell promised to her by the catholic church that glowered over her like a gangster, making sure she did the “right thing” while dangling the “heaven carrot.”
that, like so many other subjects that spring-up here, is a discussion for another time.

a couple of days before she traveled to the eight-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension, my mom asked, “would you be upset if i told you that every night before i close my eyes to sleep, i pray for god to take me?”
“upset? me? if that’s what you want, i’ll pray for that, too,” was my reply.
i prayed and prayed.
she died a few days later.
it wasn’t my prayers that freed her. maybe it was god. maybe it was her broken heart, but regardless – i was the happiest guy at the wake.
imagine that.
“so sorry for your loss.”
“don’t be – there was no loss, just a glorious release to the great beyond. i’ve never been happier for my mother.”

a note to all you smart men out there;
no man on this planet will ever know what it is to lose a child.
no way, no how.
for this reason, more than anything, men need to shut the hell up about “women things,” but that’s another story.
men haven’t got a clue.
that, too, is another conversation for another time.

when the connecticut massacre occurred, my heart sank.
the feeling of helplessness assaulted me on so many levels, but most particularly on the “mother level.”
i see twenty mothers who will stare blankly for moments at a time at a point beyond everything, for the rest of their lives;
an awkward, minute-clumsiness will possess the air around these women at molecular levels in ways i can’t even imagine.
i won’t pretend that i’d know what these mothers are thinking.
i didn’t pretend to know what my own mother was thinking, but when i saw her standing alone, looking beyond, i knew she swam alone in a pool of atomic-level confusion and i knew that i’d never comprehend her moment.
i can only guess.
i could assume it was something like how i felt sitting in the back seat of the jeep as it brought my family from the airport in billings, montana to cody, wyoming. we were driven there by my brother’s best friend who had to identify the body after the crime was discovered.
kind greetings and minimal conversation melded with engine sounds and the hum of tire to blacktop.
i sat huddled in a wordless questionmark inside a dark void.
my only guess would be that a mother’s questionmark would be a lot bigger in an ever-darkening void.
so, in thinking about connecticut, i multiplied my mother’s sadness by twenty.
and after i did that, i factored moms all over this country and all over the world who had to (and will have to) summon the strength to bury who they had to push through their birth canal and into the light and air, into a world of promise and betrayal; joy and disappointment, winning and losing, famine and thirst, abundance and fortune…..and drones.
can’t forget the drones.
i had to mention the drones.
apparently mothers the world over feel like the mothers of newtown about the loss of their child.

the question whether any of this matters, for me, is answered when i awaken and mistake the sheet and quilt on which i lay for the green-felt, stretched everywhere, beneath everything, something the grifting lizard-guy (who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif) may have told me or simply dropped in my feeble little human hard drive.
as much as one might believe in miracles, there are others who might believe that the same amazingness could be attributed to fate, self-will or glorious-diamond-encrusted-tuxedo and tails-wearing luck.
i’m a firm believer in the latter.
i can change this opinion at will, but i’ve noticed that as i move toward my reunion with the oldest atoms in the universe, these notions gain strength.
besides, it’s only tuesday here.

greetings from the perimeter

sometimes, we attach importance to a moment – as it happens – and it becomes the thread we associate with the coming days and weeks and maybe the unfolding history of the world (or part of it) as it moves forward.
thus, the title of this note.
last sunday – i think it was then – i threw on a set of thermals for the first time this “season,” as opposed to the previous long-john season this past winter.
i checked a small box in my head where the question might have been, “does this begin the stretch of days to weeks to months where layers of clothing will be the rule; in particular, thermals?”
to “time-stamp” this, means the last week of october and for purposes of clarification, the thermals have been worn daily since, not that it’s all so important, the only point being, since the last note posted here, the shoreline of the northeast united states, particularly that of ny and nj, has been altered for all future days.
and between you and me, looking at the storm that was no longer “taking shape,” but has become an awfully devastating matter of fact, i still reel a little, more than three weeks later and having made the camera-held assault on fort tilden last year with the landing of hurricane irene, it was a given that i would do it again with “sandy,” though it would be a day or so later and the unfolding horror of this would magnify with each passing day.
“would it be very different this year?” i wondered, as i structured such questions in my mind.
my answer to that was a resounding, “yes.”
(it’s the same voice that tells me i’m smart as a whip or worthless as a wooden nickle.
a wooden nickel, meaning less, “token or coin,” and more, “to lay caution in one’s dealings,” in this case.
but i never knew that, additionally, a “wooden nickel” was also, “a small shit-stain placed on one’s forehead by someone else’s ass.”
really – you can look it up in the urban dictionary. thank you, innernet.
“i learned something new today…,” i muttered to myself. “…but i don’t think i’ll ever want one of those,” could have followed this.
if my self-esteem suffers a diabetic sugar low and has its way, who knows?
a shit-stain from someone’s “brown-eye” might be a mark (heh-heh) of grandiosity and manic, acid-tinged joy.)
bartender-driven sociological and psychological statements are better kept to a minimum in this day and age.
a scatological movement, small and round as it may be, is still shit to me.

obviously, this post is a rudderless schooner floating on a sea of uncertainty.
there are hundreds of these examples found on side streets and main thoroughfares these past weeks; giant, wooden and fiberglass displaced-items thrust landward, courtesy of tidal surges and high winds.
the photos interspersed here are from forty-eight hours after the storm, a week and forty-eight hours after the storm and another week later, after being told i cannot gain access anywhere in or around gateway national park.
with that, i won’t go on and on about what you’ve no doubt been seeing and hearing for days and weeks now.
for example – the photo below is of a sand-less riis park beach, something i never saw before.

turning west, i photographed fort tilden’s sandless beach. the sand as well as the dunes were gone, too.

there’s a whole bunch more photos at our photobucket link, but i think i need to throw in a reminder;
here’s the road that runs between the dunes and the main portion of fort tilden;

and here’s what happened to it –

“amazing,” is an understatement to me.
it’s yet another reminder of the futility of human arrogance and methinks this planet will be holding more classes to drive this message home in the near future.
oh, boy.

i’m weary from a from a five-year political season with no end in sight even though there’s been an election winner.
one party and the hateful racists who vote with it seem to think that if they’re not happy with the result, the election doesn’t count.
i count from the year before obama won the previous election to now, because of the markedly combative and relentless attacks he’s had to fight off since his inauguration, up to and including all the teadouche-hatespeak, birther crap-assedness and greed-induced bullshit that continually amazes me – how do a bunch of rich white guys convince millions of poorer white guys that it’s in their interest to make the rich guys richer and themselves poorer?
how do you vote against your own best interests?
do you think you’ll get a better seat on the bus? are you stuck in the 1950’s that badly, middle-class white men?
hate makes people do stupid things. incredibly stupid.
but humanity is insane for the most part and it’s done this sort of thing for centuries and as i haven’t said for long-enough, it will never end.
there will always be THAT douchebag or asshat or buzzkill to gum-up whatever “the works,” might be at one time or other, whether it be a utopian dream, civil society or a sunday barbeque.
there will forever be the guy who butts or bullies his or her way into the conversation with, “Listen,” or “let me tell you something,” or “you know what i think?”

thank you, monty python’s “the meaning of life” for your gentle reminder of the exceptional-american point of view.

for weeks, i’ve been sitting before the computer screen unable to speak.
i wander over to facebook where i rail against the convenient stupidity christian conservative republicans and their racist hatespeak spew, making my reactionary replies make me feel like i’m doing something with my graymatter, giving me a sense of purpose.
“look at me! i’m writing; i’m putting pen to paper. i’m saying something meaningful.
it’s too easy.
i come here, a thousand things to speak about, fingers prepared to dance on the keys, thoughts racing with so much to write about – “there’s always something to say, isn’t there?” – but what happens is brainfreeze; large patches of deleted information happening when i scan my thoughts, long moments of staring at fingers, poised motionless, where i can’t even vocalize the long, “….uhhhh…..,” till now, three weeks after starting it.
it’s been happening for almost a year.
the few posts i’ve written were patchworks, things forced to the desktop by frustration, desperation or an “-ation,” i have yet to discover.
i don’t know.
me and motive are not on the best of terms.
…and of course, when faced with the opportunity to stop writing, i do.
gimmee distraction.
anything bright and shiny. anything dark and tragic.
anything….at all.
i retreat to history in order to gather info to support this statement and find that i’ve written seven posts this entire year.
here’s the math;
400 posts in almost five years.
7 posts this year.
that says it all.
and as i type this, my own in-house “douchebag excuse-program,” located in my decaying hard-drive, is attempting to justify this severe lack of output by tying it to my mental state, financial stress, writer’s block, personal assaults, any and all crises – (real or imagined) – and whatever else i can gather to make me not responsible for anything and when this happens, words float up from the depths i attempt to submerge myself under, from my dearest friend who told me this; “a writer writes,” and it’s here that i have to own-up and shut up, causing me to gaze blankly ahead, hoping to quell the voices within, “there, happy now?” –
then, i go….”i’ll chain myself to this desk for three hours a day till i start writing again.”….and other campaign promises, because that’s what i have become, a “rhetoricist,” a word i just made up and googled, only to find out that it has no meaning – not that this ever stopped me – but a blogsite does (linked here) whose current tome has to do with the papacy, an entertaining “something” sure to please anyone who wants to know – in the author’s opinion – who the worst popes of all-time are…
i salute his blog’s name and enjoyed his post.

“but i digress…,” a phrase i may have grown tired of, though i still find comfort in its use.
but yes, the way i manipulate the truth about motive and me, might lie(trans.verb) in the lie(noun).

now’s as good a time as any to consult the glossary of mind and memory.

39. – Visual imagery – The process of forming mental pictures of objects or ideas.

I’ve been relying on visual imagery of one kind or other to excuse me from sitting here, writing this, or anything.
there, i used it in a sentence.
here’s a pic of neural pathways;

here’s a picture of MY (imagined) neural pathways;

this photo, like the others used above, were taken yesterday.
instead of going to my regular gateway national park haunts, something made me go to the very end of the rockaway peninsula, breezy point. i haven’t visited here in over a year, but photographed and wrote here in previous postings.
once, i met a greedhound bond trader who became a meal and a suit and consequently, a grifting-lizard park ranger who, four years ago warned me about letting my dog, maxx, run on the beach during the summer season.
i would learn of this some days later when i returned to fort tilden and chatted with the lizard guy who sounded like eduardo ciannelli and looked like omar sharif.
that was when i found out about their penchant for 1930’s jazz, cab calloway, the unlikely end for ayn rand in 1955 and who the real author of “atlas shrugged” really was.
i miss the lizard guy. he stopped appearing when my dearest friend’s illness became overwhelming for one or both of us.
he told me that there was nothing to read in my head because of all the sadness, or something. i think he was “psychological squeamish,” a condition i made up regarding this particular grifting lizard, due to his inability to get past my love and concern for another human being. they can tear into and burrow through the entire contents of the human skinsack but are stymied by heartache. imagine that.
maybe one day, when i see him parked in the fisherman’s parking lot, he’ll roll down his window and counter this statement because that’s what he does so well.
if you’re new around here, you should know that the grifting lizards from mars can read humanity like a dime-store novel. i love to say “dime-store novel,” so much, i will title my first published novel, poem, song, short-story, essay or op-ed entry, exactly that.

this post ends with me and a 95 year old italian woman weeping in the back room of a brooklyn pork store.
her 58-year-old son was diagnosed with cancer and was dead in less than ninety days. i try to comfort her, but as i understood with my own mother’s crushing loss of her son and my brother, this is not going to happen.
i’m her “young man,” a steady customer and friend of the family for six or seven years now. i call her my girlfriend and we always hug and kiss hello, but when i dropped by for a spicy, greasy hero a while ago to see the store’s metal shutters drawn down and the small handwritten sign taped to it that always portends bad news whenever a small business does it, i thought it was she was who had gone and passed. imagine my surprise….
i wouldn’t know for another week or two that i was wrong and it was her son who died.
it was so sad on so many levels, i couldn’t believe how many.

this note;
the result of a lounge chair on a runway, wrestling shoes and maxx.

my morning was spent in a gray shroud.
i will explain;
it engulfed my car and stretched ahead of it onto the BQE, belt parkway and onto the verrazano bridge; across the staten island expressway to the new jersey turnpike, then all the way down to the final exits in south jersey where “the farm” was, but that’s another story.
this was because;
the plan was to look in on a stranger who used to be my “original-equipment father,” a term i use when speaking about my natural father. he did the “going out for groceries” disappearing act when i was three. i would be raised by a stepfather who has been and remains my father for 53 years.
but this is about the other guy. the one who looks, walks and talks just like me and who, up until last week, had lain comfortably in a field of dementia – up and to the left of the field of ambrosia you might find yourself walking through in any dreamscape or afternoon reverie.

about fifteen years ago (when well into my 40’s), he – my “oef” (original equipment father) – contacted me and asked if we could meet. i said yes, but demanded we did this in a neutral city.
was i still a little angry? maybe. it could have been more along the lines of wanting the option of the “quick get away,” if not impressed with what he had to say.
i took amtrak to philadelphia, met him at the station and went to an italian restaurant to begin the task of hashing out a relationship or something.
the last time he tried this (back in the 1980’s), his agenda was to put me into a restaurant and have me make money for him. i played coy and hustled him into co-signing a bank loan (from a bank that might have had questionable banking practices – imagine that!) and burned him on the whole deal, making me a minor hero to my mother and brothers as the only family member who got even with him for stiffing us on child support.
it might also be mentioned that with this money, i would purchase a 1968 candy-apple-red mustang convertible with a white top and a few months later, go to jail in a tuxedo when defending its ownership.
there might be a lesson regarding “ill-gotten gains” in that…or not. luck or karma is a crapshot.
everything’s a crapshot.
i always look for the green-felt that i believe lies under this reality.

so now, here in the 21st century, i visit my “original-equipment-father,” who became my friend, to await his departure from this mortal coil.
he doesn’t know or recognize me anymore.
he spends his time wrapped-up in hallucinations that play out before him like he’s at a drive-in movie.
when i walk up to the bed, he reaches out idly and grabs my hand, holding it or parts thereof; a finger or three, a thumb; fanned-out metacarpals, the flip-side of the palm, his searching fingers reminding me of the ill-fused bone that connects to my left pinky, a victim of a 1970’s barroom brawl….his hands search and feel and grasp like a newborn; an 86 year-old newborn.
this will end as everything does, not for good or ill; just for its end.
he slept, drifting into the analogue TV screen that i always talk about, returning to its atoms, new and old, “hello, how are you?”…, his nametag saying “hello, my name is….gee, it sure used to matter….back when i was more matter than this……not that anything at this point matters at all…,” and so these thoughts might glitt and skitter, vrrrooom and flash, skitch and vvlingg; sounds i make up and others you make up – it’s all ok, it’s all galactically correct beneath the whispered hush, the lovesong just before the death rattle.
my “oef” left quietly. i wished him well.

i inventory my current “ends”.
these “ends” happen all the time.
these ends begin here or there or even the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension.

three years ago was the last time i caught one. it’s not that they haven’t been here, but i hadn’t reached out for this manner of celestial assistance, sub-atomic aid, bosonoid beatification….

funny how similar things can be, earth and sky…from small and delicate to galactic and beyond measurement.
(not to mention, what a treat to use the word “boson” with “authority” for the first time in a sentence…)
i also noticed that, since i last googled the word “moneystealer,” the republicans have glommed onto the word, using it to define the democratic agenda.

the above photo is the last gasp of a dying star.
now, it’s seeding the universe.
where was i when this started? probably right there!

but i…never mind…

i was sitting in front of where i live when it – the money stealer – drifted toward me, making me stand to capture it.
it settled in my palm, my fingers, slowly and clumsily, forming a cup over it.
i closed my eyes and wished, but it was for something other than money, making me wonder if i was breaking the rules i remember following half a century ago.
this was because all i could do was think of my special friend who, to the best of my knowledge, still breathes and thinks and feels and loves.
i whispered to the money stealer nestled in my hand, “screw the cash. see if you could cut a deal with the martians,” (who might or might not be the same creatures who dispense the money they take from planet earth when making a feast from their farming exploits).
i wondered, like any articulate fifty-seven year-old, seven-year-old, if they were one and the same people (the money-stealer connection and the grifting lizards from mars) and if they might be able to trim the odds, talk to the galactic pit-boss or maybe run enough plays out there on the green felt that lies beneath the fabric of all universes, along with each and every dimension of every other dimension, that might tip the odds so i can make it to my most important luncheon date, ever.

children, even old geezer-children like me who latch onto a glimmer of hope, even if only for a fleeting milli-of-a-millisecond, understands “the moment” even if it comes and goes before it’s recognized. this is because it happens on a nuclear level. i know this like i know my own name, whatever that is at this moment, in this place at this time.

it’s “the little engine that could” that changes the game on a bosonic-level.
(yes, i’ve grabbed the boson by the horns and i’m gonna ride it as much as i can this first time out)

it’s a good time to go to, “the glossary of mind and memory.”

38 – Verbal mediator – a word or phrase that forms a logical connection or “bridge” between two pieces of information; used as a mnemonic.

when i so-gently cradled that floating seed in my hand, the verbal mediator buzzing and whirring inside my head, connected me not only to a childhood moment on the corner of coney island avenue and avenue S, but to “the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension,” where varied protons and neutrons mingled with millions of presents and pasts, nows and thens, heres and theres.
as always, i used it in a sentence.

if this all seems a tad, “what the fuck?”…i’m sorry.

everything you need to learn is in the previous posts which are right here.
there’s even more stuff in future posts, but you’ll need to learn how to really search if you’re gonna find them.
good luck.
that’s all you’ll need.

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