...And Lastly At First...

I’m sitting at the table staring out the window to the snow covered field in the park across the street. The sun is hidden behind a thousand miles of gray clouds. There are massive cargo ships and tankers sleeping in the harbor. There are some layered civilians walking dogs in the snow.

I’m strapped up to what looks like a jet pack to keep my hyper mobile collar bone from slipping and sending me to the floor screaming. There’s the bottle of gin on the table, a Christmas gift, slowly disappearing and a handful of pills that are softening the edges so I don’t have to see them. There are people in the room making light of the day.

It is another end and another beginning.

There’s another chance to start over. There’s another chance to either get it right or screw it up all over again. I tend to screw it up so I can start over again. I’m good at repeatedly polishing the starting line in hopes that I’ll finally blast from it at the sound of the starter’s pistol. I’ve seen success and it looks good on the people who have it. I wonder sometimes how the jacket would fit on me. It would have to slip over the rocket pack behind me. No matter, I’m just biding my time amassing pages and canvasses and ideas. When it comes, I’ll be ready and waiting with a smile and a simple cup of coffee in one of those Greek diner motifs.

We’re all in line for our just reward, aren’t we? And tonight, as if we all prayed and resolved en masse, then God would finally listen and we’d end war, live green and shed pounds. Then I’d be out of a day job, too.

And out there, beyond yonder window breaks a mass of souls and hearts all together rejoicing in the chance to start the whole dance over again. Discarding the old with its weighty chain and strapping on the new and sparkly with its hope and promise. Some feel lonely, some will count their blessings and some will sleep right through it. The ships in the harbor will sound their horns at midnight and a mighty crystal ball will drop over the heads of a million drunken revelers at midnight.

I’ll probably be standing on the balcony looking out at the water wondering if this year will be THE year. Only I know the answer to that, though. I have to make the effort. God told me that once on one of our walks.

It is another ending and another beginning.

Happy New Beginning to one and all. Maybe it will finally be my year. May it finally be your year, too...

Christmas Eve, 2009.

I fell out of bed around the time when the sun lazily peeks over the horizon as if to avoid the oncoming day. I had a bunch of late holiday chores to accomplish before it was all over for the zillionth time including my yearly where-the-hell-did-the-time-go routine. I stood up, groaned, stretched and stumbled to the shower. I turned the water on and waited the minute or two for the room to steam up before stepping into the tub.

There was a moment between stepping into the tub and sticking to the ceiling that I should have realized the room didn’t steam up therefore there was no hot water. As I swallowed my frozen chestnuts I began boiling water for the time-honored tradition of the sponge bath sans a squad of sexy nurses.

It was Christmas Eve and I needed to get a few more things for dinner. I was also due for a good dose of cheer and good will toward men. I felt a little better this year than last but there is still something about this time of year that leaves me yearning for something I can’t define. I took my shopping list, my camera and my bent for lonesome nostalgia and headed out into my Brooklyn.

I stopped at Ravioli Fair for a ring of cheese and parsley sausage and stepped into my grandmother’s Ghost of Christmas Kitchen Past. There was everything from rice balls to stuffed artichokes and a million other delights that made Christmas special all those years ago. I went in for sausage and came out 75 bucks lighter and with three shopping bags of food. Did I mention Trace was spending the entire day doing the feast of seven fishes and was at this moment, cooking her brains out over the stove?

I visited Maggio’s, the old music school I spent my youth in. As soon as I stepped into the store a slice of the traditional six foot mixed hero was thrust into my hands on a plate with potato salad and macaroni salad. I spent an hour taking bites and talking about the good old days, the characters that come through and the way things have changed. They went from a local music store that equipped every kid in the neighborhood with a guitar and the desire to be the next Van Halen to moving the whole thing largely to the internet because in this new Bensonhurst, there are no aspiring rock stars that play anything other than Rock Band.

I watched Big Angelo polish off the roast beef with extra mayo, complain in Italian about his diabetes and chug two canolis. Joe was salivating while trying to maintain composure. He was holding off because there was the feast of a thousand fishes waiting at home. Pale Eddie was busy helping a customer select a harmonica while trying not to make it obvious that was struggling with a mouthful of food. The Old Man and I spoke about my father, his father and business. He said people wondered why he didn’t retire to Florida. He said, “What am I gonna do in Florida, pull my prick until I die?” He had a point. He wondered where my hair went and said my new look was debonair. It wasn’t by choice.

We hugged, exchanged well wishes and I waved goodbye. I took a deep breath of cold December air tasting on it a little bit of everything; pizza from Pizza Den, cookies from West End bakery and coffee from the diner on the corner.

I took the New Blue Monster, ie the new leased CRV, around to my father’s block. I know I shouldn’t dwell on the past, that the best is supposedly yet to come, but I felt like painting a picture of the old block in my mind. I turned the corner and with my mind, saw all the old neighbors and friends on the block. I remembered the old light displays in the windows and the snow men here and there. The girls would come by and call for my sister and I was content to stay in and watch the specials on TV while dreaming of living in the Christmas tree. Don’t tell me you’ve never done that.

I paused in front of my father’s house and thought about that time we built a snow fort in the front that took up the entire front yard. Then there was the time that he, Trace and I went outside during a snow storm at 1am and built a snowman and brought a snowball fight into the house.

I don’t have to tell you that I still miss him.

Tonight there’d be dinner and family and a glowing tree. Outside there’d be snow and ice and a cold crisp night. There would still be no hot water but that’s what the stove is for. I’ll stand out on the balcony and look up at the stars imagining there really is a man named Kringle who exists purely to bring joy to the world. That there is a flying sleigh and a place hidden way up north where all they do is make toys and dance and sing. That one day there will be on earth peace, and good will toward men.

You can call that sappy, and maybe it is. Probably because I showered with my chestnuts in my throat this morning and I’m still waiting to roast them on an open fire just to defrost them...

I hope you’re with someone you love, and more importantly, someone who loves you. Be of good cheer. Believe in magic. Look at the world with the wonder of a child, even if only for one night. And don’t forget to set out milk and cookies….

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you from me….

Zombies From Bensonhurst, Ep II.

The actual assignment was to photograph the rotting old ships and barges in Coney Island Creek on behalf of one of my various art-loving benefactors. I was more interested in revisiting our recent zombie citing in the marshlands. The plan was to snap a few shots and then explore the rest of the inlet to find out if there were really undead congregating back there.

*Expense Account Item #1: New front bumper with paint on leased Honda Accord.* We discovered the actual No Trespassing signs after accidentally blasting though one of the flimsy concrete barriers blocking our way to the field.

We hacked through the weeds and came out on a rise overlooking the desolate lagoon. We were surprised to find the tide had gone completely out of the inlet leaving most of the old hulls completely exposed. We were looking at a vast empty basin of thick oily sludge the shape of a giant boot heel in the mud. There were bottles, big tires, engine blocks and other industrial waste embedded in the sludge. It was an archaeologist’s dream and an ecologist’s nightmare. I thought I’d walk around the rocks following the coast to the other side to get closer to the ships I was getting paid the photograph. I left Trace up on the ridge while I went down to the sand. I took a few steps, slipped on something and tumbled down over the rocks to the wet grungy sand below. My clothes had torn and I twisted an ankle on the stones and found myself stuck in the mud. I extracted myself with a sucking sound and rolled on my hands and knees to stand up. I was covered in a thick brown/gray oily sludge that clung to me like undercooked oatmeal. There was sand on my face, in my mouth and in my underwear. I looked up to the rock and found a bright brown pile with my footprint in it.

I heard Trace call from up the ridge, “Is that-“

“Crap!” I yelled. “40,000 acres of deserted wasteland and I have to step in a pile of dog crap!”

*Expense Account Item #2: One gallon industrial cleaner, one wire brush, one pair industrial rubber gloves, one respirator mask.*

“Um, that’s probably not from a dog.”

“Well, what the hell else would it be? Ewwww, you don’t mean…”

“Yep, Zombie doodies.”

“Will you stop with that already, it’s probably just a dog.”

“Or not.”

“Dude, this is no time for jokes. I probably have people crap, human excrement…on my freaking pants and I look like a breaded cutlet!”

“Zombie doodies.” She said.

I dragged Trace, who was in obvious nasal discomfort and limped slowly to the edge of the outlet. I was not at all in a good position to shoot the ships from this vantage point. I needed to get across the inlet where the ships were closer to the shore. I stared out at the wet expanse.
Trace saw the look on my face and beat me to the punch, “You can’t make it.”

“I can walk across.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Totally.”

“Dude, it’s further than it looks. You’ll sink into the mud and the tide, which is coming back in will basically drown you and the Zombies will eat your brain. Let me have the car keys just in case.”

“I can make it. It’s not that far.”

I took ten limping painful steps and promptly got stuck mid calf in the mud. I began flailing and waving my arms around for balance as I was cursing up a storm. Trace tip toed out on the mud flat, surprisingly buoyant, and grabbed my arm. She tried to steady me and pull me out but I fell on her and we struggled to stay upright. There I was grunting with exertion and Trace yelling at me, “Stop, stop! Let go, you’re going to make us both fall!!”

Suddenly, a couple of hipsters with cameras sprang from the weeds behind Trace and unleashed an unearthly howl as they charged us….

“ZOMBIE!!” the first one screamed. “HIGH SPEED BRAIN MUNCHING RABID ZOMBIE JUST LIKE IN THAT BLOG!!” “Look, its attacking that poor girl, GET IT WITH THE SALT SHOT GUN!”

Salt shot gun?

Trace fell away from me just a one of them pulled out a sawed-off and let off a shot, “PWAFF!”. I was felled by a searingly painful burst of salt pellets to the groin and fell over face first into the mud – again. Since when do hipsters love guns?

*Expense Account Item #3: One pair testicles with titanium cup.*

I awoke about an hour later strapped to the trunk lid of the Honda. My head was splitting and my crotch was throbbing but not in a good way.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“You’re about to go through a car wash because you’re not getting in the car like that. Those idiots read your stupid blog and came to see for themselves. They saw you falling over in the mud all tattered and covered in crap they thought you were a zombie attacking me. Just as they were about to ventilate your cranium I got the gun away from them and made them tie you to the car. I told them I was taking the zombie to, “The Institute” for study. They were all too happy to oblige, stupid hipsters. Now shut up and hold your breath, its bath time…”

As the car slowly entered the car wash and the hot sudsy water lapped at my feet, I thought perhaps it best if I gave up on the zombies. Then again, dancing with the undead sure beats working construction with Johnny Style….

Tales From My Brooklyn: The Search For Sausage

I was stumped for sausage. I made a batch of cheese and parsley links last night for stuffing that turned out to be horribly bad. Instead of a fragrant spicy aroma, the room was plastered with the stench of scorching Velveeta. Nothing says you have no idea what you’re doing in the kitchen like a pot full of gurgling burning cheese. The meat didn’t cook, it drowned in cheese. It was a coronary night mare.
I killed Thanksgiving.

I had no choice but to start over. It was however, 11pm on Thanksgiving Eve…After a night of uneasy dreams of being strangled by links of cheese sausage while hanging over a vat of burning Velveeta I fell out of bed. Splashed water on my face and left, making sure I was wearing pants.

I fell out of bed and headed out the door. I returned to put on pants and resumed my mission. The streets were deserted. The stores were closed. Well, the food stores were closed, the hardware store was open.

*Because no one may need food on the biggest cooking day of the year, but they may in fact, need a ladder. *

I tried the various avenues and side streets. I tried my butcher (closed) and my supermarket (“You mean like, frozen sausage for pizza?”) and the Korean grocer which resulted in a back and forth mispronunciation-fest that ended in both of us looking puzzled at each other and saying, “Susshhhssshhaaghhhesss…?!”

Despondent, I drove the dirty streets of this dirty city thinking of all the children, old folks and puppies I’d be disappointing if I came up dry. Then I realized I didn’t have any children, old folks or puppies and it hit me like a bolt out of the blue; what do you think of when you think of puppies? Yes, ravioli! I knew where I needed to be. Ravioli Fair on 86th would have the best sausage and all the Italian goodies that used to populate my grandmother’s table.
It’s a Thanksgiving Miracle, they were open!

There were a couple of guys behind the counter surrounded by the best Italian delights a guy like me could hope for. They offered me a cup o joe and a few rings of fried calamari. I thanked them for being open and saving the day and one of them said in his thick accent from home, “Hey, I’ve been open Thanksgiving morning for 32 years, I ain’t gonna change that. And besides, what am I gonna do home anyways?”
The two customers next to me were eating some fresh homemade stuffing out of pint containers and cooing over the Neapolitan flair of it. The conversation was light and jovial. The atmosphere was festive and perfect. There was no rush or fuss. There was no emergency because they had simply the most beautiful sausages I ever saw. I bought three rings. One of the counter guys brought out a fresh pie of pizza rustica which I haven’t had since Nona’s passing, some20 years ago. I bought a hunk and took a bite as I sipped my coffee. This is what home is supposed to taste like.

This was my Brooklyn. A place where you could go into a store and talk to the counter guys like they’ve known you for years. Where they offer you a cup of coffee and a sample with a proud smile. I could hang out at places like this all the time. I sometimes wish I made it big only so I could pass my days with these characters that would populate the pages of my books should I ever get to writing them all down. So much of my Brooklyn is disappearing and being replaced by a mythical vision created by hipsters and transplants who “saw it in a movie” and decided to recast it in that image. It’s not real but where I’m from still exists if you know where to find it. Thankfully, as I sit with my family and eat myself into a coma as I hope you’re doing, I feel lucky to still call it my home.

Zombies From Bensonhurst, Ep I.

Zombies. That’s all I need right now. I’m never prepared for an encounter with the living dead. Never have a supply of salt or a shot gun. I do have a selection of heavy tools like hammers and drivers in the trunk of the car. But the car was about a half mile away in the parking lot of Home Depot. So that meant Trace, Katie of the Rockettes, Johnny Style and I were on our own in the forgotten wilderness of Brooklyn. All I had was my camera, some gum and a can-do attitude….

I was dying to get some shots of post apocalyptic Coney Island Creek with it’s crumbling decay and carcasses of rotting ships. It was an urban ruin paradise. This area was given up on years ago as industry advanced. Now it is just a dead place behind a Home Depot with strange growth of weeds and trees and earth. Burned and rotting hulks of long forgotten vessels slowly sink into the mud beneath the sluggish brown-green water. There is nothing left of some but the ribs and some scattered decking. There are also remnants of piers and bits of beautifully rusted metal. Listing permanently in the toxic mud is a small rotting submarine, a local celebrity left to die an undignified death among the sludge. It was once destined to help raise the Andrea Doria but an impatient crane operator lowered her prematurely into the water at her launch. She rolled over and her investors disappeared quicker than doughnuts at a Weight Watcher’s Anonymous meeting. You could almost hear the entire place give off a long haunted painful groan.

I wanted my pals to see all this natural beauty before the developers came in and “Disneyfied” it. I unsheathed my camera and began shooting what composed itself in my lens while the others began wondering why they were there. I tend to get lost in my work and ignore everyone else until the feeling passes. Could take hours. Thankfully, The Party Vikings are aware of this and put up with it. I snapped about 40 quick pics when Katie of the Rock began complaining that she had to pee and was wondering if Home Depot had a bathroom. Johnny, also in a state of urinary distress was prepared to relieve himself in the creek. “What? Like its drinkable water…” said he. Crazy Tracy simply sighed and muttered, “Here we go again, I’m going back to the car for a nap.” “Oh, come on, you guys, this place is awesome.” I pleaded. “It’s broken and alone, strangely quiet and left behind.” I said. “Oooh, a total vacation spot, “Johnny said, “ Too bad I didn’t bring the spf 30 and some swim trunks.”

I snapped a few pics of the ships lying half submerged and half on the sand of the shore. Just as we were beginning to make the usual “this is where they dump the bodies” jokes we saw something that sent a chill up my spine: in the distance, off to the side on the shoreline there was a rustling in the reeds. I ignored it at first but then after composing a few more shots with the zoom there was a distinct shape emerging from the thicket. A man in a cammo hoodie and pants appeared and was fumbling around the shoreline. He was making these awkward strained movements, slow and jerky hunched over as if he were trying to lift a heavy sack of flour. He was also fumbling with a fishing pole making very ungraceful cast offs into the shallow mucky water.

“What could he possibly be fishing for out here?” asked Johhny.

“Brains?” Replied Trace. She had a flair for the morbid.

“Ok, now I really have to pee.” said Katie Rock.

Johhny began to worry. “Um, what would that guy be doing all the way out here? There’s no fishing here. There’s nothing alive here.” I reassured them that it was probably just a homeless guy fishing for his supper. We should be respectful and leave him be.

We made our way around the shore by cutting across the inlet keeping the homeless guy to our left. He was in plain sight now though we could only see him from the waist up. The hood was up over his face so we saw no detail, not even skin color. His clothes were somewhat tattered and dirty. He was still struggling with something heavy and awkward. The hump to his back was more pronounced and he moved as if he was in great pain. He still hadn’t noticed us though we made no attempt to hide.

I was anxious to take advantage of the light and low tide to get some great shots of the wood and the metal. We buried ourselves in another area over grown with weeds, trees and cement refuse to get closer to the dead submarine. I was in my glory shooting streaks of rust on concrete, aging blackened wood slowly bleaching in the sun and the murky green water lapping at the old hulls. While I was snapping blissfully away I felt the tug of a hand on my jacket.

“What”?

“Um…” it was Katie. I had assumed she peed herself by now so I just kept at my work.

Another tug, another, “Um….” T’was Trace. I kept shooting, lost in the orange oxide streaking and gleaming in the golden sunlight.

*NOTE: STAR WARS REFERENCE COMING

A final tug and Johnny, “Um…that’s no moon…” Finally in a huff I drop my camera and turn. I see the three of them all facing left and staring wide and glassy. I follow their gaze and finish the sentiment, “…that’s a space station…”

The strange homeless guy was now wringing out what appeared to be a bloody t-shirt. He was grunting softly and struggling to squeeze out the thick liquid that dripped like maple syrup in December.

“Maybe we should go see if there’s a bathroom in Home Depot after all.” I said. We moved together closed tight like a single blood cell silently navigating through an atherosclerotic artery. We were about two thirds of the way to the car moving very slowly to avoid detection. I wanted to get a picture of the man who was now hunched over in the dirt and rocking back and forth with the t-shirt. I raised my camera.

Trace: Is there something wrong with you?

Johhny: Um, serial killers don’t like their pictures taken (in a hushed hiss).

Katie Rock: Dude, seriously.

I presented the evidence: the erratic movements, the strange posture, the groaning, the blood and the inability to see his face- because there was no face. We weren’t dealing with a homeless man but in fact, a member of the undead, a phantasm, a Zombie. Just as I finished, the flesh-hungry undead man suddenly stopped rocking and looked up as if he sniffed something on the air. My heart beat faster. He slowly turned his head to us, his face totally concealed by the hood. He rose and squared himself to us. The front of the hoodie and his pants were stained a wet looking black.

We gasped...

Katie spoke first in a hoarse whisper, “Well, I no longer need the bathroom.”

Johnny replied, “It’s okay, you can run faster now.”

“Romero or 28 Days?” Trace asked as she was tearing the flesh off my arm with her white-knuckle-death grip. She was referring to the type of Zombie. Would this be the slow lumbering kind made famous in George Romero’s Living Dead series or would this be the more terrifying Speed Zombie popularized in recent films like 28 Days? I had no answer. We began to move en masse toward safety. The Zombie followed with his body, took a few uneasy steps toward us... and suddenly charged.

Screaming like a bunch of teenage girls on prom night, we bolted for the car.

It's like I told you at the beginning; I’m never prepared for an encounter with the living dead. Never have a supply of salt or a shot gun. I do have a selection of heavy tools like hammers and drivers in the trunk of the car. All I had was my camera, some gum and a can-do attitude….

To Be Concluded...

This is only a test

Messing with templates here. Can't seem to get the date to post....Hey, Joey, any thoughts?

Night of the Party Moms, An Accomplice: NY Adventure (First in a series)

Standing on my particular corner of the urban theatrical experience that is Accomplice: New York, I’m waiting on a large group of women to come my way, the third group of the day. The neighborhood is busy, tourists are everywhere. It’s summer, hot humid and sticky. There is no breeze on the sidewalk under the scaffolding so I also have a nice sheen of sweat all over. I’m wearing faded jeans, work boots, a black tank top, the orange mesh worker vest and the yellow hard hat. In my opinion, I do not look like a burly construction dude, I am an homage to 70’s gay culture oiled up and ready for delivery.

The group gets to the corner across the street. I get into character, prepare to ignore them and throw them off the trail. As they cross the street I size them up. It’s important to figure out the nature of the group. You’d think everyone who pays for the experience would be in a good mood and want to play along but that isn’t always the case. Some are tired or hungry. Sometimes the groups don’t all get on well with each other. In any event, I have to decide how to play with them so they all have a good time.

One quick look says it all; Party Moms. Damn, why did it have to be party moms? The Suburban Party Mom is a class unto itself. They are the women who are usually stranded at home with kids in the summer and are pulling their hair out looking for an escape. They are out for a good time and quick to have a drinky drink and start dancing on tables. This far into the tour they have either had a drink or twelve, have to pee or are getting hungry. This makes them very lose and uninhibited. The husbands are congregating in someone’s garage or bar or boat doing suburban man things and so the moms, all hot and sweaty and whooping it up, are unchained and heading my way.
They get to the site, check it out for clues and facts like good little amateur detectives. They look around, toy with the lock on the gate and knock on the plywood to make sure it’s a real site. Then one spots me. I talk on the phone to whoever is in my mind at the time. Right now it’s Johnny Style and we’re talking about hot rods. With the other ear I listen for their progress.
“Maybe it’s this guy, he’s the only one standing around”, says one. “And who does construction on a Saturday?” offers another. “And what construction worker has a purple phone?”

NB: I happen to like purple. So what if my iPhone case is purple? Some of the coolest muscle cars of the era were painted Plum Crazy Purple. Very manly. Look it up.

They continue, “And look at his boots; they’re in too good of a shape to be real”. And then it all goes to a weird place: “Go ask if it’s him”. “Mmmm, look at his muscles, ask him to take off his shirt”. “Hell, ask him to take off every thing!” And soon I am surrounded by sweaty over sexed middle aged women who are now pawing at me like I’m choice sirloin slathered in A-1. One woman on my right with dyed red hair and massive jugs is running her hand up and down my arm telling me, not asking me if I’m the guy they’re supposed to meet. Another on my left is snuggling up to me feeling my meager musculature and a third is getting it all on film. They have decided in their wanton lust that I am the guy. Even if I’m not, I am the guy. A confirmatory pinch of my nipple though the flimsy shirt further stimulates their interest.

It should be noted here that some may find this a tad over the top. Some have said it’s not appropriate for people to grope the talent. Not me, baby. You throw me into a gaggle of horny drunk party moms who paid for the meat and I am ready for action. Who am I to shatter their fourth wall illusions?

I go though my routine in character, a 15 minute private comedy/improv show for the receptive group who collectively hoots and whoops as I pick on them individually. We exchange the necessary information and I start to wrap it up. They don’t want to leave because they are having so much fun disproving my previous though about being a gay icon. If they have fun, I have fun. I’m making them happy, my bosses happy and my ego happy. Win/win all around. Alas, though I love to please, I must send them on their oversexed way. We part with blown kisses, the odd grope to my posterior and a few flirtatious suggestions from the Moms. I’m wondering if I can count this collective moment as one more notch on my belt.

I am a wild party.