As I made my way home from rehearsal late this evening, I happened to pass by two remarkably fast cars, both parked alongside the street, unattendedly inviting. The first was parked on W. 30th St. between 8th and 7th, guarded only by a woman who stood to the side, lighting a cigarette. A woman who looked like she'd lain on pavement littered with glass, her pack of cigarettes and bodega matchbook within reach.

It was a ferrari from the fifities. Delicate. As red as the woman's nail polish. It was a convertible with seats covered by a black leather rain seal, the driver's side having a curved metal head guard.  The front was most remarkable for the grill between the wheels and an added air-intake vent which seemed to grow seamlessly out of the hood.  This car, parked in an abandoned fashion on a dirty, empty street in midtown manhattan. It could have been 1987 and the owner could be living in a loft apt. directly above it. The squeegee men would wait by the car each morning for the owner to leave his home and drive down the West Side Highway to work.  I made my way to the subway and waited for my ride home.

Caroline in the city
She’s walking along the west side highway
Watching the cruise ships in their trestles
This is how you get to be something

Caroline, Caroline,
Caroline, you're more than the pictures show

After I rose from the 2nd Ave. stop on Allen St., I passed by a corvette painted the deepest blood red. Classy, I thought, for a corvette.  Contemporary 'vettes always seemed a bit class-less to me. Crass and low brow. A sports car for the undiscerning.  This one, however, was the exception.  It's rear had the distinctive raised width of a corvette with the classic circular tail lights. As I approached, however, I noticed that the car was much smaller than most corvettes. Shorter in length, it retained the power and torque suggested by the classic oversized modern corvette body style, but it was much more of an agile roadster. The front was indistinct, except for it's suggestion of speed and wealth. This was a powerful and sexy little car. High-end.

Caroline is a poor excuse
A little girl in a low cut sweater
A grown-up girl should be much stronger
This is how you get to be something
 
Caroline, Caroline,
Caroline, you're more than the pictures show

I live in a very odd section of town. One which, in many ways, speaks to the mid-town and soho of my romanticized 1980's Manhattan. There's nothing new about the topic of gentrification. That it is defined by the lower east side is even less interesting.  The Corvette was parked in front of city housing on the corner of Allen and Stanton. On the other side of the street was a high-end luxury hotel. I've walked in front of it and passed Lamborghinis and rolls royces.  This car was on the other side of the street from that world, however, and looked so vulnerable, vulnerable and imposing. 


In my own modest way, I'm as imposing a feature on this neighborhood as any. Wrapped in the delicate frills of my so-called "art", I live here because it is convenient to the clubs I play in for tips.  If those clubs were my only source of income I would not live here. I would probably be lying upon the pavement of an outer-borough, sharing a cigarette with the woman who guarded the Ferrarri. My presence and my business is somehow imposed upon this neighborhood and this city. I was not born of this place. I was not sprung from these streets, and though I try not to apologize for something so insignificant as my presence here, the ludicrousness and falsity of my living in this neighborhood tails me subtly like a shadow. Hangs above and behind my head close enough so that when I whip my head around I can't see it.

Caroline is in bad shape
The asphalt feels just like water
She isnt sure if she’s been drinking
This is how you get to be something
Caroline I think you could be something

Caroline, Caroline,
Caroline, you're more than the pictures show
Caroline, Caroline,
Caroline, you're more than the pictures show