So, I've done a few posts about old New York. This is a bit I wrote for a friend (well, acquaintance) that was going to publish a book of his NYC rock band paintings (hey, it was in France, they'll go for anything). Nothing ever came of it, but here's what I wrote, regardless.

 

Back before it was a Sex in the City/Wall Street-bonus/trust-fund boutique/Olsen twins nightmare, New York City's East Village was a very small town. Everyone seemed to wind up in the same places and eventually knew each other at least well enough to exchange a nod or a smile during a wait on the (long, slow, what is he doing in there anyway?) line for the bathroom. Happens once or twice more (a show in a basement on the West Side Highway, a party on top of the World Trade Center), eventually you exchange a few words and soon discover a whole connected galaxy of friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, co-workers, classmates, bandmates… which is how many of the bands who are pictured here came into existence. No plan of world domination, just a shared idea, a common purpose, a mutual goal and maybe even an occasional excuse to get loaded and make noise.

 

It was a scene that had gone on for years, but the mid-late 90s could be called its last gasp: Until the four horsemen of the previous paragraph arrived, the population was still dominated by families and businesses of Polish/Ukranian/Puerto Rican/Dominican origin and the rents and the bars were cheap enough that the artsy minority could live on their erratic income. After all, a high-paying job makes too many demands on time to allow you to start the evening graffiting the bathroom with a girl in a prom dress at an art opening in a coffee shop on Avenue A and end it with the bottom of the bottle and a fresh donut on a rooftop in Chinatown at 6 a.m. In between, it could've been a trip to a fashion show, to an Indian restaurant, to a rent party, to an opera box, to a punk rock gig, to a bodega with a rock critic, a corporate lawyer, a contortionist, a housewife, a male stripper, Beck…. But not matter how far you went, suddenly, eventually, inevitably a face from the bathroom line would swim into view, reminding you that you were part of a small circle that seemed to contain a whole city. And that you had just enough time to make it back below 14^th Street before last call.

 

Not that it was all golden: Sometimes is seemed like the real reason everyone had such a small scene was so as not to have to reach too far to stab you in the back (the sleeves on this jacket are pretty tight and I really don't feel like actually lifting my arm anyway, y'know.) Some bands imploded in conflicting ambitions, shattered relationships, or the realization that having some A&R's expense account pay for that $60 entrée on Fifth Avenue meant that you could pick up even more $10 bags on 5^th Street. Life as theater gave way to reality television—once The New York Times and MTV came calling with big corporations and big money at their heels, everyone started looking. Which meant that people started coming just to be seen, eventually crowding out those who were actually doing something.

 

These paintings offer an image that evokes the time and the people—gaunt, black-clad, poised in space like chess pieces or flung about like broken glass, depending on the band and the hour. But it was more than just an image and a soundtrack. It was the basement-damp n' cigarette-musty smell of the Ludlow Rehearsal Studios, where rats sometimes took up residence in the amps and someone always kicked over a lukewarm coffee mid-set. Maybe the taste of a cheese-stretching slice of Sal's pizza or an East Houston bagel, wolfing down sustenance at the beginning or end of another busy night, trying to use my less-dirty hand and not talk with my mouth full to everyone who says hello.

 

Or the warmth of the overcranked heat lamps and track lighting of the Max Fish bar, where the glare not only illuminated work by local artists, but invited the patrons to strip down to whatever threadbare T-shirt or designer party dress they happened to be wearing. (Although I do recall Alan the bartender bouncing anyone who went fully naked before last call.) As some of this art was on those walls, most of these bands were on the jukebox. That jukebox also often played Vince Guraldi's "Linus and Lucy"—I have a vivid memory of one last-call night that ended with several of us frantically doing the twist to "The Charlie Brown Song" as Princess Superstar climbed atop a chair, doffed her pimp hat and began yelling "Fuck being cool! Fuck the East Village!" Because, hip as it all was, that wasn't the point. The point was to create something, to create your art, whatever form it might take. And, well, if you could look good and hit a few parties while doing it, so much the better.

I have a nervous breakdown every time I go to New Orleans. After four days of bourbon, clarinets and cemeteries--well, to make a long existential crisis short, life just wasn't worth living. My friend threw me out of the hotel room, claiming my whimpering on the balcony kept her awake. With five hours until a 6am flight, I wandered aimlessly through the streets, eventually winding up at a dive on the far edge of the French Quarter frequented by old men and punk kids. I sit at the end of the bar, makeup cried off, carrying myself like my bones might break.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

I never talk to strangers, being from New York City, but I'm drunk, I'm miserable and all bets are off. "Nothing. Everything. You know."

 

"Yeah." I look up: about 26, brownish-blonde hair, reminds me of a recording engineer I used to screw around with and a bass player I interviewed once. Somehow there's a conversation from there and he buys me drinks, lets me talk too much, even manages to make me giggle, eventually. But will I sleep with him, because that's where this is going. I mean, I figure I would, any woman knows whether or not she would within a minute, but the should and the will take a little longer. But I'm in the prime mindset to make a bad decision and, well, fucking a stranger might make me feel better. Or worse.

 

 He suggests we go to another bar. It's rained while we were inside: the streets shine and the shadows deepen. "People disappear here all the time," they tell me--endless liquor, plentiful drugs, high murder rate, ghosts. People lose their reason. We walk back toward Bourbon Street, arm in arm, the whine of saxophones and roar of fratboys rising. A few more blocks to a smaller dive, the end of the bar again. He introduces me to his friends, none of whom seems surprised or even interested. Maybe he brings in teary-eyed out-of-town blondes every night. There's probably a lot of them around.

 

A few more drinks, he finally leans over and kisses me. Then the tumble into the taxi, driver adjusting the rearview, depending on whether or not he wants to watch. His apartment is high-ceilinged with slanted floors, empty except for a couch--he just moved here, so at least there's nothing to make awkward small talk about. I sit on his lap and within a few minutes he slides inside me: no shifting weight, no feeling for the angle, no pulling out and trying again--perfect fit. It's over before we remember to take our clothes off, but soon we're already trying to find another feasible position on the couch. I roll onto the floor and pull him on top of me. Bruises begin blooming on the small of my back and--Oh, Christ. "Ummmm...I have something really terrible to tell you."

 

He stops. "Yeah?"

 

"I--oh--this is awful. I--I forgot your name."

 

He laughs, kisses me. "Andrew."

 

We climb back up on the couch, I crawl under a sheet, cold but mostly sobering into self-consciousness. He tugs my hair, runs a hand between my legs and slips underneath me. I dig my nails into his shoulder, he tears off the covers. "What is this shyness thing? You're fucking beautiful."

We lie there until--"Holy shit! My plane leaves in an hour!" We run out to a payphone, call a taxi and wait, alternately making out and calling the dispatcher. I snuggle against the back of his neck, hand down the front of his pants while he bitches into the receiver and the sun rises. The cab never comes, the plane is gone, we give up and go inside.

 

In the bathroom, I stare at the shelf over the toilet: Royal Crown hair grease, Barbasol shaving cream. "I hope you're not putting your underwear back on," he hollers. I throw them at him. We fuck twice more. I hear a schoolbus outside as I fall asleep in his arms. Five hours later, he scribbles down his address while I brush my teeth.

 

I kiss Andrew twice and get into the cab, not looking back. As we ride toward the airport, I dig for the address. I can't find it. I don't know whether I lost it or picked up the wrong scrap of paper, but...nothing. I smile out at the freeways and bright blue skies, almost liking the lame song on the radio. Perhaps they're only kind because they're strangers.

As I flip through my old journals and discs, I figured maybe I'd post some of the mosre amusing--and, more importantly, already inputted into a computer--stuff. Here's a piece I wrote, oh, almost 10 years ago. I was trying to get a job at the New York Press and this effort got me a trip into the editors to be damned with faint praise and called "kind of old." I wasn't yet 28 at the time. And both of them were well past 40. But, well, if I needed other people's approval or appreciation to keep me alive, I'd have died back during the Reagan administration. Your hate makes me strong. One day, hopefully it will make me strong enough to kill....

Since I don't want to provoke any police orders and padlocks, I won't reveal exactly where I dragged my friend Charlie Brown on his birthday. Charlie had made it to his 28th year of being alive and his fourth being out without going to a proper strip joint--a professional place staffed by professional people, not the back room at the Cock or the lavatory at the Boiler Room. So, after hearty amounts of barbecue and brown liquor, Charlie, his boyfriend Linus, two girlfriends—Baby Girl and Lula--and myself tilted across Times Square just in time for the last "show."

 

Over the HoJo's, up the narrow staircase, slide 10 bucks to the disinterested hag behind the bulletproof glass, and slip through the turnstile into a dingy room with a dozen rows of soiled theater seats facing a small, sticky stage ringed with shredded silver tinsel and signs reading "NO SEXUAL ACTIVITY PERMITTED BY ORDER OF THE POLICE." I never tire of trying to figure out how to steal one of these for my bedroom. Charlie Brown and Linus alone would've stood out in this crowd of dumpy, middle-aged gay men, but three chicks decked out in leopard print, cowboy hats, and midriff tops were about as conspicuous as IRS agents at a Willie Nelson gig, and about as welcome...

 

Procedure: the stripper comes out, parades around, doffs his shirt and flirts with his fly, then goes backstage to fluff before returning full-frontally nude. Tips and applause are directly proportional to the angle of the hard-on. If you get bored--for me, the thrill usually wears off around the third or fourth penis unless something remarkable pops up--you can always bring a watch with a second hand and time how long it takes Tommy or Rico or Schuyler to get the little soldier to salute.

 

Since it's a weekday, there isn't the usual something-for-everybody selection--just a succession of buff, body-waxed, wholesome-looking white guys. Baby Girl is disappointed there aren't any brothers "or at least Puerto Ricans," I'm disappointed there aren't any skinny, tattooed boys. A cute, smiley blonde guy makes amusing little sound effects while he strokes his cock. Linus declares him "fabulous" and decides he must go up front with the most aggressively dirty old men and tip him. Lula strikes a blow for women's rights that would shame Susan B. Anthony (in more ways than one) and joins Linus. A tall, military-looking crew cut guy seems shy on his semi-clothed run, but returns with an aura of confidence and a dick big enough to make even this crowd of jaded old queens gasp. Baby Girl and Lula somehow hear the call of nature over the Top 40 soundtrack and go look for the ladies' room. I sincerely wish them luck. A very tall, chiseled model-type shrugs and grins charmingly when he doesn't come out quite as solid as hoped.

 

I go back to see what's become of them and literally bump into the tall stripper as he comes offstage. "Hey! It's a another one!"

"Uh, yeah. Where are the girls?" He laughs, points to a bench half-behind a partition, where Baby Girl and Lula are chatting with the funny-noise guy. His name's Marcus, he's from Canada. Just as I sit down, an attendant sidles up: "I'm sorry, but could you ladies to go back into the theater? Some of the customers feel uncomfortable going into the bathroom with women outside." I'll bet they do, friend, I'll bet they do. We obey, giggling and getting dirty looks.

 

After two more hustlers, the house lights blaze up and a disembodied voice urges us to get out but come again. As we file out the door, Marcus stops us---"Hey! Aren't we going to hang out?"

He corrals the tall stripper, Erick, and another one, Jean. He wants to stop by their hotel to shower, so eight of us pack into his tiny hotel room over at the Milford Plaza--Or was it the Comfort Inn?--channel-surfing cable, flipping though porno and monster truck magazines. Erick announces, "You girls cost me money! I can never get it up enough when there's women out front."

"They tell you when there's girls?"

"Yeah, the guy came back and said, 'Hey, there's girls out there.' And we're like 'Are they nice?' And he says 'Yeah, they're cute, I think they're strippers.' Hey, are you?"

We laugh that one off. He shrugs and rifles through Marcus' luggage, yanks out a studded leather harness. "What's this?"

Marcus, shaving with a towel around his waist, like some kind of studly shaving cream ad, answers him in French, the secret stripper language. Erick gives the item another suspicious glance before tossing it aside to look for something else incriminating. Strangely, I'm not turned on by any of this—granted, I've never been into musclemen, but once you know that a guy waxes his asshole, somehow he's just not sexy anymore.

Charlie Brown dispassionately flips through a porno mag--male/female S&M, hence nothing that would interest him much. "I'm tired."

"What d'you mean, you're tired? You're in a hotel room full of strippers! Don't I show you a good time?"

"I had to work late."

 

So where to take a bunch of French-Canadian strippers on a Tuesday night in New York City? Linus suggests Beige, but they just came from a roomful of horny old men. Baby Girl half-jokingly suggests we take them to Max Fish, an idea that proves too weird to resist. After our Fellini-esque entrance—much to my delight, it is witnessed by my arch-rival for the affections of a certain skinny, tattooed boy, but that is another story for another time--I go fetch the drinks, since Adam-the-bartender looks like he's waiting for an explanation. He doesn't know how to make the requested Blowjobs or Screaming Orgasm shots (I guess the boys forgot they're off the clock.), so we settle on Kamikazes, the first of about eight rounds of Kamikazes. The boys pay for everything—-each one delving into a fanny pack with a roll of bills that would impress Puff Daddy--and they never tip less than $20.

 

Besides the free cocktails, we also get to hear all the dirt: They come to the city, work two weeks, and go home with about $12,000. Most of the take comes from working after-hours-—they all stay nearby so they can take clients back to their rooms. They don't have sex, though, as we will be reminded repeatedly throughout the evening. Jerking off, receiving blow jobs, even the Japanese businessman who once paid Jean $1,200 just to sleep over, that's fine. But no sex. Really. And they're all just 24, which has the girls chopping down their ages—even I hack off a year and go for 26, while Baby Girl claims a (patently unbelievable) 23.

Charlie Brown leans on my shoulder. "I'm tired."

"Strippers are buying you drinks. Strippers are paying for the privilege of your company--"

"They're paying for the privilege of your company."

"Still, don't I show you a good time?"

Charlie Brown departs shortly thereafter and, in a touching act of devotion, Linus leaves too. The boys continue regaling us with details. They all have girlfriends and lofts up north, and remind us yet again that they're not gay. They talk about what magazines they use for backstage stimulus and how they choose their own music--you mean Air Supply actually helps you get it up!? They keep flexing their muscles and asking us to touch them. Marcus thrusts a bicep in Baby Girl's face. "How does that feel? Do you like it?"

"Oh, I—"

Suddenly he stops and grimaces. "Damn, I just pulled a hamstring."

 

Lula, meanwhile, is in deep tete-a-tete with Erick, who looks like he's willing to give her a free sample. He tells her about the fiancee he recently broke off with. He also shows her his "list" of clients he has to make time for when he came to town. These guys are where the real goods come from: big money, a lot of four-star trips to the Caribbean, a condo--he tried to get one to give him a Maseratti, but had to settle for a jeep. Pauvre, pauvre vous. Jean and I decide to play pinball, he hands me $20 to get change for $2. I offer him the remaining $18, but he says to leave it. Adam waves it away "I don't take tips for making change."

Back to Jean. "He doesn't want it."

"Well, you take it."

I think for a moment, but I'm not (particularly) poor right now and they're nice guys. "Nah, you take it. Use it for tips later." He reluctantly stuffs it back in with the other $800.

At about 3:30, even I'm feeling fatigued and we bid protracted farewell to our new friends, who implore us to come back and visit. "We'll pay for you to get in! We'll go to clubs afterward!" Somehow, we don't make it before their two weeks are up and they take their 12 grand back to the Great White North. They next time I walk into Max, Adam shakes his head. "After you left those guys, we couldn't get them or any of the women out at last call. They offered us $1,000 to keep the place open another hour, but I wanted to go home. They threw down over $200 in tips." And he's complaining? I swear, between him and Charlie Brown, no one appreciates sex or money or anything I do for them....

 

This brief video is my entry for the Turner Classic Movies Guest Programmer Contest. Basically, about 2 hours before the deadline, I sat by my friends' empty pool, drank half a bottle of champagne and ranted about why they should PICK ME! PICK ME!! PICK ME, GODDAMNIT!!!

So, I dunno, watch it and tell them I should be the winner or something....


Ladies and gentlemen, for your viewing pleasure... me!

This Week's Vegas Moment: Chris Cornell plays Fremont Street
The vocals could've been mixed up higher, but Chris still put on a pretty good show. Fremont Street must be a great place to play--even if you're displeased with your audience (like those dipshits who were waiting for Big & Rich, as the evening's bill took a turn for the incongruitous), you can always play to the luminous multicolored cascades of neon right at your eye level. Fade into hazy fantasies of Diamonds Are Forever and next thing you know, you're halfway through the set. Of course, another reason I found this enjoyable is that it gladdens me to gaze upon Chris Cornell. He's up there all tall and lanky and sideburned and cheekboned and moody and causin' drama and he's just my type. Although, while it was nice to see him projected supersize on the Fremont Street videoroof, it did remind me of Hunter S. Thompson's 200-foot tall gibbering drunkard. Then again part of what was good and what was bad about all of this was that my car died the day before, so I had to take the bus and, due to the Las Vegas Grand Prix, several square blocks of Downtown were a Habitrail of chainlink fences and traffic barriers, causing a mere turn from Fremont north onto Third required two blocks' advance planning. I could also stop in here to let forth with a vicious, jibbering tirade about what they've done to the Binion's Sportsbook that would appall both Janice Dickinson and Dick Cheney, but I'll leave that for another day...

Runner-Up Vegas Moment: Viva Las Vegas
Not only was it Grand Prix Weekend, but it was Viva Las Vegas weekend, packing the bars and tables of the Gold Coast with pompadours of all kinds (although it's too bad they can't do this at the Cannery). Unfortunately, I was too broke to shop, but that was probably a good thing, as I found far too many parasols and cigarette cases and $200 dresses I would've been tempted to waste money and closet space on. Still, Viva is always a lot of fun, although it does remind oen of how disturbingly identical the rockabilly crowd is—if you were ever being sought by the police, all you'd have to do is dress up as Ricky Nelson and you could hide out here all weekend.

This Week's Link to Brilliance: Well, you'll just have to click and find out. I assure you, you will not be disappointed. Especially if you like David Lee Roth. Or cocaine.

This Week's Netflix: Blood and Black Lace
Stylistically, Blood and Black Lace has it all--as any movie where a mad killer cuts a swath of gore and fabulousness through an Italian fashion house should. There's mod-glam fashions, slick interiors, Jiffy-Pop hairdos and doe-eyeliner worthy of Valley of the Dolls—and, if you watch it with the from-Italian dubbing, the dialogue is just as stilted ands the acting just as awkward. Of course, that would also involve Neely, Anne and Jennifer meeting bloody death at the hands of a mysterious slasher with costume and maquillage still intact. (Wait--considering that Jennifer was played by Sharon Tate, I guess that happened after all….) Still, from Blood and Black Lace's fabulous opening, introducing each of the stars in a glamorous vignette posing to the uber-hip Carlo Rusticelli soundtrack, you know you're in for a very aesthetically pleasing ride. Many of my friends, whose taste in horror tends to run more toward Saw or at least Friday the 13th, don't get my fondness for giallo flicks, but I'll take a quick throat-slit while flying through the Italian countryside in a Porsche, the blood splashing across Barbara Bouchet's cream leather pantsuit over the disemboweling of a skanky reality-TV star.

This Week's Quote: Bette Davis
"It has been my experience that one cannot, in any shape or form, depend on human relations for lasting reward. It is only work that truly satisfies."--Bette, 1962

This Week's Taste Sensation: Ben & Jerry's Creme Brulee ice cream
Creme brulee is probably my favorite of all deserts. But, if I can't have that, I'll have ice cream, preferably Ben & Jerry's. Thus, creme brulee ice cream was something i had to try. And it is awesome. Described on the cover as "sweet custard ice cream with a caramelized sugar swirl," it is all that and so much more. So much, in fact, that i ate the whole pint before i could stop myself and felt vaguely sick afterward. But happy. For the first time in about two weeks, if not a lifetime, truly satisfied and happy.

This Week's $1.99 Film: The Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism
What a title: The Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism! (Although it is also known as Castle of the Walking Demon, The Snake Pit and The Blood Demon, among others.) Basically, a fake Hammer film, right down to Christopher Lee. But, given that I love the Hammer studios—or at least their 60s-70s output--more than nearly any other, save perhaps MGM or Twentieth, I'll take it. While the credits list it as based on "Edgar Allen Poe's The Pit and the Pendulum," the more obvious crib is from Dracula—except it's Count Regula, not Count Dracula and, even though he does say, "the blood is the life," he needs to bathe in the plasma of Victorian maidens, not drink it. Prologue with cursing, drawing n' quartering and a blatant a href="http://www.1000misspenthours.com/reviews/reviewsa-d/blacksunday.htm">Black Sunday ripoff, carriage ride through the mountains, superstitious locals, heaving corseted bosoms, tavern with pewter mugs, ancient castle, sinister servants, blah blah blah. The one cool sequence involves a forest of corpse-hung trees, rather like that wood where Morgan hung all her used knights in Excalibur. Instead of Peter Cushing, however, Christopher Lee is battling former Tarzan Lex Barker, who flounces around with his monotone and his jabot and his Kirk Douglas chin. Me, I keep remembering that Barker molested Lana Turner's daughter when she was but a wee stepchild and, thusly, find myself really hoping that he won't get out from under that giant swinging axe blade. Lower it slow, Mr. Lee, lower it slow.

This Week's Recipe: The Ball of Shame
1 c. golden raisins
1 c. currants or dried cranberries
small amount of warm water
1 pkg./8 oz. cream cheese, softened
6 oz./1 1/3 c. shredded cheddar cheese
4 oz. crumbled blue cheese
2 tbsp. brown mustard (pref. the grainy kind)
2 tbsp. chopped fresh chives
1 small clove of garlic, minced
black pepper and/or paprika to taste
chopped pecans
Let all cheeses come to room temperature. while waiting to achieve softened perfection, cover fruity bits with water in a bowl. Let soak 30 minutes to plump, drain and chop into small pieces. In mixing bowl, combine cheeses, mustard, chives, garlic, anything else you want to throw in and mix well (with a hand mixer, not a spoon). Stir in chopped raisins and currants, mix well (with a spoon, not a hand mixer). Serve in a bowl (a different bowl, you want to lick the first bowl) right now as a spread. Or, refrigerate covered for an hour, then shape into roundish form (wrapping it in Saran first helps) and roll in chopped pecans. Eat at least half on Ritz crackers in one sitting and contemplate your enslavement to the ball of shame.