Just posted this to the WFMU Blog, but thought I'd put it here as well, since it is such a personal story. And a completely awesome memory.
As you have no doubt heard, Rudy Ray "Dolemite" Moore passed away this week. I had a chance a couple of years ago to hang out with Rudy over the course of a weekend when he came to Boston for an in-person appearance at my theatre. I was excited not only because I am a huge fan of his films, but because thanks to the Norton Records anthology "Hully Gully Fever", I had become a fan of his music as well. Before his comedy career, Rudy really wanted to be a successful R&B crooner. Sometimes known as Prince Dumar, he was recording and independently releasing a slew of rather good but never chart topping ditties in the 50's and 60s.
His R&B career was artistically rewarding, but didn't pay the bills. As Rudy himself told me, one day he was sitting in front of the barber shop and was listening to some of the men tell hilariously dirty stories in exchange for tips. Never one to pass up a cash cow, Rudy recorded some of these stories in a bragging, rhythmic, rhyming style of his own and a new career was born. One of the first proudly x-rated comedians, Rudy produced a string of self-distributed albums featuring luscious nude black ladies posing with Rudy on the cover and lascivious titles like: Let's Come Together, Eat Out More Often, This Pussy Belongs To Me, Cockpit, The Sensuous Black Man, I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing, Close Encounter of the Sex Kind, and This Ain't No White Christmas. Most of these gloriously rude comedy albums have been rereleased on CD, and Amazon has a slew of them for download.
One of Rudy's best albums is Dolemite For President, which is finally getting the CD reissue just after Election Day (hmmm....). Especially notable is the title skit, wherein Dolemite lays out his plan for a better America. Just last week while flipping through Brooklyn public access, I heard a DJ mistakenly play this bit of Rudy's mantra over the top of the community bulletin board notice for Big Brothers/Big Sisters. Yes, it did make me spit milk out my nose.
But the Rudy Ray Moore that most of us first came to know is the action hero. Starting with 1974's Dolemite, he starred in a string of self-financed action films and re-created himself again as the martial arts savior of the community. Dolemite can not only beat you down, but open up some verbal kick-ass at the same time. "Man, move over and let me pass. Or you'll be pullin' these Hush Puppies out yo muthafuckin' ass!!"
I first watched Dolemite years ago and thought it was one of those hilarious so-bad-it-has-to-be-good films. But a few years experience and a bit more research has changed my mind. Sure, the film is a bit on the inept side, but it was made almost completely by amateurs on a shoe-string budget and, well, it's supposed to be a comedy. So if you just flow with Dolemite's own loose vibe, it is really a delight. Not only that, but it was one of the few blaxploitation films of the era to really be born, financed, and made for the community. Melvin Van Peebles' Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song was the groundbreaker, but Dolemite is like watching Jr. High school kids playing Sweetback in the back-yard - adding all the toilet humor and silly chop-socky action that was missing from the more serious film. The film was a huge success and a string of self-produced follow ups were made (and one "legit" film, as Rudy signed on to co-star in AiP's Monkey Hustle with Yaphet Kotto).
My favorite of all of Rudy's films is The Human Tornado. The success of Dolemite helped them to make a bigger and badder sequel, with more elaborate sets, more action, sped-up kung-fu fights, and even some real actors (look for young Ernie Hudson). Oh yeah, and Rudy sings an awesome theme song.
Listen To: Rudy Ray Moore, "The Human Tornado theme" Plot wise, The Human Tornado is nothing short of astounding. Dolemite busts rhymes and does stand up, gives his beautiful home to the community, gets caught in bed with a racist sheriff's wife, escapes naked down a hill, blows up a cop car with a shotgun, kidnaps an excited homosexual and drives to L.A., helps his old friend Queen Bee, literally fucks the house down seducing a mafia leader's bodacious wife with a psychedelic painting, rescues gorgeous babes from a house of torture, and saves the day by kung-fuing his way through a mob party - including a deadly show-down with a loincloth-wearing nunchuck expert. That's a lot of movie!!! Even the action packed trailer doesn't quite have it all.
I'd been wanting to get Rudy to come and do a screening of The Human Tornado for a long time, and finally lured him to Boston while he was on a mini-tour to promote his new Dolemite DVD box set in 2006. His booker told me that Rudy was, of course, older than he used to be - but still a spry 69. This was a lie, as Dolemite was 81 when he passed away this week. We pretty much knew he was older when we picked Rudy up at the train station. While still dressed in gold-lame finery, the real Rudy Ray Moore is more like a sweet old man than the pimpin' mack daddy he plays in public. He walked slowly with his cane, read all the street signs out loud, and had to concentrate carefully when he would eat. Don't get me wrong, seeing "old" Dolemite wasn't sad at all - rather it was like having the best grandfather ever, one who loved to rattle off insane stories from his youth, make action movies, and tell incredibly dirty jokes. After telling me about the film project he was in the midst of ("My new movie has three sex acts - on it, in it, and up it"), Rudy spent most of our trip to his hotel cracking me up by busting out groaners: "What do Monica 'Blew'inski & the Bermuda Triangle have in common? ... They both swallow semen!"
Rudy arrived with his assistant and friend Napoleon, who had been with him for 25 years or so and appears in most of his films in bit parts or as a stunt double. Napoleon acted as handler, manager, organizer, and merch guy for the Dolemite empire. His relationship with Rudy was funny and sweet. They would bicker and make fun of each other like an old married couple. While not as rudely quotable as Rudy, Napoleon would occasionally break out with a truly hilarious remark: "The problem with Christmas is that you can't go to a strip club 'cause the family wants you at home. The rest of the year it's restraining order this, restraining order that, but then they want you home on Christmas."
My friend George and I took them out for soul food at Bob the Chef's, one of Boston's last remaining institutions for jazz and good southern cooking (and now, it too is gone). The restaurant was playing some great 50s R&B and the walls were lined with photos of soul and jazz legends. Rudy enjoyed the atmosphere immensely, nodding and singing along with the music and flirting with the waitress. The only faux pas of the evening was when I turned to George and asked, "What exactly are chitterlings, do you think?" (I'd heard of them, of course, but never before bothered to ask what they were). This lead Rudy into a hearty spasm of laughter and the exclamation that "If a white boy like you has never had to eat pork innards, there ain't no reason to start now!" I felt pretty stupid about making a flub like that in front of Dolemite of all people, but then again I didn't really care - because I was still sitting in a restaurant and eating soul food with Dolemite! That's the closest I'm going to get to Monkey Hustle, my friends. (note: my big dream in life is to one day find a restaurant like the in-home one featured in Monkey Hustle)
As we were leaving the restaurant, Rudy spotted a young black man walking up the street. Like a switch went on, he turned from an old man leaning on his cane into the bad bad Dolemite. He approached the kid and loudly asked, "Are you a soul brotha? Are you a gen-u-ine soul brotha?" The kid was puzzled, but interested. "Well, my brotha, I am the one and only Dolemite, just in town for a few days." And here Napoleon artfully pulled out a flyer and put it in the kid's hand. "Now, tell me about yourself." They launched into a quick conversation, and even though I'm not sure the kid new exactly who he was talking to, he was duly impressed. As we escorted Rudy into George's junky little Honda, the kid was staring at us as if we were limo drivers who were escorting a prince to the castle. That's right, you just ran into Dolemite on the streets of Boston. Tell the world!
The next day I drove Rudy and Napoleon around to show them some Boston sights. Inspired by Napoleon's skills the night before, I decided to make our sightseeing tour work for us a bit, and taped a large promotional poster on the side of the car. Now Rudy was riding around with a bit of the fanfare he deserved (well, he deserved a topless Caddy with streamers and such, but this would have to do), and as we slowed in downtown traffic a bike messenger began to zip past us. He noticed the sign on the car, then glanced up and caught the eye of the actual Dolemite, who flashed that million dollar grin. The bike messenger spazzed out and nearly crashed, and we saw him later that night at the show. Mission accomplished.
I didn't get much of a chance to show Rudy the Boston sights that day, because he was on a mission. The night before he had scoured the Boston phone book to find the best dollar store in town. "You have to find the one where everything really is a DOLLAR," he exclaimed loudly into my ear. "Everything else is just bull-shit". Why he would want to travel across country just to visit a Boston dollar store was beyond me, but I was happy to oblige. We spent an hour roaming the aisles of Family Dollar, with Rudy chatting up the customers, proclaiming soul brothers, and cooing over babies, while Napoleon grabbed some of the strangest items: twelve back scratchers, a bunch of canes, rubber toy snakes, and some horrible plastic jewelry. Afterwards, I left them back at the hotel to relax before the show.
One of the most impressive things I learned from Rudy Ray ("Just call me Dolemite, dammit") Moore was frugality. He came to Boston by flying into the cheaper Providence airport then taking the commuter train into town. He refused to order drinks at the restaurant, and instead asked for a glass of water and a plate of lemon slices, which he then mixed with a couple of sugar packets to make free homemade lemonaide. But best of all, was his merch table that night before his appearance. He not only had his new Dolemite DVDs, autographed photos, and CDs for sale - but there on the table was all the stuff from the dollar store! He had glued gems and rubber snakes to the back scratchers and canes and selling them as autographed Dolemite pimp gear for $15-$20. Genius! My Dolemite back scratcher still hangs in a place of prominence in my home.
The show was fantastic. Rudy told rude jokes, fondled my female friends who volunteered last minute to walk him to the front of the stage (he called them "fat pussy" and "skinny pussy"), and was more than happy to talk and interact with all of his fans. And seeing that film with a huge laughing crowd was really a treat. It was perhaps one of the best nights I ever had at the Coolidge, and possibly in my whole little life.
Rudy Ray Moore, you will be greatly missed. But thankfully Dolemite will live on forever!
Tomorrow I start the new job! But I'm having trouble falling asleep. Nerves maybe. Or it could be because Margi is on the other side of the world. It's been a lot harder falling asleep when she isn't here, and I miss having her around terribly. Still, one must soldier on, and I'm really proud of her for going on this trip. Anyway, the work day starts at 11am, so I can still get some sleep time, but I need to quiet my brain down. So I thought I'd write a bit.
I got home around 1am tonight. I was in Jersey City working on a demo for WFMU. The station manager asked me to audition because he liked the tape I made a year or so ago. I finished my mock-show at 11pm, but stayed in Jersey City and had a leisurely dinner at some bar and read The Atlantic, which had a really interesting article about how the Internet is affecting our ability to think in slow, thoughtful ways. Like, how people who love books are having trouble focusing on novels anymore because they require too much immediate and non-stop attention. The author wasn't just making some technophobic complaint about our fast modern times, but postulating that the brain itself has the ability to reprogram the way in which it thinks, and when all of your attention is spent thinking a certain way it sort-of resets to adjust to the new method. Like how the internet is full of quick bites of information and lots of jumping around and how much we skim these days rather than slowly read and comprehend, and that changes the way our brain works. I liked the article and tend to agree with it because I feel that way as well. But I got distracted before I could finish it...Rim Shot!!
What else is new... Margi's cat isn't getting along well with Boogie. Bullying her a bit. And Boogie is reacting by retreating and hiding in a corner of the small office room. They got along fine for the first couple of weeks when Margi moved in, but then her cat became more and more assertive. She doesn't beat up on Boogie, but is more like a passive-aggressive bully - she sits on a high perch and just stares, which is a subtle cat domination thing (or so I read in a pet book I was browsing at the book store). So, I found instructions for what they call a "reintroduction", which is supposed to work even on cats that have lived together for years. I have to separate them into different rooms, feed them and play with them on the opposite side of the door, then swap the room, wait a couple of days, and let them start hanging out. Boogie has been locked in the kitchen/bathroom area and Audrey (Margi's cat) is in the bedroom. The living room is not adjacent, so it's off limits for now. Neither of them are really liking the idea. I left them locked in their new arrangements and went to the movies all day Friday, and I wasn't sure what would greet me on my return. But it wasn't bad. Boogie was standing in the kitchen and giving me a "what the fuck" look since I locked her out of the living room. But I left her plenty of food and a toy, and I could see that she had been playing with the toy while I was gone, so I guess it wasn't too traumatic. That is until she pissed right in the middle of the bathroom floor to express her displeasure at me. Well, at least she used the bathroom. Audrey was in the bedroom and looked real annoyed at me when I came in, but hell, she always looks at me that way. Actually, she wasn't trying to bolt for the door or anything. I think she just napped on the bed all day. She really prefers laziness to all other activities.
Cat talk. Thrilling! Have I really come to this?
Friday was indeed movie day. I had to go to the Midtown library and pick up some bad Stephen King books. That's going to me my next article for the Stranger - a look at his worst work. So far I am thinking Tommyknockers, Cujo, Rose Madder, The Cell, Maximum Overdrive, and all his Entertainment Weekly columns. Anyway, since I was already out (and hadn't really left the house since Margi left on Tuesday), I decided to just hit the big multiplexes on 42nd street and see some cheesy dumb movies. First I purposely exposed myself to the new M. Night Shymalamahan's movie out of some morbid curiosity. Yeah, it was bad, but not abysmally, painfully bad (ie, Signs). The premise was kind of neat, basically that the plants are releasing toxins that make people kill themselves. Revenge of the plants! Evil hay fever! Whatever. The big problem with the movie wasn't the silly premise (which didn't involve a twist ending for a thankful change), but the execution. That guy just can't write very well, fills his movies with over emoting and stock characters, and adds a whole bunch of extraneous shit that is just plain boring. And poor Zooey Deschanel. I like her enough, but playing a "normal" person and having to deliver angsty dialogue is just not within her skill range. She was so terrible. However, seeing Marky Mark run through a field chased by evil wind may be some of the funniest "suspense" since Jake Gyllenhaal was being chased by frost in The Day After Tomorrow, and that was indeed worth the price of admission.
As I was leaving the theater, my friend Meghan (she was Dawn in the Buffy Sing Along) texted me to ask if I wanted to go to the movies. Ha! Yes, I did. Again. Something funny/stupid this time. So, she walked up to meet me (she lives at 38th - too close to midtown for my taste) and we bought tickets to Get Smart. We had about an hour to kill before the movie, so we grabbed some pizza, and I was able to hop up a couple of blocks to the Broadway theatre where Xanadu is happening to get a copy of the Xanadu Book (which I just plain want, but can also write off my taxes since I "need" it for, um, research for the Xanadu Sing Along.
I actually enjoyed Get Smart quite a bit. Not an uber-classic by any means, but good stupid entertainment that wasn't quite as pointless as most other TV-to-movie movies. Got to hand it to the cast on this one, especially The Rock (hilariously vain) and Steve Carell, who manages to take these characters that would really suck in anyone else's hands and make them likable and somewhat heroic. Yeah, even Maxwell Smart. He's damn good at that. (By the way, I was watching the Daily Show the other night and Carrell was on, and it was great because he and Jon Stewart weren't even paying attention to the audience, just cracking each other up. Carrell had a moment where he sincerely thanked Stewart for making his career happen, to which Stewart replied, "You know you really have yourself to thank - because you'll *bleep* anything that moves." And then they both fell into laughter that they couldn't recover from).
After the movie I wanted ice cream, and Meghan recommended that we go up Broadway a bit to this place called Ellen's Stardust Diner. I've passed it before, it's a really cheesy 50s diner where the waiters all sing and dance. Yeah, really. The place is 100% tourist centric bombast, but Meghan assured me that their ice cream was really good. After struggling to get through the goddamn crush of people in Times Square (you should have seen me ranting at the idiots who stop in the middle of the street to take photos of themselves. Jesus!), we finally go to the diner. It was about midnight and the place was still packed with wall to wall tourists. In fact, the first thing our waiter asked is where we were from. "Right fucking here", I replied, and he laughed appreciatively. Before long, a waiter with a pony tail came out and sang a duet with one of the waitresses. It was "Paradise By The Dashboard Light", and it was a fucking pitiful rendition, despite their winking irony and such. The dude with the ponytail seriously sucked, but not as much as the blonde waitress who came out next and did Shania Twain in a shrill scream-song voice. Ugh. Another waitress came out and did some Broadway song I didn't know, and ended up dancing on the booth divider right behind (and above) me. I didn't really feel like turning around (sundaes had arrived, and they were indeed Watson's-awesome), but then she reached down and started seductively rubbing my head as a gag during part of her song. Why am I always the target of this stuff, hmm? When she was done, I leaned across the table to Meghan and asked, "Do you think if I stick my head up her skirt, someone will refill my damn water?"
Anyway, the place was cheesy and painful but kind of fun. It's like slightly more talented karaoke bar. But where was the 50s music? This was a 50s place! Even though nobody busted out the 50s (though I did hear some Elvis on the way in) things got very entertaining when our waiter - a scrawny gay man with a huge pompadour - got up to do his number. He did Barry Manilow's "I Write the Songs", and I swear I've never seen such passion in relation to that song before. The guy was on fire, thrusting, dancing, and singing really really well. But best of all, he had everyone in the restaurant do over the head hand claps in the middle, and when some people weren't into it he shouted, "Clap your hands or I'll cut your face!". I just about died, and we left him an extra $5 just for busting out the Barry.
Did you know that at the end of Bananarama's Cruel Summer video, they actually run away from the cops by eating a bunch of bananas and pelting the cop car with the peels? I had no idea their name was so literal. How do I know this, you ask? Because I am have spent most of the weekend watching a 12 DVD collection of 80s videos that I found on ebay. It's like manna from fucking heaven for a music video nerd like me.
I've been lax with the writing for a while now. I thought back in January I might start journaling again, since I suddenly found myself all unemployed and such. But the muse didn't come calling (she comes next month when I host the Xanadu sing along). But the summer is coming, and Margi will be away, and I can feel the typing thing calling to me again. Especially that one in front of the air conditioner. Ahhhh...
I've been really busy the past month, but mostly with entertaining my amazingly fun girlfriend. She has been unemployed and out of school for several weeks, so we have had plenty of time to enjoy the city and let the whims take us where we like. Originally, we only had about a week of activities planned, as she was supposed to leave for China at the begining of June. However, the China program was canceled due to all the recent troubles there. Instead, the program moved to Kathmandu, Nepal, which is also pretty awesome, but that doesn't start until the 17th or so.
I kind of had a feeling the whole program was going to be cancelled when Margi started having Visa issues, because they were just ridiculous. They first told her everything was fine, she just needed to come back with a "letter of invite". The school provided that and then she was told that she had to apply for a business visa (even though she is clearly going as a student), which required another piece of documentation, a form from a local magistrate. The school in China went to get said form and was told that they were no longer being issued. Yeah, it's communism in action. Aweseomness! What it boiled down to is that the country is not only denying anything over a short term visa, but pretty much shutting out anyone who isn't going for the Olympics.
Margi leaving a little late is okay by me, as I get more time with her. First I gave her a surprise date, where we both dressed up like 30s gangsters (not intentionally, but in our nines we look rather criminally grand) and I rented a car and drove her to a secret place. It was Cafe Baldo, a gluten free pasta restaurant on Long Island, a kind of reward for the recent closing of our favorite place in Manhattan (Bistango). Yeah, we took pictures.
Since mid-May we have done something almost every night. We threw a big 80s video dance party that lasted until 4am and climaxed with Margi getting pied in the face (a big dream of hers). We helped plan a backyard Memorial Day barbecue that was mostly filled with our neighbor's lame friends, but still alright since we got to screen Point Break in the back yard (though we did learn to fear or nice neighbor a little bit when he drove us on a beer run that involved Margi and I becoming unwantedly involved - by which I mean, cowardly trying to hide in our seats - to a crazy-ass drive-by testosterone yelling fight between our neighbor and a very angry man that he accidentally cut off). We joined an old friend of Margi's from Denver at a Russian vodka bar where I splurged on a too expensive but very tasty $50 vodka sampler, which was really tasty. And we attended a slew of cultural events, including a night of tiny theatre puppet shows, a gala premiere of the so-so Indiana Jones movie, a kickballer trivia night at a nightclub, an outdoor Wire concert on the piers in the South Street Seaport in downtown Manhattan, and a concert with my old buddy Sean's band Slim Cessna's Auto Club. Oh yeah, and we also slipped in a day at Coney Island (so Margi could finally ride the Wonder Wheel) (photos), and another day where we made a long walk through Prospect Park (photos), Gowanus, and along the edge of Carroll Gardens, where we discovered the Brooklyn dockyards, fun antique shops filled with lobby cards (we will be turning them into placemats), a delicious Mexican restaurant (Finally!), and some disturbing animal-related things (photos).
Unfortunately, Margi also got her purse picked at a bar in Park Slope last week - which sucked. We were sitting at the bar at this actually quite charming place (Union Hall, where they have lots of books and Bocce Ball), waiting for the back room to open to go to this lecture program. The place was mostly empty, and these two black guys came in and ordered food, then started arguing with the bartender (an easily confused ditz), which all turned out to be a distraction so that one of then could grab Margi's purse. We were both trying to ignore them and concentrate on our drinks, but when we stood up to head to the lecture only a few moments after they left, I noticed that Margi's purse was on the back of my chair - which is definitely NOT where she hung it. Fortunately they only grabbed her wallet, not the whole purse, so she only had to cancel a couple of credit cards and get a new ID. In her purse was a check for $3000 that they didn't get, as well as her phone, keys, etc. Whew.
Anyway, that's been our adventures the past couple of weeks! But soon (Tuesday!) Margi will be gone for the summer and all will be BORING! That said, maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to find a fucking JOB already. Oh, I have had three job interviews in the past two weeks for a personal assistant position with the Blue Man Group, and they will call me this week sometime to let me know if I get it. If I get that job, it will be kind of hilarious - but it also pays $50K a year! And I have still been talking with the guys doing that theatre project, and they assure me that the DO want me for the job, and that it should start in September. But I need money before then, as I'm almost out of savings. I can probably make it through next month and then I'm completely f-ed.
Oh, I did do a freelance writing gig for the Stranger, the alt weekly paper in Seattle. That happened simply because my old roommate and friend Paul is their book editor and I pitched him an idea to write about this series of nerd romance novels I recently discovered. Terrible books, which means the article is funny. I'll post the link to that when it goes up.
Probably because he was one of the few young actors I really liked. He made interesting choices and the boy had talent. He broke my heart a bunch of times in Brokeback Mountain, but I even liked him way back in early roles like 10 Things I Hate About You (though A Knight's Tale was crap).
Then, there is the possibility that Fred Phelps is going to use his death to make some kind of bullshit anti-gay statement (thanks, Margi, for that sadly true statement).
And finally, he looks like he'll be a really good Joker. The film is in post-production, so probably no danger of recast, etc. But conspiracies are already flying. Says one on-line poster:
CHECK THAT JOKER POSTER ... REMINDS ME OF BRANDON LEE IN 'THE CROW' LIKE MAJORLY ... HE HAS A BIG FOREHEAD LIKE BRANDON DID TOO.
Ah, how the internet is making us smarter.
But since we're talking conspiracy: I just hope this isn't the start of an I'm Not There curse...cause we may loose a slew of good actors.
This stuff always comes in threes, so who's next? No, Suzanne Pleshette doesn't count.
It's been a year since I've made a real journal post. Balls!
Well, I have a lot to tell - too much to do justice to right now. But with a lingering case of unemployment, an awesome girlfriend, and a years worth of adventures to relate, I promise to start posting more up here soon. That's one of them resolution thingies, and if the past is any indication I'll be able to pull it off for at least a few months into the year before I give the whole project up again.
Ah, here it is...um...March. And finally I give you the track list for the January mix. February will be up as soon as my fingers stop fucking cramping!
And hey, if you're my friend and aren't getting CDs in the mail from me each month, just drop me a line and I'll add you to the list.
Here is something I found on ebay: A Haunted Box! (Ebay link long dead, sorry) There are tons of "haunted" items on ebay, and it cracks me up, because people are suckers for that sort of thing. This one is actually pretty cool looking, though. I would buy this from the guy not for any haunted element, but because I want the cool old box sealed in wax and string.
But this comment from a prospective bidder is my favorite:
Q: "I am very interested in your mystery box, however, I am a little skeptical because of the many ORBS that are in the picture. Note that there are alot of them around the box, and in the picture whenever you take a picture of the box. Before making a deffinate sell on this item, I would get it appraised, see what year it is from, and try to do some history on the box, and why it was sealed. If you do decide to open it, or to the winner of this auction, USE EXTREAM (sic) CAUTION WHEN OPENING A BOX WITH THAT MANY ORBS AROUND IT. I study things like this, like the spirit world, and such, that is why I am saying to use caution."
A: Thanks, I will recomemnd all bidders take your advice. Now you have made me a little nervous to even touch this box. I hope whatever is inside will not mind being shipped? Thanks again.
So, my friend Sarah just told me this: "stephen's brother's girlfriend's sister is marrying Gilbert Gottfried this weekend". Oh that poor girl.
But this does mean she may be going to Jerry the Belly Button Elf's wedding! Which also means I spent the morning looking up Gilbert Gottfried links. Or, just call him Knick Knack.
Oh man, that song Problem Child fucking rocks (my favorite comment: "Michael Oliver aka The Problem Child drove Brian Wilson crazy. He also likes golden showers.")
...but I haven't been writing much lately, so I decided to fill out one of these quizzy things in order to get my memory jogging a bit.
1.Who was your first prom date? Only had the one, my girlfriend at the time, Michelle.
2. Who was your first roommate? My best friend Eric. He was a metal-head and filled our apartment with Iron Maiden posters.
3. What alcoholic beverage did you first drink? Lots of cheap beer stolen from a friend's dad's secret stash in the garage.
4. What was your first job? Burger King. I was fired after a month for having "attitude".
5. What was your first car? I drove my mom's car throughout high school, a Chrysler Turismo. It really became my car more than hers, and I wrecked it twice (the second time killed it, and totally was NOT my fault). The first car I owned myself was big green 1970s Buick boat that I bought from my cousin. I don't remember the model, but I remember that we wrote all over it with magic marker.
6. When was the first time you were drunk? See number 3. I was 17. My friends drove me all over town so I could tell all the girls I knew that I was madly in love with them. They tape recorded it, too. Because of this, I smacked my best friend in the forehead with a frying pan.
7. When was the first time your parents talked to you about sex? I honestly don't remember getting "the talk", but my mom has worked in hospitals my whole life, and never flubbed around life's little truths. I do, however, have vivid memories of giggling through sex ed class in 5th grade.
8. Who was your first grade teacher? I don't remember her name, but I remember that she died half-way through the year. My second grade teacher was Ms. Rock. She was a miserable bitch.
9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane? New York City, baby.
10. When you snuck out of your house for the first time, who was it with? My step-brother and my best friend Keith. We would sneak out in the middle of the night and play truth or dare with each other in the nearby park. This usually involved showing each other our penises and dressing in women's clothing...and I just said way too much, didn't I?
11. Who was your first best friend and are you still friends with them? Keith Burnison. We grew apart in Junior High. He became a burnout and I became a big nerd.
12. Where was your first sleep over? Bobby Reffel's house in Arvada, Colorado - no more than a mile or so from home. I remember this one well because we all watched An American Werewolf in London and I got so scared during the transformation scene that I ran out of the room and fell down and split my head open. I had to be rushed to the hospital for stitches...and then I even went BACK to the sleep over. The kids forgot to make fun of me for being a scaredy-cat because my stitches looked really cool.
13. Who is the first person you talk to in the morning? My cat.
14. Whose wedding were you in the first time? The first wedding I attended was my friend Tigger's. It was at some weird Catholic retreat in the mountains and I DJ'ed as she walked down the aisle (the song was Siouxsie and the Banshees' "The Last Beat of My Heart". Other than that, I didn't do much. Ther first wedding I was more involved in was George and Jenny's. It was a costume wedding, which was pretty awesome. I wasn't in the groomsmen line-up, but I did get to be a part of all the behind-the-scenes action. And I do mean action! (in bed with all the groomsmen the morning of the ceremony - a time-honored tradition)
15. What is the first thing you do in the morning? Wake up. Dumb-ass question...
16. What was the first concert you ever went to? Oingo Boingo with the Red Hot Chili Peppers (relatively unknown at the time) at Red Rocks. It was pretty crappy. A few weeks later I saw the George Michael Faith tour, and THAT was awesome.
17. First tattoo or piercing? Got my first and only tattoo in 94(ish) - a cartoon beatnik on my right shoulder as drawn by a friend of mine. I love my little tattoo, but wish I had placed it better (it's too far up on my shoulder). A couple of years later I got a nipple ring, but I was drunk and crazy that night, so I didn't keep it long. However, I am now permanently scarred with one nipple now larger than the other.
18. First celebrity crush? Markie Post, from Night Court. And Fawn Hall from the Iran-Contra scandal. I guess I liked those 80s business women with the feathered hair.
19. First crush? Carrie Johnson. I used to follow her around the playground. She really hated that.
20. First TRUE love? Whitney Taylor, high school. We were best friends who went through hell and back together.
21. When was your first detention? Never got detention (none of my schools had that), but I did get suspended in 4th grade for throwing a kid over a table.
22. What was the name of your first pet? Josepie. He was a half basset, half beagle.
23. First kiss? Sixth grade. I forget her name (Christine something) but she was a transfer student and we dated for three days before she promptly transferred away again.
24. Who was the first person to break your heart? I think it was kind of born a little broken (yeah, yeah, play the little fiddle for me, already). But I didn't have one of those wanna die heartbreaks until number 20. I think she broke it about four times, but that was also in that weird over-emotional adolescent time, so life was lived for the melodrama. Anyway, I came out stronger and wiser in the end.
Been too busy with the Buffy and the WFMU blog to shout out to all my friends or get any darn writing done...so here, enjoy some videos. ( Videos behind this here link )
That's my alarm clock. I bought it about 12 years ago in California while on a road trip with a friend. It has awakened me every darn morning since that day. I am still amazed that the little plastic piece of crap still works (and I still have all the parts, even the removable sword), and finally I thought I should make a little video of it so I can remember it in the future. He is shouting, so the packaging once said, "Wake up! It is time to go into battle!"
Okay, I just posted about New York City movies over at the WFMU Blog, but there was another I wanted to mention that didnt really fit in with the other films I was talking about.
Recently I checked out a DVD from the library called Hallelujah, I'm A Bum!. It's an Al Jolson film from the 30s where he plays the lovable and happy Bumper, the "Mayor of Central Park". Bumper is a bum because he doesn't like to work, and he lives in the park with Acorn, his funny little colored manservant. I mean friend. No, I mean manservant. It is indeed a white man's world when even a homeless bum has a black servant.
Anyway, happy go lucky Bumper rules the park, bantering with the Communist trash collector (played by a puffy Harold Lloyd), getting free rides in the horse and buggies, whistling with the birds like freaking Snow White, and preaching the joys of the "good life". He is also friends with the real Mayor of New York (played by Frank Morgan, aka the Wizard of Oz), and he keeps the bums in line if the mayor gives them had-outs and favors now and then. Fucking brilliant! Oh, it is a musical of course, but the dialogue is mostly told in rhythm as well, which makes for a rather strange and almost Shakespearian style. Here are the lyrics from my favorite song in the movie, "My Pal Bumper", sung by the Central Park bums:
Who protects your apple stand / When you've no license in your hand? My pal Bumper When you break a law or two / Who can make the cops skidoo? My pal Bumper Who can keep a business man / From vacations in the can? My pal Bumper Who can keep the cops away / When we kiddies want to play? My pal Bumper When you're hungry for a steak / Who can cure your bellyache? My pal Bumper He can make me feel I'm full / When he feed me full of bull. My pal Bumper
Another great song is "Bumper Found a Grand", wherin he does indeed find a thousand dollar bill, which causes a near riot as all the bums want a piece of it. Anyway, it is a great odd little movie, and Al Jolson is quite the charming hobo. Jolson is rather ugly, too, which is rather refreshing since he was the biggest damn box office star of the time.
Not that every DVD from the library is a historical gem. I also rented that three-hour post-apocalyptic mess The Postman. I remember seeing the trailer for this in the theatres and it completely cracked me up, but it wasn't actually that bad. Silly, certainly, but way better than Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, even with the absoludicrous patriotic overtones. But it still had absolutely no reason to be three fricking hours.
Earlier this week I took a trip to New Jersey just to go to the mall. It was the nearest place I could find where they have a J.C. Penny's with a big and tall shop, and I needed to get some new jeans. I was actually quite excited to take the train out to Jersey just for this trip, and I knew the mall would not disappoint in it's Jersey-ness. It didn't. But a trashy mall is a trashy mall.
What really made me mention this was the little aside about what happened on the way to the mall. I had to walk down 43rd past Bryant Park in order to transfer to the PATH, and there was a huge celebration of some sort in the park. There were giant white tents, and security, and catering, and a big stage set up. Not caring about these sorts of things, I didn't know what the heck was going on until I saw a sign posted near the park entrance. "Please pardon our appearance -- We are working to keep New York the fashion capital of the world!"
That's right, it's Fashion Week in New York City! I couldn't help but let out a great big laugh to myself as my mind said, "And I'm heading to J.C. Penney's to get some "husky" jeans!"
At the Penney's a mother and father were making their grossly overweight son try on a variety of hideous blue-bland suit jackets. I really wanted to let them know that just across the river New York was working hard to remain the fashion capital of the world.
In order to get paid at my new consultant job I had to provide a physical copy of my Social Security Card. It must be seven years since I even thought about my card, and I could swear I saw it not long ago, but couldn't find it in my piles of post-moving stuff. Dammit. So, I had to put in an application for a replacement card. This means that I had to go to the damn Social Security office.
I live in Brooklyn, as you know. Most people at the Social Security office in Brooklyn are there about benefits and refunds and all that, because, you know, the economic underclass are a huge population here (and I am one of them for the time being). I thought I could avoid a huge crowd by just going to one of the more affluent neighborhoods and turning in my form there. But, alas, in the wake of them terrorists attacking our homeland, National Security is now the most important thing to this cunt-ry. Just like, you know, in Communist Russia. But I digress. What this means is that the powers that be decided to close all of Brooklyn's Social Security branches and consolidate them into one office. ONE office, for all the Brooklyn's 2.6 million residents. And if you live in Brooklyn, you have to go to the Brooklyn office. Brilliant idea!
I went in at 10am on a Tuesday morning and had to wait two hours in line in the lobby just to get through the metal detector (is this takin-off-your-shoe bullshit really necessary?). Then I was allowed to go upstairs and wait in line another hour until a window opened, so I could spend the 25 seconds necessary to turn in my form and show my drivers license. Fortunately, I had a book that I really wanted to finish, so this gave me plenty of time to just read. The book was Rolling Nowhere, Ted Conover's non-fiction story about riding the rails in the early 80s. Reading about spending time in the hobo jungles with crazy Vietnam vets who are downing Thunderbird and getting in druken fights took a bit of the edge off waiting in line. Not just because it killed time, but, you know, perspective.
One nice thing though, and really the reason that I am bothering to write about this at all, is that having all the Brooklyn residents come to the same office means you end up with this nice cross-section of the whole city all in one room. True, it was mostly blacks, but in my immediate area there was also a family of Indian immigrants, a rather smelly Hasidic Jew, two yuppie women, and an uptight German exchange student. We all stayed in our own worlds, mostly, but a few feet up the line from me was a really sassy black woman in spandex tights who wasn't having this waiting bullshit. She was vocally assaulting the security guards, calling them fascists and complaining about the fact that nobody there would even tell us what we were waiting in line for (which is true, we were just herded behind ropes for stepping in the door). She was kind of pissing me off because complainers always do that for me. I'm good at shutting off until the unpleasantness is done, but loud verbal whining pulls me back into how miserable I am, dammit. But after a while she started to get really funny: asking the buff bald black guard for a date, wondering aloud if we were going to the "showers", reacting with bogus thankful enthusiasm when the line would move a few feet. She started talking not at people, but to the people around her, and soon a little community filled with all these different types were laughing and joking and getting along (I was just a little too far out of range to be a part of the group, but it was amusing to listen in). The German kid, standing directly in front of her, was the only one unamused. In fact, he showed absolutely no expression at all, which made him a great target for the black lady to point at and make faces towards.
And that concludes my social security adventure. Tune in next time for a trip to the DMV!
One nice boring day several weeks ago, Het and I hopped on the subway and headed to the Upper West Side for an accordion festival on Pier One. No, that isn't where they sell well-crafted but mostly useless imported housewares. It's worse. It's a newly constructed entertainment pier created by Donald Trump. He built it to rejuvenate an area of Hudson River property that used to be a rail yard until he took it over about ten years ago and started building luxury high-rise condos. Still, it was a free show, with tons of accordions, and we wanted to check out a new part of town. So off we went.
The show was a bust. Het was running late, so we missed the good Balkan music and instead there was some Cuban band playing. Funny, but the day before I was doing some CD filing at WFMU and ended up alphabetizing the world music compilations, and I remember thinking as I was flipping through the Latin section - "Cuban", "Cubisamo", "Hot Cuban Dance Hits" - how much I hate that fucking music. I like all sorts of music from around the world, but there is something about that style that is just distasteful to me. Even more distasteful was the middle aged white woman doing that booty-shaking dance like she hide any idea what she was doing. Ugh. We didn't stay, but did walk out to the end of the pier and enjoy the view.
The view was mostly of the Trump towers, which are ugly and bland. It flabbergasts me still that the rich people of this modern world want to spend their money to live in "luxurious" little boxes with no aesthetic beauty. Sure, inside they may have brushed steel kitchens and bathtubs the size of three king-sized beds, but you still have to come home to that exterior blandness every day. The park is nice though, much like down near the Chelsea Piers, but not as cleaned-up (yet). Which means that there are still skeletons of abandoned piers off the water, looming iron structures of beautiful decrepitude. These erections cast ominous silhouettes against the river, as they were not mere ship ports, but huge structures designed to cart and transport railway cars from ship to shore. Ha! Purple writing, there, but the point is that these ruins are still there and they are quite a sight to behold. Het and I marveled at them for a while, then decided to walk across town to Union Station (which she had never seen) and catch the train back to Brooklyn.
We had to walk a ways just to find a place where we could leave the riverside (the overpass for the West Side Highway blocks the path), but we were finally able to turn off once we hit the Department of Sanitation pier. There are no landfills in the NYC area, as the last one, Staten Island's brilliantly named "Fresh Kills Landfill", which was also the biggest in the country, was forced to close in 2001. Now they ship it all off on barges, mostly to Pennsylvania and New Jersey. The sanitation pier (this is one of many) is where they load up barges of garbage. Even without a sign, it is rather easy to tell from quite a ways away that you are approaching a make-shift temporary dump.
Across from the pier we found a rather small side street that looked like it was barely used. Along one side of the street was a block-long vacant lot, and along the other, a traditional brick factory building with a stunning 200 foot smokestack rising out of the middle. I later learned that this building used to be the main headquarters for the now-defunct Interborough Rapid Transit Company (the company that originally ran the subway and El trains), another sign of the area's railroad history. But why was this huge building and the whole street completely empty?
Soon the answer became obvious. On the corner near the sanitation pier there were a couple of garbage trucks, but trudging up the street we came to see that this is where they park all the garbage trucks. Not a municipal parking lot, not even that big vacant lot sitting right there...no it seems best, don't you think, to park the trucks along this city street. The garbage juice from the trucks drips and drains into the pavement where a century of stench swells up on a hot summer day. I tried not to breathe in, how could anyone, I wondered. And just as I wondered that we passed a homeless man sleeping under a tarp along side of the road. Het almost jumped out of her skin because we didn't see him and, obviously annoyed by our presence, he shifted position as we passed. I felt bad because, well, this guy was sleeping on probably the foulest block on the West side. Holy crap, that is some depressing shit.
Only a few minutes from this decrepit back-end of the city we hit 5th Avenue, perhaps Manhattan's most famous strip of opulence. The distinction between the upper East and upper West sides were suddenly very plain - the West has all the services that keep the fabulously wealthy East looking pristine. Illustrating the difference further was a building we stumbled upon that is perhaps one of the most stunning examples of wealth gone wild, the Alwyn Court apartments. This is a turn of the (previous) century building that is covered with extravagant terra cotta designs from top to bottom. Flowers. Gargoyles. Fire-breathing Salamanders. They crawled up the building like kudzu, and it was a stunning site. "City Homes for Those with Country Houses," was the moto of this place, and apparently the "apartments" inside put most mansions to shame. This beat the hell out of those awful Trump condos. Too bad I'll never be allowed to step foot inside.
Just around the corner was Carnegie Hall, and next to that we found an abandoned restaurant with a beautiful antique revolving door. The place looked like it had been closed down for years, and yet when I stood on my toes to peek over the one patch of uncovered glass I could see that the inside still looked amazing. Red walls, antique art, huge chandeliers, all the lush furnishings still intact, and even some of the lights were on. I poked around a little more and then noticed the outline of letters that used to be stitched into the awning. The Russian Tea Room. Holy shit! This place was an institution. It was originally opened by the Russian Ballet Company in the 20s, and became the place where actors and agents and authors and such used to gather and talk and see and be seen. They even shot a very important scene from Tootsie there (I know this because I saw Tootsie way more times than I care to admit. One time I even put on some of my mother's clothes and had my step-brother take pictures of me marching in front of an American flag just like on the movie poster...Whoops. I didn't mean to share that). I looked up some more details when I got home, and discovered that the restaurant had been shut down since 2002, mostly due to mismanagement (a hugely expensive renovation did not please most people and proved a financial drain). The tiny Victorian building it occupies is supposed to be destroyed by a contractor and turned into more shitty Trump-style condos.
We were almost to Grand Central Station (and tired as dogs), when we passed the Lever House, a rather famous modernist high-rise office building from the 50s. It was one of the buildings that inspired the, ugh, urban renewal movement of the 60s. In other words, not a beauty in my book, but they did have an insane piece of art in the lobby, so we stopped to look at that. It was a sculpture called "Bride Fight" which featured two bridal gowns torn to pieces and hung in an "exploded" style in mid-air. The two gowns (and gloves, and underwear) were positioned as if they were in the midst of a deadly brawl. As we were walking away, I glimpsed something peculiar in the building's open courtyard. From the street all I could see the huge foot. I went in to peek and was stunned to see a 30 foot tall statue of a naked, pregnant, bronze woman. Then, a quick sidestep for a different angle, and the view was even stranger. The whole left side of the woman had the skin peeled away to reveal muscle, bone, and the fetus in her womb. Wowzers. Het found the plaque and said it was by one of her favorite artists, Damien Hirst. He's a British sculptor and painter known for his transgressive (and some say bogus) works of art. I didn't know much about him, other than he once dunked a shark in resin and sold it for an outlandish amount, but this huge work was really quite impressive.
Het and I hopped on the train at Grand Central and headed to Williamsburg to meet up with Mary for a friend's rooftop BBQ (which I always spell that way, because I am from Colorado). I haven't had much chance to hang out with Mary, as I rarely see her. I don't know what she does with her days, but she is always out somewhere. So, I was pretty excited to spend some time with her, and she was really excited to hang out with Het again. I have a feeling those two will get along really well.
My phone wasn't working (I left the charger in Boston, dammit), so once we got off the train I was trying to find a pay phone to call her from. Those little bastards are in short supply these days (though they are still rather common on the subway platforms), and after not finding one on the street I tried going into a coffee shop to see if they had one. And sitting at a table right in the corner was Mary. Ha! It's so funny how I keep accidentally finding people in the ol' big city.
After a few minutes, two more of her girls showed up. These are two 17-year-old interns that she has working for her. Not the Dumpling warrior and her friend, but two others. They were funny and silly and giggly like young girls, and it was rather refreshing. And once again, Het and I were completely wiped out and lacking in energy. But, as I've said before, the presence of young girls can make me feel more alive. Not because I am trying to get in their pants, mind you, but because, now that I am older and realize how cool I am, I feel it is necessary to impress upon the young people many exciting things that they can then take for themselves and run with. I know that sounds stupid, but I do kind of feel that way. Read Jonathan Lethem's "The Beards" essay, and you'll know what I mean. My goal is to be an inspiring force in their lives. And, let's face it, you rarely meet a young boy worth a shit, so the girls are my calling.
We didn't really meet any of the people at the BBQ because darkness had descended and we couldn't really see anyone. I was a little annoyed because I just could not get to the grill before all the food disappeared (except for the fucking veggie dogs. I hate those things), and started whining. So, there's not much else to that story, really.
I have become overwhelmed by this feeling of doom when I think about how no matter how much society advances, the majority of people are just fucking stupid.
Now, I don't mean this in a narcissistic way. I like people, but I just can't believe that the human race can't do better with itself. Lately, I've been really curious about the events in world history and how they have shaped who we are today. It is alarming and a bit deflating to learn that they haven't really shaped us at all. That is to say, nobody seems to know even 20th century history, or at the very least they haven't learned a damn thing from it. Oppression and ignorance still reign supreme, and those individuals who make the loudest, most obvious proclamations (however wrong-headed) are still the driving forces of our society.
Heavy sigh goes here.
I've been renting video encyclopedias from the library lately that outline world events year-by-year through the 60s and 70s. Yes, I could read a book, and indeed I have read books. But these videos have had a bit more impact because seeing the faces and places has been quite helpful, especially since I don't have these visual references because I was too young - or not yet alive - to remember them.
The series was produced in 1980 for use in colleges, and the style is that of a thoughtful, well-researched newscast. The pacing and editing is much more interesting than a History Channel broadcast, and they aren't shy about just letting the footage speak for itself. Plus, the narrator has this wonderful deep "Cronkitian voice" (which reminds me of how much I would love to just watch a bunch of Cronkite's CBS Evening News broadcasts from that era). The films also sound in on all sides of an issue, unlike, say, a history textbook. Certainly, much of this is what I learned (or should have learned) in college, but even then it was often quickly forgotten because it didn't interest me as it does now. Ah, youth. So, recently I have been awash in the stories of the Cold War, the Mississippi activist murders, Stonewall and Harvey Milk (and the alarmingly transparent junk-food defense), and many of the events of modern history and the personalities who I previously only knew by name, not by face and deed. Anyway, that's what started me down this train of thought.
Then this morning I was reading the new New Yorker as I was eating my delicious crunchy French toast, and was becoming distraught over an article about the political scene in Ohio. It is, as I predicted, a frightening thing dominated by the religious right. In the midst of the article there was a very brief aside about an evangelical non-denominational church (ie - one that really just wants your money) that is active in the movement to bring God into politics. The pastor of the church, Russell Johnson, made perhaps the most ridiculous, retarded, asinine, and just all around frighteningly stupid quote I think I have ever read.
"Abortion is also an economic issue. It has killed millions of American consumers."
Ladies and Gentlemen of America, be proud! This is what your country should really stand for. Procreate! Spend money! Keep America strong! And to hell with the rest of it...
I've been a little behind on the updates because things are really starting to happen for me here in the big city. Not that I'm working all the time, but between that and exploring the city I haven't had much time to write (or process the hectic days so I can write about them). But I have been taking notes.
I am still on the hunt for a more permanent job. Earlier this week I had an interview with the folks at Coney Island, USA, which is the non-profit organization that runs all the fun events at Coney: the Mermaid Parade, the Freakshow, the Coney Island Museum, and the weekly burlesque and film series. They are looking for a development person to help raise money. The interview went rather well, and felt more like a conversation than an interview. I have no idea if I'll get the job, but it was actually quite pleasant.
The next day I had burlesque queen Dottie Lux and her filmmaker partner Val Killmore over to my pad for movies and my infamous taco bar (though this night it was a bit half-assed because I was too tired to do it right). They are the first new friends I've made here in New York, and it's all because of Coney Island.
Both of those things reminded me that I never posted about my adventures at this year's Mermaid Parade, which was held back on June 24th. And so, here are all the fun details on my first Coney adventure.
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I'm sure you've heard of the Mermaid Parade. It's a start-of-summer arts celebration that is basically an open invitation for all the freaks and geeks to get together in their most elaborate finery (or lack thereof) and stroll the Coney boardwalk for the afternoon. Miss Firecracker told me about it a few years ago, indicating that I should definitely make the trip. The idea of coming to the parade crossed my mind again last summer, when Andy and I saw a 3-D home movie of the parade taken by a stereophonic enthusiast and shown to us in his elaborate home theatre and 3-D photo gallery that was in a beautiful converted church somewhere out in western Mass.
The people who run Coney Island have always fascinated me. Several years ago I read a bit about these characters in a mediocre but still enjoyable Maggie Estep novel about a girl detective who lived on Coney and hung out with the folks that run the rides. Last year at Slamdance I saw a great short documentary about the woman whose family built the roller coaster at the Dreamland Amusement Park (sadly, now no more), and how she had spent years living in a house right underneath the coaster - including many of the years when the park was abandoned and she was the only person there. Then a few months ago, when George and I drove down here to scout my new neighborhood a bit, I found an obituary posted on a wall about "Mr. Coney Island", Matthew Kennedy, a lively old bastard (he died at 101) who spent even the depressed years of the 70s and 80s as the president of the non-existent Chamber of Commerce, championing how great Coney had been and could be again. So naturally, when I saw the parade was coming, I thought it would be more fun to volunteer and maybe meet some of the Coney movers and shakers, rather than just stand there all afternoon by myself shoving hot dogs in my face.
I arrived at Coney groggy and excited at 8am. The sky was gray and heavy, but it still felt like the first day of summer camp or something, and in that tradition I was pretty shy at first. For the first hour I just ran around doing what the parade director asked me: put t.p. in the port-a-potties, help unpack trailers and set up tents, and mostly stand around and drink coffee. While I didn't really talk directly with anyone, rather choosing to listen to the conversations and get my bearings on what was going on, there was one other volunteer, Dottie, whom I kept exchanging bemused glances with. She had dark hair and tattoos and seemed friendly, and I felt there was some sort of commonness between us. Could be because she laughed whenever I made some sort of lame joke. She was standing around with another volunteer, Val, whose cool laconic delivery and huge black sunglasses made me think of a female Roy Orbison. After we had exchanged some pleasantries I asked what they did at Coney Island. They old me they ran the Coney film and burlesque series, and immediately I perked up. "Do you know Miss Firecracker?" In fact, Miss F had told me about these two and vice versa, and how we all had to meet. They had even been down to the Coolidge for a midnite show. "There was something about you," Dottie said after we excitedly talked about all the stuff we had in common, "I just knew you were one of us."
Soon after I was dispatched far away from the volunteer tent to work with the floats at the other end of the parade. I was disappointed to be separated from my new friends, but excited to finally have a mission. The rest of the day I spent assisting Patrick, a taciturn bald-headed Irishman who is the spitting image of late-middle-aged Clint Eastwood. He is a long time veteran of Coney, having lived there for over 25 years. He even used to own a bunch of apartment buildings on the very block where we were lining up the floats. I tried to get a bit of lore out of him, about the old amusement parks and the history of the area, but, well, I mentioned that he was taciturn. "Have you seen that movie The Warriors? It was like that, but worse. We used to have a homicide almost every day." He sighed and looked distant. "I miss those days."
Patrick strolled the street, hugging old tenants of his and saying hello, as he now lives most of the year in Florida and only returns to the neighborhood for a few months a year. His 25-year-old girlfriend was also working with us, and she was the very definition of "black exotic beauty". Yes, Patrick liked the black ladies, and more than once he tapped me on the shoulder when a black woman passed by (many of them half-undressed for the Mermaid Parade) and let out a low whistle of admiration. As he re-connected, I stood at the end of the block and let in the floats, assigned each their place in line, and got nasty stares from off-duty rented cops. The cops, all annoyed and confused by the hubub, kept ignoring the people with floats who wanted to come through our traffic barriers. Patrick argued with them and stormed away, leaving me to move the barriers for the drivers as they arrived. The cops didn't bug me, but they did feel that is was terribly important to stop each float on the way in and check drivers licenses and registration "just in case". Fucking cops.
I hadn't eaten breakfast that morning, and the lunch I'd packed for myself (PB&J's) I had accidentally left back at the volunteer tent. Fortunately, Dottie showed up half-way through the day and brought me lunch (her job was to distribute lunches), which for me included an extra salami sandwich as a special treat. She, too, was half-naked in the spirit of the parade. It's always nice when a mostly topless woman brings you food, but it's almost euphoric when you are starving.
It had been raining all week, and a storm was pouring water on Coney when I had arrived that morning. The rain stopped rather quickly and instead we had lovely gray clouds, which kept the sun away all day (thank God, as I hate too much sun). The threat of rain lingered, though, and a lot of people such stayed home just in case the parade was going to be washed away. That meant this year's celebrations were a little more subdued than usual, but there were still more than enough freaks out to have a good time.
The floats were rather disappointing, however, mostly being sponsor ads or flatbed trucks with lousy rock bands on the back. There were a few good efforts, one being themed after a 1920's black and white film, another housing a bunch of accordion playing cuties. Everyone's float was ready to go and the parade was about to start when a huge bus of crazy drugged-out hippies arrived at the very last moment. I didn't really want to deal with that, and let the more seasoned expert take over. In typical fashion, Patrick didn't really care what they did as long as they didn't run anybody over and just let them tag on to the end of the parade. "They drive here every year all the way from California," he said. "Show up late cause they know that cops won't have time to check their IDs before the parade."
Fortunately, the floats started off the show. Once shooed away the paparazzi (lest they get run over) and waved the drivers out into the street, I got to stand and watch the rest of the action. The foot parade featured a lively variety of themes and costumes: a guy in an elaborate crab costume, a group of synchronized shopping cart dancers, a silver-painted girl on tall stilts (whom I had actually seen practicing in the park in the East Village a few days earlier), bike riders in butt-spreading thongs, men dressed like French Maids, assorted famous freaks of the area (like Blackwolf the Dragon Master, the wizard geek who once tangled mics with Triumph the Insult Comic Dog), an undead undersea marching band, and of course lots of mermaids, pirates, a few mermaid-pirates, and various topless cuties (and not-so-cuties) all out and enjoying themselves.
I did not bring a camera, but as I mentioned they were in abundance, and a ton of photos have been posted on-line. Check out a bunch of them here.
Each year they pick a couple of New York natives to be king and queen of the parade. They usually pick people of appropriate style to fit the event, like Queen Latifah, David Johansen, Ron Kuby (an influential civil rights lawyer, who got married during the parade) and many a drag or burlesque performer. The Queen this year was of the burlesque variety, and I didn't know who she was, but this year's King Neptune was cult-movie director Abel Ferrara. He looked joyously amused by the goings on, even though I felt that many of the onlookers had no idea who he was. None of his films are that well known. Perhaps his biggest "hit" was Bad Lieutenant, and even that is remembered mostly for the scene where Harvey Keitel shows his schlong. But I was excited, because Abel Ferara is very New York to me. In fact, an on-my-own day visit to the city about five years ago was spent watching one of his films at the Cinema Village. New Rose Hotel was the film, and it starred Willem Dafoe, Christopher Walken, and Asia Argento, and was based on a William Gibson novel. And it was fucking terrible. Still, I spent a few choice moments telling our new King about how much I admired his film Ms. 45, about a seamstress in a nun's outfit taking on the dirty New York streets in the 1970s.
After the parade passed by I wandered back to the volunteer tent and was handed a huge basket of fruit. "Follow us," I was told, and we marched over to the judges' area where they were awarding prizes. We were instructed to place the fruit below these two mannequins and to then head out to the ocean. As part of the ritual starting the summer season, this fruit (which a few selfish people were trying to pluck and eat) was to be thrown into the sea. Out on the beach there were ribbons for each season. The King and Queen and the Mayor of Coney Island (self-appointed) were going to come along and cut the ribbons, eventually leading us all into the water. I didn't have much to do once I put down the fruit, so I just hung out on the beach and waited for the action to happen. I was too tired by then to try and have a real conversation with anyone, so I just hung out near where Dottie and Val were holding the Spring ribbon, though they looked decidedly Fall. Soon the masses came, and the fruit was thrown into the sea. As soon as the first pineapple hit the water, the rain started to beat down once again - perfect timing as it was the end of the day.
By the time I made it back to the tent it was raining buckets again. Though I had no umbrella, I did buy a $2 plastic poncho that I had been carrying in my pocket all day. It kept me a little drier than I would have been, but I was still soaked after helping to take down tents and such. Just as I was getting ready to leave, and quite unplanned, I ran into Het and Che. We grabbed some corndogs and walked back to the subway together through the downpour.
Saturday morning I grabbed my bike and hit the subway, headed for a lovely afternoon in Central Park. I haven't had much chance to explore that great big green space, as I don't exactly live close by and there is a wonderfully serviceable city park right in my neighborhood. But, still, it is the one and only Central Park, so I really do need to get to know it. Thankfully, this day I had a reason: the Improv Everywhere crew was holding an event.
Improv Everywhere is a group of people who put on crazy and fun random public comedy/performance events. They do things like dress up in Best Buy outfits and hang out in the store, or take over the listening stations at the Virgin Megastore and start a synchronized dance, or stage an elaborate public suicide jump from a ledge four feet off the ground. Well, today they were staging their newest "mp3 project". I got an email about it early in the week, and here's how it works. You go to their website, download an mp3, don't listen to it but put it on your ipod, then meet up in the park and be ready to see what happens. There were four different mp3's and meeting places, and you had to pick the one that corresponded to the season you were born. And so, portable music device in hand, I arrived at my spot in the park, ready for...whatever.
Standing in a shady grove was a surprising number of "Autums", about 80 or so. The great thing was, since we were divided by birthday, only a very few people were with their friends. That was good for me because I had come all alone, and now I didn't feel so out of it. Some small talk was achieved, but mostly we all just stood and looked at each other. One guy brought his cute dog who kept doing tricks, and another couple had brought their toddler (and he even had his own headphones). A few random people not involved with the project were out enjoying the park, and after a while you could see they were getting curious about what was going on. Soon, a signal was given and we were told to start our mp3's.
For a few minutes, there was just some sweet, dancey music playing. We were all looking around at each other, kind of grinning stupidly, and sometimes dancing in place a bit. It was actually a nice way to warm up and get us all comfortable, because when you took the headphones off (which I did periodically just to see what it was like) there was just silence, but with the headphones on we were all part of this big secret club. Nice. Soon a messianic voice spoke to us. "Steve" was his name, and our mission today was to find him and call him back to Earth. To do that, a spiritual leader would arrive and guide us. Another voice came on, the voice of a cloud. She was looking down at us and talking about how great it is to be a cloud floating around up in the sky. We all started involuntarily sort-of looking up into the sky, and when we did a figure came running out of a nearby grove of trees. It was a woman in a huge puffy cloud outfit. She told us what we would be doing today, but that first we needed to do some warm up exercises (none of what is said this entire time is actual speaking, mind you. It was all just over the headphones). We played a few silly games, my favorite being a version of Simon Says where one of the instructions was "wink at someone you find attractive", which lead to a bunch of giggles and blushing. I tried winking at myself, which is very hard to do. I also realized at this point that my track was about 10 seconds behind (I had a little flub where I accidentally hit the pause button). This was actually kind of nice because people around me would start doing stuff before I knew what was going on, which made me a kind of participant and spectator at the same time.
Soon, we were off in a line marching through the woods. One of the nice things about this project is that it had us exploring parts of the park that I imagine very few people really go through. People from other groups told me later that they met under bridges, or in the middle of crowded fields, and then marched away into the wilderness as well (one guy told me that they marched right in between the towels of two oblivious sleeping sunbathers). Soon, all the groups met up in a meadow and formed a mob, about 300 people in all. There was our cloud, and with her now were the costumed leaders of the three other seasons: a giant sun for summer, a raindrop for spring, and a snowflake for the winter. And right in the middle of it was a very confused picnic group who happened to choose our meet-up place for their day out. I took off my headphones again and realized how creepy it must be. All these people came from different directions and converged in the middle of this picnic oasis without saying a word. Yikes.
(you can see me in the middle of this picture, standing near the front of the crowd)
But we weren't silent for long. Steve's voice returned to us and told us that we had to dance for him to appear (which we did, to the tune of "It Takes Two"), and after a few minutes of this we had to call out for him to return to Earth. We all turned toward a nearby pond and yelled his name as loud as we could. And then he appeared: a man in brown robes, a huge beard, and smoke pouring out of his fingertips. Okay, not that dramatic, but it kind of felt that way. Some of us got down and bowed to Steve, which I could tell made a few people (and not just those watching) feel rather uncomfortable, like something disturbingly cultish was going down. But just when it started to feel uncomfortable, Steve broke the mood by announcing that we were all gathered here today for...a wrestling match.
Steve removed his robes to reveal an umpire's uniform, and we formed a giant circle with him in the middle. He announced that our four seasons would be fighting for the title of "Season of the Year". Cheers broke out, and again, spectators were confused because there was no clear leader or explanation of what was going on. Just cheers and silent fighters. The mp3 actually asked us to "cheer" silently, but hardly anyone could contain themselves. Imagine how weird it would have been if we had been silent. The match waged on for a while, cloud was knocked out first (always have to shit on autumn, don't they), and of course, being a nice, lovely, summer day, it was the sun that eventually won the battle.
After the battle we formed a giant conga line and danced all the way around the pond. Conga-ing didn't actually work out, but the music playing was "Walking on Sunshine", so instead we all started just dancing to the music. The line was nice because it gave a good idea of the size of the crowd. I was near the front of the line, and by the time we made it around the pond, the back of the group was just starting. The song actually ran out before then, and most of us began taking our headphones off. At this point, a passing businessman asked the guy next to me, "Hey, what group are you guys with?" The guy next to me turned and responded with a completely straight face, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
A few people mingled about at the end, and we saw some police had arrived and were watching. They didn't approach anyone, and we were pretty much dispersing at that point anyway. A woman near me turned to her friend and said, "There were puppy dogs and babies involved in this, what could they possibly object to?"
All that nonsense with the headphones and the wrestling and the silence only took about an hour. After that I rode my bike through the park for a while, watching people row boats on the lake, play handball (seriously hard-core black guys were really into handball, it was great), and just enjoying the summer afternoon. Soon I came across the Natural History Museum. The decorations on the front of the museum are not based on the great treasures of natural history, and instead tout what a fine and wonderful man Teddy Roosevelt was. There is even a huge and muscular statue of him on a glorious mare flanked by two noble Indians. Yeah, I had to take a look inside.
The museum was closing in an hour, which was actually good news for me as that meant it was free. I strolled around mostly on the lower floors looking at the windows of animals in their habitats; a lovely series of wood-panelled corridors dedicated to the history of agriculture, and filled dioramas about that looked straight out a 1950's textbook; and the stunning Hall of Biodiversity, which combines a little bit of all the rooms of the Harvard Museum into one big, cluttered hallway of random stuff. But the best of all was the Hall of Ocean Life. It is a truly impressive giant room painted to look like it is undersea, even including rippling wave lights tickling the ceiling. Yes, this is the room at the climax of Squid and The Whale, which became evident the moment I walked in. I tried to avoid the squid for a while, meandering around and looking at the other displays and lingering under the giant full sized whale hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. But I couldn't help myself for long and made a beeline for under the stairs. Yeah, I'm a movie geek. I live life vicariously through the screen. Wanna make something of it?
The squid and whale exhibit really was stunning. It is totally dark and set off in a corner. Unlike other life-like dioramas, this one had no habitat decoration or anything, just black painted walls and a dim light, and all it contains is the front of the whale head and the giant squid wrapped around it. It also doesn't have a glass front. You can reach out and touch it if you are brave enough. As I was standing there, a young kid of 8 or 9 came and stood beside me with one of those "whoa" looks on his face. He asked me why they don't have the lights on, and I replied by reading to him from the explanatory placard, which said that the giant squid lives up to 1000 feet below sea level in pitch blackness, and that nobody has actually seen one in it's natural environment (they do have evidence that they exist however). The squid was not attacking the whale at all. Instead the whale was eating it, and the squid had wrapped itself around the mouth in an attempt to escape (they have found giant squid marks on the faces of whales that back up this scenario). The kid looked at me with an even bigger "whoa" face, like I was some kind of crazy genius, then ran off when his mother called. I felt good for maybe giving that kid a pivotal moment. Or not.
As I was about two leave the hall I saw three Jr. High school girls come in. They looked like the kind of freaky, nerdy girls I would have liked back then, and I watched for a moment as they headed downstairs and went straight for the squid and the whale. Yup. They totally saw that movie, too.
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GAY SEX IN YOUR 70s
I decided to maybe try riding all they way down the island on my bike, about 80 blocks, and crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. It's a long ride, but not as insane as it sounds. After riding the rest of the way through Central Park, I headed over to 9th Avenue. That road is less travelled than many of the other avenues, and it also has contains at least six 24 hour diners. Yes, this is Diner Way, and absolute heaven for me, since I was starving at this point. I wasn't sure where I was going to stop (though the Western theme Cheyene Diner was calling to me), and then I passed a place I couldn't say no to. It was called "Burgers & Cupcakes", and they served, yeah, hamburgers and cupcakes. Burgers! And! Cupcakes! The owner was sitting out front passing out cupcake samples. Begging his pardon for asking such an obvious question, I asked him why that particular combination. He cheerily replied, "Because those are two things that I make exceedingly well." No kidding! I had a cheeseburger and fries that were amazing (and was the perfect protein energy after all that riding), then picked up a few cupcakes to snack on later in the ride.
There is a very nice park that stretches from Chelsea all the way down the west side. This is where the infamous Chelsea Piers used to be. For years the biggest passenger ships in the world came and went from here. The Holland-New York Line (which originated at the Hotel New York in Rotterdam, where I once spent a lovely afternoon), the Lusitania, and even the Titanic originated here. Then after the industry died (thanks, airplanes), the piers all became storage warehouses, and many of them fell into disrepair. By the late 70s many of them had been abandoned for 20 years. That is when the gay men came (literally), and a flourishing trend of random hook-ups began taking place in the abandoned luxury liner buildings. At this point the piers were decrepit and crumbling and, well, you can't help but wonder how that sort of abandoned mess would look while walking along the west side. Wow. I recently saw a little film from 1979 called "Times Square", about two runaway rocker girls who hang out in nasty Times Square (those were the days), and lived in one of the piers. There is a long wide shot of the inside of the pier that is absolutely stunning. Yes, I knew all of this before I took the bike ride. Thanks, Wikipedia.
Now many of the piers are gone (just logs in the water), and the remaining piers are a long public park. A bike path runs down the side and each pier has become an open space filled with greenery, kids playgrounds, and lovely views of the Hudson. Unfortunately, a bunch of them were also sold to developers who opened a huge sprawling sports complex (owned by one of the George Bush clan). But other than that it's actually a lovely improvement, even if I do prefer gay anonymous sex.
It certainly beats the other plan. In the 80s, there was a push to destroy all the piers and build a highway along the water. This was scrapped when they realized how expensive and impractical it was (they later build the highway on land, running alongside the piers), but not before they tore down one important pier: Pier 54. This is the pier that the Titanic survivors disembarked at, and it was also one of the most beautiful, being the centerpiece of a complex designed by the same fellow who did Grand Central Station. The pier remains, but it hasn't been turned into a park or anything. Instead, it has been left exactly as destroyed in the 80s, a long stretch of cracked pavement (strewn with broken glass). At the top of the pier remains the iron shell of the original enterance. I rode my bike down to the end where there was a single, lonely bench, and sat there for a moment. I ate my cupcakes and stared not across the water at New Jersey, but back up the pier. It was like being in a ghost town. Correction, like eating really delicious cupcakes in a ghost town.
Not long after that I was on my way over the Brooklyn Bridge and headed home (on the subway - the ride to my house from the bridge is really far and mostly uphill). I would tell you all about the Brooklyn Bridge, but what can I say about it that hasn't been said. I will say this, it was nice to look out on all that and just say to myself, "Holy shit, this is where I live".
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