Death and Company, Hope and Anchor

Friday night, after the performance of Off the Hook, all the directors of the shows and actors who had just played abused teens, drug dealing fathers, and gang members went out for a little drink.

Hope and Anchor is a fabulous little diner on the corner of Van Brunt and Wolcott in Red Hook. It's a brunch joint, it has a full bar, burgers, and I learned is a karaoke hot spot run by drag queens on Friday nights. One of the drag queens, incidentally, when not wearing a tight black skirt and heels, is one of my lead actors.

Karaoke is an entire phenomenon built around the need to sing along.
Try not singing along to My Girl in a crowded room full of people. Some things cannot be explained.

I think the highlight of the evening was our five-foot-one white waitress getting up and singing Baby's Got Back, really, really seriously, but with no rhythm.


After I had heard as many New York centric songs as I think were available, and members of my group finished their rounds of such crooning love songs as Mack the Knife, I headed out to Manhattan to meet up with some Fashionables.

At Death and Company, I imbibed in a Brava Fresca and a plate of chocolate and strawberries with the lovely and talented Jenny Yuen. If you haven't made it there yet I highly recommend it. It's a pretty sexy place, if not obviously overpriced, but worth it as a treat.

The bar's whole gimmick is to bring back the golden age of the cocktail.
Cute and fun.

Death and Company is a also a poem by Sylvia Plath, just as a side note. I think the two are unrelated.

Earth-like planet

Scientists Find Most Earth-like Planet Yet.
This broke news the other day and I'll tell you it makes me nervous.
I think it has a lot less to do with being excited about the potential of finding new life and has everything to do with "where can we build a spaceship and go to after we have finished destroying this place."

So, when we find a planet like that, I'm thinking all the rich people are gonna keep on keeping on, and think in the back of their minds we'll always have planet 7x5600. I'll tell you it's the same kind of thinking that people who have dual citizenship have. If it ever gets really bad I can always move to Brazil.

Well, listen here you people thinking we can colonize other planets-

Stop it. If it ever gets that bad we are supposed to die off.

And if we are trying to find known life on other planets for the purposes of more outsourcing or even borrowing a cup of sugar, that isn't ok with me either. No one wants to have a BBQ with us, I'm sure. We're the lousy neighbors who have the cops called on them and trash the lawn. We have cat poop in the back yard and take the Neighborhood Watch way too seriously. Like with-a-shotgun seriously.

The Earth is gonna turn out to be the trailer park of the Universe.



Manifest Destiny does not apply outside the Milky Way.
Stop trying to sell EVERYONE an Ipod.

Flying Spaghetti and Other Internastical Musings

I am apparently three to four years, depending upon the subject and the web site, behind the times. I swear I am. It doesn't matter how much crappy Avant-Garde art I see, or artists I know; I am behind. I am ESPECIALLY behind when it has to do with Internet phenoms.

I bring this up for a variety of reasons. To begin with, I just learned about The Flying Spaghetti Monster. Apparently, everyone from 21 to 37 knows about this. Everyone, that is, except two or three of my friends who are equally behind.

Tragically unhip. It's a tragedy, really.

I wonder why this is. Why do some people know exactly where to look on the Internet
and others have only just joined gmail? Is it about age, culture, or education? Is it something completely intangible? Is it just that there are Internet it people?


Now, with my Luddite tendencies being exposed, and all that being said, I would like to bring this to everyone's attention.

This is Mike Daisy and what happened to him last week. Mike Daisy, in my opinion is a genius. As a solo performer, I am picky and snobby about who I like and who makes me laugh. Mike Daisy is a Spalding Gray for the 21st Century. We love Mike Daisy.

Now, if we watch the video we see something come over Mike's face just before an enraged audience member spills water all over his set list. From on stage Mike watched 87 people from a church related group walk out of his show at the ART in Cambridge. The "fucking Paris Hilton" bit put them over the edge, it seems.

Is Mike Daisy an F.T. Marinetti type, or are religious people really out of their minds? Well, either way, I thank those people for bringing more attention to Mike. He deserves it.

And in other news, a professor from Catholic Emmanuel College was fired for talking about the Massacre at Virginia Tech this week. He, at some point afterward, said something about freedom of speech, but I don't think any one was listening.
He's on You Tube, too.


All of this is coming in the wake of The Pope eliminating Limbo.
That's right folks, your dead unbaptised babies are now safe home in Jesus' bosom. More interesting than the dead babies, I think, are all the "good people" who died before the birth of Christ. I think the Pope should check in with the Jews and see how this effects the Jewish settlements in Limbo. Does there have to be a complete pull out, I wonder? Well, I guess this beats a symbolic right of return.
But, still, I wonder who will take care of King David's olive trees?

This Weekend

Hello New York area people.
If you are free this weekend it would be great to have you in the audience.
Brooklyn Borough president, Marty Markowitz is gonna be there on Friday. And I hear rumor that De La Vega might be there too. Apparently, it's the place to be this weekend.



Off the Hook: Original Plays by Red Hook Kids

Six young playwrights, with the support of professional writers, actors, and directors, take center stage
in their own plays for an evening of funny, moving, raw, wonderfully original theater.

Friday, April 27 at 7:00 pm
Saturday, April 28 at 3:00 pm and 7:00 pm
PS 15 - The Patrick Daly School
71 Sullivan Street (between Van Brunt and Richards)
Red Hook, Brooklyn

Admission is free
Reservations: 718-395-3218 or visit http://offthehook.eventbrite.com


The Playwrights: Atiya Avery, Naturel Cordova, Dominique Daniels, Eddy Fortune, Unique Pearson & Glenn Smith

The Company: Pete Ascolese, Arthur Aulisi, Erica Cardwell, Barnett Cohen, Megan Cramer,
Joey Davis, Jill BC DuBoff, Clayton Dowty, Reg Flowers, Anikke Fox, St. John Frizell, Genevieve
de Gaillande, Andrew Grosso, Chris Hammett, Eve Hartmann, Josh Higgason, Ashleigh Beth Hile,
Andrew Irons, Jessica Krakow, Eliza Langley-Wilbur, DJ McDonald, Jacob Morales,
Joy Newhouse, Abby Royle, Eric Saiet, Tricia Seifert, Melissa Shaw, Edie Stone, & more


Sponsored by DYCD in partnership with Good Shepherd Services' Red Hook Community Center at PS 15.

This event is made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts.
In Kings County the Decentralization Program is administered by the Brooklyn Arts Council, Inc. (BAC).

Additional financial support provided by Independence Community Foundation and by American Stevedoring, Inc.

Did you just hear a bird call?

Things I Saw Yesterday:

One The Deepak Chopra meditation room
Two a startling ayurvedic doctor in a blue sari who told me my necklace was beautiful.
Three one cross eyed guy, with a lisp, who leaned into me in the 49th street subway station and whispered "Thank God it's Friday."
Four one man carrying three stalks of sugar cane. On the W.
Five Kinkos.
Six man, dressed as a bird, making misleading bird tweets and caws on the N train; his feathers were purple and green, the last round he played right to me.
Seven the inside of the 41st street Starbucks at the corner of Broadway.
Eight an old woman who harassed a kid for the way he was sitting and then tried to take my other chair, in order to build her fort.
Eight and a Half another woman, slightly less bonkers, who was angry that I would not let her sit in on my meeting.
Nine a meeting with a playwright from Columbia.
Ten the temperature dropping from the 70s.
Eleven"Little Michael Jackson." The best Michael Jackson impersonator is two feet tall. And draws a CROWD at Times Square
Twelve In Darfur at the Public Theater. Go see it. It is the greatest thing I have seen in a very long time. It is a work in progress and the finished product is going to be breathtaking. I learned a lot.

Gypsy Robe

These are not the future of New York fashion, although, I think my grandmother once bought me something like the one on the bottom for Christmas one year; these are Gypsy Robes.

I had chalk in my pocket and I was distracted. I was breezing through the Performing Arts Library thinking about getting my hands on this particular book that synchronicity keeps pushing in my face. I won't say it now. I'll let you know if it changes my life.

I was listening to the music they were piping into the gallery exhibition in the library. Songs from A Chorus Line. Ethel Merman. I was being transported back to Junior High Drama Club. I was thinking I needed to get out SOON. As I ambled along, I came upon something encased in glass and padlocked to the ground. It was made out of everything but the kitchen sink, had the tail of a sea creature, the blue hood of a fairyland princess, and a boat. Yes, a boat.

I circled the glass case until I found the tag explaining just what in Abraham's name (Remember Abraham?)I was looking at.

The Gypsy Robe is one more example of how the theater is unlike any profession in the world. The Gypsy Robe was put into existence by Bill Bailey fifty years ago. A friend of his was in the chorus of Call Me Madam and nervous about his opening night so, Bill Bailey, as a good luck charm, gave him a pink robe the he had been given on his opening night of Gentleman Prefer Blondes. A Broadway tradition was born.

Now, it is given on opening night to the chorus member with the most stage credits. That performer is then obligated to attach a memento from their show, to the robe, before passing it along to the next "Gypsy" or Chorus member.

When the Gypsy Robe is full it is retired and is housed in Lincoln Center or in the Smithsonian. The one I was seeing was the 7th generation Gypsy Robe, started in 1979.

I sat with that robe for the better part of the time I was in the library. I got outside and it was still too wet to use my chalk. Too bad, too. After seeing the Gypsy Robe I felt like everything could use some color and luck.

Is That From Moby Dick, Do You Think?

I am embarrassed. I am embarrassed and disgusted that a man like Chris Matthews is a journalist. No, I am embarrassed that people allow him to think.
Tonight, he asked Steve Capus, the President of NBC, if Ishmael, the name that Virgina Tech gunman Cho Seung-Hui adopted, was a reference to Moby Dick.

OK.
Maybe.
Sure. You could argue that, I suppose.
The kid was an English Major and Moby Dick is indisputably an important work of American fiction. Yeah, all the shit that happened on Monday could have to do with a whale and a boat.

...

OR IT COULD BE OUT OF THE FUCKING BIBLE!!!

Dip wad.
ISHMAEL, which means "God will hear" is only the FIRST SON of Abraham. That's all. You heard of Abraham? Abraham, you know that little guy who almost sacrificed his son, Isaac, the father of the Israelites. You know, Abraham, that little guy that three MAJOR WORLD RELIGIONS hinge their beliefs on. Or whatever.

And Ishmael, his son, cast out by Sarah. You know, maybe one of the most famous outcasts. Ishmael, the one who many deem to be the blood line of Islam.
You heard of Islam, Matthews?
No? Well, it's just this religion that we've been a little prejudiced toward for the past few years. Just the second LARGEST religion in the world.
But, you know, whatever.


"Is that from Moby Dick, do you think?"

Oh shit, yes, of course, Melville. I'm glad you cracked it. Man, I would have gone on thinking it had something to do with the Bible.


Google it, for Christ's sake.


Note: If I turn out to be incorrect and we find out that this had to do with Melville's narrator, and had nothing to do with alienation of biblical proportions, I will PERSONALLY call Hardball and issue a formal apology.
And buy Matthews a copy of Moby Dick.
In hard cover.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, why I first fell in love with unreality

Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence

- L. Ferlinghetti



"I'm sorry for the interruption, but this is a revolution."

Lawrence Ferlinghetti informed the theater that Ferdinand Marcos had said that, but it sounded beautiful coming out of that old bard's mouth.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti knocked his clunky brown oxfords against the podium as he spoke at the 92 street Y on Monday night. He read from A Coney Island of the Mind and some of his unpublished and newer works.

"I love reading these old chestnuts," he declared, turning the page, after finishing one of the poems from A Coney Island of the Mind.

Another time, he was humbly self critical.

"Rather pathetic imagery there about breasts," he said after reading poem #20 in which a woman's breasts were "breathless in the little room."

He ended with a poem about a dog in the White House.

After the poetry reading, I waited to have him sign Unfair Arguments With Existence, a book of his plays. I never do it, but I wasn't sure when I would ever see Lawrence Ferlinghetti again.

He looked at the title page and looked at me.

"Well, this is an old one," he said. "This has been out of print for years!"

I was honestly not expecting conversation and, taken aback, I think I said something about an oldie but a goody.

"I designed this image," he said.

"It's beautiful," I said, looking at the title page with him.

He told me that he had taken the image from a poster he found in Cuba. He said the flower in the gentleman's hand had been a gun and he replaced it with a flower.

I asked him if the poster had had anything to do with Fidel. He said he was almost a hundred percent sure that it had been Cuba.

I told him he was one of my biggest influences.
He smiled and nodded at me.

After I left, I realized I should have asked him what he thought about what was happening to Coney Island, and how he felt about his plays, and how he would rival Rilke with advice. Now, I have to see him again.

Walking out of the auditorium, the rain had paused, so my companion and I decided to walk a little further on to the subway. Avoiding puddles, with sleight-of- foot tricks, we reflected on the homage they had payed to Kurt Vonnegut at the top of the program.

They played a piece of an old interview. His voice, deep and clear and full of mirth, announced with no reservation his opinion on the role of art:

"The goal of art, is to make us like life better than we do right now."


I thank both of them.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech.

Now on view at the Mount Vernon Hotel Museum and Garden is an exhibit focusing on how oysters were served in the 1800s. Yes, it is an Oyster Dinner Installation.

I was there, originally, to hear a woman give a lecture on food inspired by operas from around the world. From this lecture I learned some very interesting things of note. One being, for example, that this is called a fiasco.


I also learned the sordid details about the Champagne Aria.
But, what I mostly did was get acquainted with the old house, of which, I have decided to become a member. Located on 61st street and York, Queensboro Bridge looming, this place houses the only Oyster Dinner exhibit worth seeing in town. I mean, it's how the table would have looked and everything, folks.

The Mount Vernon Hotel Museum and Garden was a day hotel and very few people actually ever stayed over. It used to be called the Abigail Smith Adams House, but they changed it, much to the chagrin of Rosalee, a woman who conducts the children's tours.

"I mean it doesn't matter whether it was the wife or the sister, at least the name was recognizable."

Well. There you go.


After hanging out with the Gray Hairs of the Upper East Side, I made my way down to the place that loves me best, and hit up a music venue called The Stone. The Stone is operated by the composer John Zorn, and since Tonic closed this week I decided to check out the future of Avant-Garde music.

Now, I hope the entire future of Avant-Garde music isn't a woman screeching songs in Yiddish. I mean, if it's part of the future, that's ok. I guess anything is better than a synth.

After Ghetto Tango stopped singing about Mashiach , I was on to Flux Factory, a must not miss in Queens, for the closing of Grizzly Proof. Although I have been there before, many times in fact, I have never gone dressed as a bear. Please visit their website to see why there was so much encouragement to arrive as a grizzly. My costume, sad, as only a furry brown coat, paled in the face of the bear-creating-genius of the kids of Flux. As always, the art was as good as the company.

Everything In Moderation, Including Moderation -Mark Twain

The best reply to unseemly behavior is patience and moderation.
Moliere





So...

Couple things ;)


First and foremost, I just want to let everyone know that I temporarily put all the comment business into moderation, you know, for safe keeping. I have, however, taken it off, it is not the way I wish to roll. I appreciate that people have fun here. I want to keep it that way.

I am sure things will be just fine.

I also have to say that my intention was never to have any kind of immature hijinks in this joint. Check your weapons at the door, gentlemen, or stand outside. House Rules.

I would also like to say that unless you are out of your mind, I will always post your comments. And even if you are out of your mind, and you're acting like a mensch, I will post your comments.


Let's not give this anymore attention. And forgive.

Ok. So, New?
Genug.

What I really want to tell you about is Francine, Rosalee, the Oyster Exhibit at the Mount Vernon Hotel and Museum, and why a Champagne Aria is called as such. I would like to talk about why I love Rachel Hyman and Fels, Flux Factory and its Grizzly party, being dressed like a bear, and how much I wished Nick Normal was there.

And I will right, after rehearsal and work tomorrow, I swear.
Keep those suggestions coming!
Thank you for all your love and support.

Gainfully devoted to you,
Melissa

Kurt Vonnegut

And, although we could never say anything that could rival your legacy, please allow me to just say Rest in Peace, Mr. Vonnegut.

Thank you for waking us up all these years.

Staten Island-Stange Things-Quan's Third Eye

I got on the third car of the L Train and made my way toward Staten Island. The L train is kind of like that dangerous friend from Junior High School. The one who’s friendly before first period, but doesn’t show up at lunch. I can love her while I have her. That’s it.

I arrived to swap trains at Union Square and dropped down the stairs to the NRWQ connection. The sounds of a Busker wafted through the air; someone near me banging on a bucket. For some reason I decided to walk toward the sound, even though I usually avoid the subway musicians; I feel guilty if I don’t have loose money to put in the hat.

A sign propped up in front of him told me that I was listening to the musical stylings of Quan and his Third Eye.

He had on a Bindi at the bridge of his nose and a University of North Carolina hat.

He was banging on a Benjamin Moore paint can.

I asked him what the answer was in three words, he said love and truth and some people might say peace.

I got on an R train headed south.

I arrived downtown, Lower Manhattan, the financial district. That place reminds me of 9/11 and a boy I used to know.Up an escalator and into a place that felt more like a Hospital waiting room than public transportation.

There was a triumvirate of pigeons flapping through the Staten Island Ferry station. Two little boys were chasing them, corralling them, pinning them in the nooks and crannies of the terminal, releasing and starting again.

As we were about to board the boat, we assembled in waiting- for- doors- to-open formation. Grouped tight at the loading dock, there were apparently people who had to get to their regular seat.

I walked on with a crowd of tourists from Minnesota. They all went to the starboard side of the boat to see the Statue of Liberty. I figured I really had nothing better to do. Twenty five minutes of sight seeing might do a body good.

Staring out across the water at Ellis Island, I thought about the fact that people came here some years ago with hope, and had their names changed. America was a place people heard a rumor about and got on a boat for. This guy behind me had a totally different thought.

“Ok, so, let’s get our troops out now, ok? Let’s face it we didn’t go there to give the Iraqi people Liberty, we went there to take their oil. So, let’s get out now, ok?”

A protester.

He clapped a little. A couple of people agreed. A Latino mother of two, near me, tried to start a chant of agreement.
Then, one of the people from Minnesota spoke up.

“If you like them so much why don’t you move there?” said a man wearing a hat with ALASKA written on it.

“I didn’t like Saddam Hussein if that’s what you mean,” said the protester, who I noticed was wearing a button that read, War Is Terrorism.

“Well, go sell it some place else. We’ll get the troupes out when we’re done doing the job.”

“And what’s the job?”

“Getting their oil.” If I am not mistaken, ALASKA Hat’s eyes glittered at his own wit.

“Well, at least you’re honest.”

The mother of two reminded us that we were all Americans and to relax.

Slowly, the protester came to a halt with his pleas and disappeared. The man in the ALASKA hat went back to staring at the Statue of Liberty, perhaps thinking that he had won something.

We disembarked the Ferry and I decided to remain in Staten Island for a while. I got an idea that I needed a pocket dictionary and I went into the stationary store/pharmacy of the main drag in St. George. The merchant had dictionaries of the Spanish/English variety, but not what I was looking for. Nothing, all in English, which I could put in my pocket.

I asked the man behind the counter if he had any water I could purchase. He said he didn’t, as he spoke my eyes darted behind his counter to the very, very, very many pictures of Marilyn Manson that were cut out and pasted behind him.

“Who’s into Marilyn Manson?” I asked, putting my unused wallet away.

“He’s my God.”

“Really,” I asked/commented to the Italian Metal Head who couldn't sell me water or a dictionary, “What is it about him?”

“He doesn’t give a shit about what anybody thinks about him. He does his thing and if you don’t like it you don’t have to be around him.”

I walked out feeling like I had learned something about that man and his Stationary Store.

After consuming a sandwich of Mozzarella and Eggplant in a restaurant that was trying very hard to feel like Sicily, I stumbled upon The Staten Island Museum.

And, by the way, if you are looking for embalmed flying southern squirrels, stuffed ducks, florescent minerals, Security guards who really, really like their job, gems of any variety, morels, lesbian teenagers making out in awkward places, Agate from Brazil, Aquatic history, butterflies, dinosaurs, or beetles I know just the place.

I would like to focus in on one particular highlight of the museum that held me past the 3:30 ferry home.


The Strange Things Exhibition

From left to right in a curio-cabinet on the wall, here is what it offered the viewer:


1) Weathered wood

2) Tree Burl

3) Section of pear tree bored by larvae of Leopard Moth

4) Concretion shaped like a potato

5) Cow horn (from young cow actually killed by turkey buzzards when she was calving. I shot over 20 of them.) -Charles Roome Parmele. Author’s note: I’m assuming this man is the donor.

6) Growths on the white cedar

7) Ironstone concretion in the shape of a horn

8) Pine knot

9) Tusk from wild boar (which I shot in Louisiana swamps but not until he had killed my dog.) - Charles Roome Parmele Author’s note: Me again, Apparently, Mr. Parmele. has cornered the market on strange things in Staten Island.

10) Rabbit droppings (in a matchbook)

11) Section of rind from a four pound lemon

12) Shellac facts (This is too hard to explain.)

13) Four-legged chicken

14) Hair ball from the stomach of a Texas Steer


It is my belief that this is all on permanent collection at the museum so please make a trip anytime. Note: I learned that the 2 dollar entrance fee for the museum is waved on Tuesdays, for a lunch time special, from 12-2. All of this (including the ferry ride) can be yours for free.

On the way home I made the 3:50 Ferry by the skin of my teeth. There were these beetles at the end that wouldn't let me go.

The third beetle from the left was a Stag beetle from Ecuador.


Thank you to Franny and Sarah. Franny, it was a "3" day.



I would love more suggestions from you, the reading audience. Please feel free to keep them coming.

MS

An Experiment

"Chaos is the score upon which reality is written."
This Henry Miller quote just popped up on my gmail banner.
Sounds like he knows the way I make my art and my relationships.

I had a conversation with a very dear friend of mine about this last night, and we discussed the difference between chaos and adventure.
The difference?
Go ask someone's therapist, I certainly don't know.

BUT HERE IS WHAT I DO KNOW!!


Lovers, Haters, and Friendly Tolerators of Shawdenfreude,

I NEED YOUR HELP.

Here is the interactive part of our Shawdenfreude show. I have decided to conduct an experiment and I need my dear readers to become active participants.

For the next week, I am going to ask for parts of an assignment from you funny and intelligent people and all you have to do it post your suggestions in the comments section.

The deal:

I am going to go places in New York I have never been before. galleries, bars, cafes, etc. and I am going to create written pieces based out of my experiences there.
I will then post them the next day on Shawdenfreude.

Here's what I need from you:

From you fine folks, I need suggestions of where to go, creative limitations, things to focus on, or things to include in that day's post.

For example, you might suggest that I:

Can't speak to anyone.
Ride the Subway.
Include 5 quotes I hear that day in the text.
Wear a flower in my hair.
Use a portion of the book I am reading in whatever I write.
Go to a church.
Mention Sweden 4 times.

Think of yourselves as putting a thumbprint in the clay. Somewhat like a Choose Your Own Adventure Story, I would like your outside input in helping me create the next day's written piece. The piece will then take the form of a short play, a poem, a fiction piece, or a rant depending what the set up is.

But in order for it to work, I need everyone to be involved and post ideas everyday for the following day. So please post as many as you like. (And Have fun. Just try to pick things that won't get me arrested, unless they are brilliant!)

Please feel free to forward this on to your friends who might be interested in being involved in the experiment.

Love,
Melissa

April

In case you haven't noticed, it has snowed, in some part, for four days straight.
Someone I know said it serves us right.

Absolutely

Keith Richards totally snorted his father.
Keith Richards absolutely positively one hundred percent took his father's ashes and put them in his nose.

On the sign in front of the Burp Castle, from now on, I'm going to write, "beers strong enough to make you want to snort your Dad."

We make you want to snort your parents.

Speaking of the Burp Castle(again), what would you do if a non-English speaking patron from Colombia tried to explain to you what it was like to work in the liposuction business in New Jersey?

Listen with rapt attention.

That guy did an amazing impression of a vacuum cleaner.

He said he was from Yemen

Another reason to love New York.

There was a man in a fedora who was watching me write in the Subway station.

Between the time it took to get from Union Square to Bedford Avenue I heard a story from a man who was born in Yemen and almost eaten by a lion, while taking a piss, before he moved to Israel, where he served in the army and was almost killed by an Egyptian Soldier when he was thrown off his Motorcycle. He tipped his hat and showed me the scar on his head. He then relayed the tale of being shoved out of a car by the German Mafia for whom he was working as a driver. He asked me to write his autobiography. He got off at Bedford before I could hear about his time in America. He and what he called his 12 lives.

Happy Passover.

The Burp

Sarah had some mango in a plastic dish that was the color of dead shoulder blades. We were talking to a gentleman from the Czech Republic. We realized that I am pretty ok at helping people figure out what they really want to say in English. The guy from the Czech Republic had some issues with W's and V's. I tried to explain. Good luck getting him to say Newark.

Before he came in, there was a moment I shared with a Deaf Man who wasn't sure what to do with his boat, now that his father had died, he had to think about moving back to Manhattan. He decided, at the end, that he might just buy another boat. Keep one near Long Island. Maybe. He didn't know that he had been yelling the whole time.
My grandfather was the same way.

This is sometimes the Burp Castle. It is also sometimes people from Houston wrestling and it is sometimes people crying. It is sometimes dead and it is sometimes full of french fries and cheese.

Will you, won't you? Will you, won't you? Won't you join our dance?