Friday, April 25, 2014

Friday's Child Is Loving And Giving And Not Afraid Of Intimacy

Why does Her New York
post about animal rescue?


We were talking about intimacy last night. 

The Mets were doing OK so it freed up some time.  All of us, at some point or another, had closed off our hearts and souls and went about life "doing just fine".   I did that a couple of times. 

But, just like the Mets winning because the other team screwed up a lot, I got lucky.  Friends and roommates had loving dogs and all those dogs wanted TO love.  They were not afraid of intimacy.   They made sure, curling up to me in bed, or putting their head in my lap, that I learned to get close to something other than a cigarette or a bar stool.

Later, Jupiter decided I was his and that was that and, really, cats aren't loving like dogs.  They just expect to BE loved and they are not afraid to BE loved at all.  They are not afraid of intimacy.  And, with his demands to have his ear scratched, his fur brushed, his ball thrown and his dish filled, I had to learn to get close to something other than the safety of my own walls. 


When you're used to cigarettes and walls and the Mets losing, life is predicable.  So is a flat line on a heart monitor.   Therefore and hence, if you want to go on an adventure into intimacy and four-legged beings are more inviting than a spouse at this point, check out the beefcake of the week:


Seriously, it doesn't get any better than this beefy babe.  Even his name, MACHO, is perfect.

Social Tees says:  This charmer is so attractive we can barely keep our eyes off of him. When he visits, we can barely keep our hands off of him! He's just so damn curly, soft, and lovable. 

But looks aren't everything, as we all (should) know... Luckily, this boy is as gorgeous inside as he is at first glance. Macho is smart, loyal, loving, and wonderfully friendly with everyone he meets. He's well mannered, loves to play fetch, makes a great walking companion, and is housebroken

Seriously, you're not going to find a more adoring and cuddly soul mate. Plus, he's the perfect size for someone who wants a smallish dog that's not too small, 

He's 3 years old and about 25 pounds and a young dog that's past the challenging puppy behavior!

Interested in adopting him? Complete an application at!



Tarzan, the obscenely adorable lab puppy, was adopted a few weeks ago by a family of four in the neighborhood. They're over the moon with the new member of their family.  His loving guardians couldn't be more thrilled. They smother him with cuddles and are working on basic training. His new mom and dad say: "We love our puppy, he's healthy and very happy in his new home. It was great working with Social Tees! The adoption process went really smooth. Thank you!!!!

Come Volunteer!!! 
Come Visit!!!!
 Come On In!!!!!

Social Tees  
325 East 5th Street, NY, NY 10003

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Murder On Second Avenue

I almost didn't take the picture.  After all, I'm no Weegee.  To put a camera to your eye and capture the inner remains of an exploded being is beyond me.  I mean, I can look the hell of my soul in the eye.  I can't stand look the hell of the world in the eye.

Only this time I was obligated to look.

Just that morning, I had been thinking about the time in 1976 when I saw a mugging happening to an old lady on Second Avenue and 15th Street.  It was maybe near dusk, the Avenue was empty (as it was in those days) and I was on my bike.  The mugger, twice the old lady's size, ran away very slowly.

I could have peddled after him and run him over. But I didn't.  I was 17 and resigned to the bad guys winning.  All I did was watch and think bad thoughts about bad people who do bad things to old ladies.

However, I never shook off the regret of that day.  I did stop other muggings after, but it's the failures that haunt motivation, not the successes.

Walking by the destroyed and mutilated sound board and broken legs, that old 1976 feeling swept me almost to my front door, all the while tsk-tsking about how could someone do such a thing like that, just chop up a piano and throw it to the curb.  Couldn't they have found someone who needed it?

Ah, the terror of that old lady and the smugness of that mugger flooded me and before I knew it, I stomped back through the waves of the many young people filling the streets with their blase look and urgent cell phone calls, and ignoring the smoke from the cigarettes they too would have to struggle for years to quit, I turned on my flash, and, just like Weegee, documented the scene of the crime.

Related Posts:

Sunday Memories:  Letting Sleeping Dogs Lie

She's Leaving Home, Bye, Bye

Just In Time For The Holidays: Thanking The Problems For Being The Gifts

Sunday Memories: Steinway To Heaven

Weegee's World

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Another Kind Of Happy Endings

We were walking down St. Marks on our way to look at things we could suddenly afford.  But you walk down a street for, like, 40 years, a lot of them pretty sucky, it's not walking.  More like stepping around unpleasant remains mixed with dog shit.  Short and long travels then require a ballet dancer's grace and a lot of professional help.

"Tell me when you see someplace with happy memories," the Mariner said.

"That place!" I said, pointing to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge. Definitely remembered a great night there.  Even with the really drunk 90 year old man hitting on all the butch girls.     
Then I looked. "Oh, it's closed." 

"Every place you have a happy memory about has been shut down," the Mariner pointed out.

Related Posts:

Sunday Memories: Last Call

Vanishing New York: The Holiday Cocktail Lounge

Sunday Memories: Tribes, Lost And Found

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Sunday Memories: How I Learned About Love At Gramma's

Growing up, sleepovers were so rare that I can remember every night I didn't sleep in my own bed.  I think it's seven fingers worth.

Gramma's at Knickerbocker Village was one of those special nights.

 Gramma at Knickerbocker

Gramma lived in a small one bedroom apartment with a smaller living room/dining room and a teeny-tiny kitchen.   She slept in a cot in the so-called living room where the 'big' television was.

Her husband, my grandfather, William, slept in the bedroom with his own TV.  He was always sick and, although utterly lovely to me, was an inactive monster with a long history of not-so-nice to important people like his wife and his daughter, my mother Florence.

His wife and his daughter

The rare times I sat with him, we watched "Divorce Court".  I didn't understand for years that it was all made up.  All I remember was that episode where the wife with the long hair yelled and cried and screamed as her husband left her for a prettier woman and my grandfather roared with laughter.

Ill and old himself, he would one day, steal all the money that Gramma had saved from being a practical nurse as she withered away in a nursing home.

Until then, he lived sick in the bedroom and she lived on the cot in the so-called living room wrapped in her own world remembering Kiev and better times.  She would sometimes shout questions or comments to William and I think sometimes he answered her.  I never really saw their marriage and when you don't see something, you don't know it's there.

There were times William must have been in the Veteran's Hospital and so perhaps those were the one or three nights I got to sleep over.  I didn't notice if he was there or not.  There were more important things awaiting me at Knickerbocker Village.

Suffering through Gramma's God-awful cooking and inedible meatballs was worth the rare dessert of Hostess cupcakes,  and snoballs.

And then after dessert, television, and not just the usual Friday night television watching, but the Friday-night-as-late-as-I-could-stay-awake-into-Saturday-morning-no-curfew television watching.

We'd begin with our usual Friday night line-up - Hogan's Heroes, Here Comes The Brides, Love American Style, Star Trek.  It was the only window into a life of hope and happily-ever-after - a world filled with handsome men like Hogan and his crew, and where conflicts were resolved through principles and words or, if you were Captain Kirk, an honest fight without shirts.

Then Gramma would pull out of the closet the 'guest' hospital cot, open it up  for me and give me one of the thin blankets kept for such occasions.  Then she'd crawl into her cot and fall asleep.

But I would perch at the edge of the beat-up old cot and start turning channels into worlds I knew existed outside of the tight parameters called my childhood.

And that's where I'd run into "Divorce Italian Style".  Not once, not twice, but every time I stayed over Gramma's house.

Oh sure, now I understand it as a great piece of Italian cinematic comedy, nominated in Best Director and Best Actor categories in the Academy Awards.  Sure, it won for Best Writing, Best Story and  Screenplay. Sure, Marcello Mastroianni and Daniela Rocca were in it, blah blah blah blah blah...

None of that mattered to me in my pre-breasts life.  What mattered to me was the only scene I remembered for years until one day recently and 45 years after those nights at Gramma, I watched it again.

There they were, on the beach, Daniela Rocca, laughing and smiling and happy thinking Marcello Mastroianni loved her.  And he, dreaming for freedom to marry the pretty young girl, wishing the sand would suck her into its depth and bury her away from any marital commitment he had.

Only now do I give gratitude that I watched all those Hogan's Heroes, Love American Style, Here Comes The Brides and a shirtless Captain Kirk fighting for a better life and a kinder world more than those late night moments with marriage, Italian cinema style. 

Related Posts:

Sunday Memories: First Love

Sunday Memories: Television, Old School

The Long Road

Sunday Memories: Traveling Through

Sunday Memories:  Home Where My Love Lies Waiting

Days Like This [a Her New York favorite]

Friday, April 18, 2014

Friday's Child Is Loving And Giving
And Wants To Make You Happy

Why does Her New York
post about animal rescue?

If you want 

in your home ...

in your life

and your heart

...then check out who's waiting for you at Social Tees

Come Volunteer!!! 
Come Visit!!!!
 Come On In!!!!!

Social Tees  
325 East 5th Street, NY, NY 10003

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Reclaiming, Recovering, Resurrecting

Just off the avenue I call the countryside because it has so many trees and behind these branches are benches circling a fountain that bubbles elegantly during summer months. 

I spent many months sitting by that fountain, slowly brushing away, like an archeologist, the rubble of life events the Buddha said we would all suffer.

I don't sit there as much anymore, but the gently undigging never ends, nor should it.  After all, every morning, Florence sat down to practice.  Every night, we brushed our teeth.  Every day, everyone gets to start anew.

When walking that daily Exodus into the birthright of Resurrection, a prayer is offered:  take away what I don't need anymore so I may travel without burden to the life I was born to live.

Related Posts:

Leaving Egypt On Maundy Thursday [a Her New York favorite]

Migratory Patterns

Sunday Memories: In Honor Of Past Exoduses

Going to Brooklyn To Leave Egypt

Before The Rain, An Encore Of Shelter From Storm

Sunday Memories: Part Three - Home Work

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Before The Rain, An Encore of Shelter From The Storm

Describing to a friend how a bathroom stall was, during busy days, the only place to catch my breath and reengage my prayer, this old post swam back into my memory.

Originally posted Thursday, June 4, 2009

It could be perched on top of a recycle bin by old windows.

Or around a conference table, the florescent lights becoming windows to a better way of living one day at a time.

And sometimes it's just a familiar bench by the bathrooms waiting for a movie to start.