Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Between A River And A Highway


It started to rain, but Lester's from Queens so he didn't care and Maya had been a New York dog so she would have been just fine with the West Side Highway up our butts and the so-called clean Hudson in our noses and full-geared weekend bicyclists zooming around us.

So, with an eye out for cops who might stop our little illegal spreading of her ashes, we took turns sharing about how Maya was the sweetest dog in the world, generous with her cuddles, wouldn't have wanted the pink candle, she was a girl, but a butch one, and how one day she let Lester know he had fucked up by looking him straight in the eye and then right in front of him pissing all over the floor.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Sunday Memories: The Journey Of A Thousand Sentences Begins With A Couple Of Words



And one night in 1994 the words "The Sad Air btw NY & Philadelphia stretches for years" tumbled out of a ball point pen.

Sixteen years later, after many rewrites, stretches of writer's block, and too many rejections, THE SAD AIR BETWEEN NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA, the second part of the WIRE MONKEY TRILOGY has come to completion.

And on June 30th at 7pm, I will read a chapter at the Writing House Reading Series at Kettle of Fish.

Please join me.

THE WRITER'S HOUSE READING SERIES
KETTLE OF FISH
59 Christopher Street
June 30th
7 pm

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Her Cheers In Her New York



She's a regular at this Irish sports bar and restaurant where all the locals clinging to their neighborhood go to.

The waiter knows her name, her favorite booth, and the fact that she has been having trouble sleeping.

Even though she comes in almost every night and even though it is a casual establishment, she still dresses for dinner. A sharp suit, carefully selected button earrings with a matching necklace and bracelet and a very nice purse she obviously has had for years.

This bar is loud with jovial voices and announcers shouting scores and the clatter of burger platters, potato skins, grilled chicken, onion rings and fries. The waiter leans down to hear her describe the new sleeping pill her doctor gave her. He then helps her to her feet, kisses her good night on the cheek and guides her through the crowd of all the other regulars from the neighborhood, one where everyone knows everyone's name.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: Why I Still Write

I still write because I am inspired and fired up by Ela Thier's workshops (I've taken several and each time my work gets better and better and better).

Otherwise, the joy from knowing how to build a story would have withered away from lack of knowledge.

If you want to attend a FREE evening workshop, then see below:


FROM ELA THIER:

Back by popular demand!

It's been over a year since I've offered a free screenwriting workshop. The time has come for another one:

If you haven't sampled my workshops yet and are wondering why everyone is raving about them, this workshop is free and open to the public. If you've attended my free workshops in the past, I've made many changes to my presentation and you're in for a treat.

Writers at all levels of experience are welcome to attend.

TIME:
Thursday, July 1
6:30-9:30

PLACE:
University Settlement Community Center
184 Eldridge St, Manhattan, NY

Reservations are required.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Sunday Memories: The First Home


When the younger one was dying, even with her life filled with tons of decades fully rooted in a loving, embracing community in a city she wasn't born in, she wanted her older sister. They weren't on the easiest of terms or necessarily best friends. But even if nothing was left to it except her older sister holding her hand the younger sister wanted to go back home.

Years later, when the older one, in a California nursing home that looked like a country club, began to forget things like how to eat or why it was even important to eat, she would greet her brother every daily visit with the same question. When would they be going back to Henry Street? When would they be going back home? A cold water, rat-infested tenement. That was home.

He now clings to a spiderweb of little lists that are his daily memory. What doctor when. Who is coming on what day. Where did he put what he can't remember he was looking for. Yet siting on the couch uncertain of the last five minutes or the next five minutes, home becomes sharp and specific and stories about Home like those of his sisters come tumbling out.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood...


Ed, Mary and their dog, Butta hanging out on their stoop old school style the way the old ladies and sometimes the old men did on Grand Street in their beach chairs talking to everyone reminding them hey you are in our neighborhood you are in your neighborhood I'm your neighbor so I'm gonna talk to you whether you like or not and sure enough just like the old days in old neighborhoods all over the city, everyone talked back with Ed, Mary and their dog, Butta.

And Butta got a lotta love. As she should.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Time Flies When...


It was supposed to be a brief meal.

Four hours later, I was still laughing too hard to write down everything Dana said.

But she had been warned. When one encounters a better writer than oneself one can only rip off said writer in self defense.

On certain attempts of style:

"He combs his hair with a washcloth."

On the insults of aging and limited mobility:

"I could fool anything but a flight of stairs."

On the fact her doctor is moving her office right across the street from her apartment:

"I won't be late if there's no red light."

And last, but not least, on our favorite actor:

"He's a walking sex experience."

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose - Encores of Early Posts

SUNDAY, MARCH 30, 2008

Sunday Memories: In three acts G dies in Manhattan in 1993


I
He’s in Cabrini on 19th Street. The nurse who loves him the most is six feet tall and just finished becoming a woman. Her hands are huge. She could pick G up when he was bigger and now as he dwindles into the bed she still swoops him up into her arms and we see how much he has left from how small he is in her arms.

His family comes in from Queens to visit. Four of G’s six brothers are wearing his suits. They are either too tall or too short, too thin or too fat for the suits. Looking at them in G’s clothes is like looking at G in funhouse mirrors.

When they leave, G turns to M “Couldn’t they have just waited until I died?,” he asks.

II

I turn the corner onto 14th street to go to the wake at the funeral home and see the big straight brother who hates gay people beating the shit out of the thin delicate gay brother who in his own words is “a screaming queen.” Somebody calls the cops. The gay brother’s suit, formerly G’s, is ripped in many places.

III

It’s the day of the funeral. I turn onto 14th street to go to the church across the street from the funeral home. Cop cars line the street. My heart sinks. It’s only 10 in the morning. More trouble already? When I get to the steps of the church I find out it’s just Law and Order setting up for a shoot later on in the day.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose - Encores of Early Posts

Encore posting from the early days show the more things change, the more things...


Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Why I Miss The 70's



Like Brittany Spear's vulva, her wallet stuck out and begged to be taken.

I leaned over and said, "Miss, your wallet is going to be stolen."

She gave me that arrogant thank-fuck you of all those who moved here more than six years ago, but not before it was safe enough to walk down the street without getting your ass kicked in. 1996? 97?

I sat there and rued the day Florence caught me stealing, had me return the penny gum to the newspaper-candy store on Delancey, apologize to the owner and then made me promise never to steal again.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose - Encores of Early Posts

Encore posting from the early days show the more things change, the more things...

Thursday, April 24, 2008

He Could Say It In Four Languages If He Wanted To



Across from Greeley Square between the serious men's clothing store and the Dunkin Donut she is lying on the ground and there are a lot of people over her making sure her shopping bags are ok and so is her purse. There is a cup of something by her and the security guy or police chief or whatever he is, is talking into a walkie-talkie.

The two guys and me hang out on the curb by the flower pots and watch a skinny homeless guy shout at the crowd. He looks a bit like the guy who kicked me in the ass when I bumped into him once on a rainy day. Wouldn't be surprised if it were. This is his neighborhood.

The two guys said that she began to fall and the homeless guy caught her and was shouting get help get help and once non-homeless guys showed up and shooed him away he got upset. After all, he was there first and just because he was homeless didn't mean he was less of a hero.

The daily convoy of twenty-five blaring police cars roar up 6th Avenue. None stop.

"She fell. Her heart, her blood pressure or diabetic. They give her an orange juice with some sugar. Look, she is fine."

A third man joins us. His patter sounds like poems made of rain on a roof. When I ask if it is Arabic, his friend nods. "I speak Danish too. And Spanish and English and Arabic."

We look across the street at the woman again. Two ambulances come as she sits up and talks on her cell phone.

The guy says to me, "We are nothing. A heart, or something and we fall... we are nothing."

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Sunday Memories: When We Were Young

The family was still in Bushwick...



...before the money really ran out, before the beatings got worse and more frequent, before they had to move to Henry Street on the Lower East Side...



...where the rats were bigger than Mitzi the dog.



In those Brooklyn days being left handed was not allowed. He was sent home for not knowing how to write with his right hand.

And of course on the first day of school, his name, a Hebrew one, was changed to an English one.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

The Fountain of Youth


There was no such thing as bottled water. Just bottled cola. And maybe juice.

And these were the perfect height if you were little but now you have to do yoga to get closer to getting a drink. Which is still just as warm as it was then.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

School's Out For Summer


Stairwells were the subways to our classes, filled with pushing and shoving, the dreaded chance collision with the boy everyone had a crush on, the bully everyone feared, or news of the big people's world like the older brother who came back from Woodstock covered with mud (we were all really interested in the mud part).

It was on that last day, everything draining out from the school these old walls and stair emerged into view.