Yeah, New York really used to be like that...

I recently mentioned how every car in my 'hood on the upper west side used to have a sign in the window saying "NOTHING OF VALUE IN CAR!!", faithful readers may recall.
Well, I just heard a great story from a neighbor who also remembers those days. He told me that one day, walking out of his building, he saw a car with the aforementioned sign taped to the inside of the back window and the front window of the car smashed in. Lying on the front seat was a note, scrawled in big letters that said "GET SOMETHING!"
Those were the days my friend.
Fast forward to now: Mercedes SUV parked on 103rd near Bway with top-of-the-line Evenflo baby seat in full view in the back. Vehicle unmolested.

"Yeah, so I pitched for a few guys...so what?!,,,,"

With those deathless words, Jackie Riccardi burned his way into my synapses forevermore. I was 15 and he was about the same age. He had peach fuzz on his chin and rosy cheeks that looked almost comical in their wholesomeness but he possessed the voice of a hard-bitten streetwise, Bronx punk that sounded like someone who'd been gargling lye for longer than he'd been alive. I'm not exaggerating. If you closed your eyes and listend to this kid he sounded like a 45 year chainsmoking whiskey pounder. This was, no doubt, the result of his ingestion of Marlboro Reds, end to end, throughout the day. We were a couple of kids among a couple dozen that were in a drug rehab called Daytop Village on 83rd street between Columbus and Amsterdam.

My parents had given me a simple ultimatum: either get cleaned up or find another place to live. Being that I was 14 years old, I didn't really cotton to the prospect of finding a place on my own so I acceded and began attending. It was a day-care program in which attendance was required from 8:30 am to 5:30 pm daily, 10-3 on Saturdays and Sundays off. The truly hardcore (i.e. junkies of long standing) were sent to the program's upstate facilities in Millbrook, New York (there was another upstate one but I can't recall the location). The program in the city had quite a colorful crew, both staff and attendees. I recall a 15 year old gay hustler and a 42nd street prostitute named Yvonne who I later saw decked out like a garish vision of old New York, tottering across Broadway and 45th Street, complete with purple hot pants and a feather boa. Apparently she didn't get cured.
Just to show how different New York was then (I know people talk about this ad nauseam but it was truly a different world): on the first day that I was due at the program I lit up a big roach as I walked down Broadway at about 8 am. As I rounded the corner of 83rd street heading east and sucking mightily on the roach, lips pursed in an almost comic evocation of a potsmoker, a cop walked past me. We looked right at each other. He did nothing and continued on his way. Contrast that with today's New York when pissing discreetly behind a bush in Central Park can get you hauled in and you might get some idea of the stark difference between yesterday and today.

So back to Jackie Riccardi. Jackie had a serious tough guy persona. Although he was rosy cheeked and only 15, he did his best to impart a real "fuck you and your dead ancestors" kind of vibe. He was a hard-boiled little fuck from the Bronx and he wanted you to know it. So, when the counselors (reformed addicts themselves) and the inmates (not really, since we all went home every evening) gathered twice weekly for Encounter Groups, we were all encouraged to let loose all the frustration and hostility that we had hoarded over the course of dealing with one another civilly the rest of the time. In this one particular group, a couple of the counselors began hammering Jackie, telling him that his tough guy "I'll kick your ass" pose was a front and that it had to be a cover for something softer, something...gayer. They kept at him for over 15 minutes, "c'mon Jackie, you never made it with a guy? Who you kiddin'? Kah Maaaaahn man! Fess up!" etc etc. It was fascinating to watch because, while he denied it, he didn't get all upset or start hollering. He just was like, "Me? Get the fuck out of here." So imagine my surprise when, after relentless hectoring, he blurts out—to finally get them off his back—"All right! Okay! Yeah, so I pitched for a couple o' guys. So what?! That don't make me queer!" I was unacquainted with the whole "pitch" versus "catch" parlance but I caught on fast.
Here it was, in all its ancient glory—the notion that the penetrator, the actor (rather than the acted upon) remains sexually undefined by his act while the buggeree (or cocksucker) is an irredeemable fag. I came across this same idea just the other day while re-reading Thompson's "Hell's Angels" in which a touch, macho Angel recounts how a guy blew him in a bar and how he would have no problem getting sucked off for cash anytime there was someone willing to pay. But him gay? Naah.

Bristol's Baby Daddy OMFG!!

This is comic genius. If you haven't already seen/heard this you've got to check it out.

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

George Carlin and the politics of discernment

I recently had the pleasure of being called an "elitist, liberal, snob" by an anonymous poster on Youtube. What had I done to inspire his ire? Very little. I had merely pointed out that, to appreciate George Carlin's humor, a certain level of intellect and discernment was a prerequisite. I have been a huge fan of Carlin since I was a child when his albums "FM/AM" and "Class Clown" spent an inordinate amount of time on the turntables of my youth. I parroted his bits ceaselessly and can, to this day, do many of them verbatim. I grew less enamored of his work in later years as he became something of a polemicist and his routines seemed to incorporate less humor and more attacks (many quite ugly) on admittedly deserving targets. Nevertheless, he was always fascinating to watch—a first rate, blindingly quick mind nimbly navigating the jagged face of his barbed opinions. In the wake of his death, in addition to replaying some of those albums, I went on Youtube to peruse some of his bits and enjoy a reprise of his brilliance. Posted underneath a wonderfully observed bit he did about death and the hackneyed, predictable responses that people have to it (If there's anything I can do, please let me know! Yeah? Okay, how about you paint the fucking garage and then mow the lawn? Hah? Call their fucking bluff!), some putz had posted, "Who is this old guy, he's not funny and why does anyone care?" I ought to have known better than to descend into the fetid sink that frequently passes for discourse on Youtube (and all too many places online) but I couldn't stop myself. I wrote: "Carlin often requires a certain level of discernment and intelligence to appreciate and is widely acknowledged as one of the great comic minds", which, considering the wit and insightfulness of his bit on death and the bald ignorance of the poster, seemed apt. In a very short time, someone responded to my posting, calling me "a typical liberal, elitist snob" or words to that effect. I found this striking because if an appreciation of insight and keen powers of observation is a hallmark of liberalism, then what are the hallmarks of the more right-leaning individual? Surely not only liberals and "progressives" can see that O'Reilly and Hannity and their ilk are bullies who engage in indictment by insinuation? Is it only liberals like me that find themselves becoming unaccountably violent and fantasizing about using Sean Hannity's lying fat head for a piñata when they see his smug, dissembling, propagandizing piehole spewing unattenuated garbage day after day? Is it only "liberals" who recognize that their mad-dog ravings cheapen our discourse even as they seduce the dull? MSNBC's sad attempt to counter Hannity and O'Reilly and their ilk with the likes of Keith Olbermann does nothing to elevate our profoundly debased level of discourse. You cannot beat these swine at their own game. Their hostility and bullying is a pose; one that obviously resonates with huge numbers of people who, I suspect, are unwilling to actually take the time to think. I am reminded of O'Reilly's appearance on Letterman in which he hectored Letterman and demanded that he answer the question: "Dave, do you want us to win in Iraq? It's a simple, yes or no question!" To which Letterman responded, "Well, it's not a simple question for me Bill, because I'm thoughtful". That was a beautiful moment and one that needs to be magnified a thousandfold.
  There are plentiful Ivy leaguers, PhDs and MBAs among the right-wing (Rice was a Stanford professor)—intellectualism is not the sole province of the left. But the appearance of strength finds its simplest expression in the anti-intellectualism that is the stock in trade of Hannity et al (taunting, bullying, hectoring) which a dishearteningly large number of people in the U.S. seem to connect with. It was great to see Obama on O'Reilly (I only watched a brief segment) and the firm way in which he refused to let O'Reilly play his standard game of essentially using a (usually more liberal) foil to bray his opinion. Obama was having none of it and politely yet firmly refused to allow himself to be interrupted and steamrolled by O'Reilly's usual tactics. O'Reilly, faced with Obama's stature as a presidential candidate (rather than his usual hapless, faceless victims...er...interviewees) and unimpeachable poise, couldn't play his usual game, though he tried.
  One of my closest friends is a hardcore right winger—thinks Giuliani is wonderful, lifetime member of the NRA, the whole bit. He also lives on the upper west side near 96th and Broadway. I frequently tease him and tell him that he's living in the belly of the beast. He laughs and says that he likes how liberals live. I think that, in some ways, he must share more liberal opinions than he's willing to let on or else he couldn't stomach living in such an unabashedly left-leaning place. When we're out with friends, I often say, "I don't want to say that Jimmy's right wing, but he thinks the Klan is soft on minorities". This usually gets a good laugh and smiling protestations from Jimmy who, for all his posturing, is one of the kindest, most supportive people that I know and possesses a genuinely warm heart. I'm sure there are many such conservatives. Why aren't any of them on television, propounding more considered and thoughtful views?

visit www.foxattacks.com for a fair and balanced view of Fox "News"'s propagandizing.

Marc Jacobs, Dean Street and my old roommate, part 1

I moved out of my parents' place when I was 18—it had been inevitable given the amount of weed I smoked, their dislike of it, and the entire trajectory of my life at that point. My friend Ralph introduced me to DJ, a 14 year-old drug dealer who lived on Dean Street in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn. He had his own apartment with a single roommate, Jim. There was a tiny room—a glorified closet really—available and DJ rented it to me. Despite his tender age DJ had more of a five o'clock shadow than I did and he also had the low voice of a grown man. His stock in trade was very pure, liquid LSD that he sold in Visine bottles. He had a roaring business going. He cultivated his clientele by traveling around the country, following the Grateful Dead, and selling the acid at their shows. When he was in New York, he shipped his product all over the country by Fedex. I found his whole setup completely mind-boggling, particularly considering his age. The freezer in our apartment was stuffed with bags of sinsemilla buds and bottles of LSD disguised as Visine. It was in that apartment on Dean Street where I came to regard it as normal to drink Jack Daniels in the morning along with lungfuls of sweet, powerful, skunky bud. I was a bike messenger then, working for Streetwise Couriers in midtown. Legend had it that thugs staked out the stairs leading up to the walkway on the Brooklyn Bridge so I rode straight up Cadman Plaza onto the bridge with the cars. The roadway was a metal latticework that caused the bike to shimmy back and forth as though you were on ice. This took some getting used since cars were flying past at 50+ miles per hour with inches to spare and people often yelled and cursed as they flew past. The ascent was a little tough but once you hit the apex and began to descend you'd often keep pace or even pass the cars. It's hard to describe the sensation of flying through the air, high above the river, with Manhattan rushing at you as you scream down the Brooklyn Bridge on two wheels. It's nothing like the slow and polite promenade ride alongside the pedestrians on the walkway above the road.
In those days (pre fax and internet) the bike messenger companies were color-coded: Purple bags were Can Carriers which was the first company I rode for before I was told that Streewise (Orange) was much hipper to work for. They were, in fact, a way cooler outfit.
I discovered that by showing up early, bringing a freshly rolled joint and coffee for the dispatcher I was ensured choice and plentiful runs. Pickups at 430, 444, and 485 Madison all dropping off to the same location, for instance. Black bags were worn by Prometheus messengers, and yellow by Cycle Service who were on 6th Avenue somewhere near Spring Street. Red bags were carried by Mobile messengers. All (and I mean all) of the bags worn by messengers were made by an old Italian man, Frank de Martini, who operated out of a basement shop at 77 Mott Street in a space he shared with a Chinese sprout growing operation. He charged $40 for his bags and they were indestructible. He was also in the business of making canvas covers for boats. His bags were made of heavy-duty canvas (in the aforementioned colors) lined with bright yellow vinyl. There were two straps with buckles and a strip of Velcro under the flap. While they were compact and light, you could fit a truly incredible amount of stuff into these durable creations. Later, when I moved to San Francisco, I bought a dozen or so of the bags and tried to start a craze but didn't stick with it. A few short years later, every fucking body in every city nationwide has a messenger bag of one sort or another and Manhattan Portage and countless other companies crank them out. None of them come close, in durability or functionality to de Martini's creations. But I digress.
I was put in mind of those days when I read the profile of Marc Jacobs in the most recent issue of the New Yorker. To be continued...

Putz of the Day—an addendum

(see Putz of the Day posting)
My good friend Al, with whom I grew up on the UWS, pointed out that it is characteristically New York behavior to take offense at being offered unsolicited advice. This is absolutely true.
There was something quintessentially New York about the way this assbag marched off in a huff after I told him that his shit was at risk. Nonetheless, he was (and very likely is still) a putz for not having recognized that I, with the best of intentions, was attempting to save him from his own stupidity and it would not have killed him to say thank you when he admitted as much by locking up his front wheel after the fact.

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