chanteur de charme

I have always wanted to sing on top of a piano. I want to be a chanteur de charme, with long curly eyelashes,tails and a tie. I want to pierce through the cloud of smoke with Greta Garbo eyes and make you squirm in your seat. I want to make you uncomfortably clink the ice in your glass and hope with a sense of futility that a cocktail waitress will save you with a shot of something to numb the chills riding up your spine,making every hair on your body stand at razor sharp attention.

So, yes, I got to sing on top of a piano and kick my pink converse high tops. The great thing is that it was all fun for a good cause. I did two Kitt and Kaboodle shows over the weekend for the Anti Violence Project. The first was in Union Square, the 2nd was in my beloved Brooklyn.

Though it felt wonderful to be involved with both nights, i must say that the Brooklyn event was the real cream in the coffee for me. Cattyshack was packed with performers and audience alike, all with a sense of palpable purpose. The event started with a self defense demonstration by a group of park slope ladies. I practiced attack moves on Kaboodle, which felt quite invigorating. I think maybe I would like to have my own Mr. Miyagi to train me in the "wax on/wax off" ways of the world.

I do after-all have twig arms and though it has been a while since my stalker has threatened me with bodily harm, I still find myself noticing menacing possibilities in the shadows. It's so strange, when I think back to the day I had to file the police report as the threats became more and more frequent laced with bits of information that would only be known by someone who was actually watching me.

I can joke about it at times. It inspired a song called Big From Down Here. Though it isn't on Sirens of Brooklyn, it does look like it will make its way onto the next album. In reality, it is a scary thing to be threatened with violence.

To everyone who came out to support the Anti-Violence Project events: A big Heartfelt Thanks!
We raised a lot of money and had the time of our lives.

Tonight I will be on top of the piano again at the D-Lounge
9pm
101 E. 15th street
Below the Daryl Roth Theatre

I eat my feet

The filter that once kept the slush of inappropriate, ill-advised comments from leaking out of my mouth has officially broken.

I had known for some time that it was not operating at optimum levels, but it wasn't until I started actually answering questions very politely posed by reporters that I came to grasp the real severity of the situation.

The last time this happened I went on a five minute tyrade about how important bacon is to my daily existence. This time, well, I think I actually said that when I "came out" it was like someone tied a gay rocket to my back and shot me out of the closet.

I eat my feet, or I least I should eat them.

Though You'll have to wait until December, to survey for yourself the damage that hits the newstands.

Unfulfilled Fantasies

I stumble through life hungry and slightly unfulfilled at times. It is human nature to fantasize with an intensity that bombards the senses, leaving one wet with desire. I am no different. I crave and I hunger and lust with my heart. I have visions of sugarplums dancing in my head or in this case bagels.

I want to give a shout out to Bergen Bagels in Brooklyn. Their bagels have been such a comfort to me at times, soft and sweet with just the right amount of fluffiness and the perfect amount of chewiness. I find myself daydreaming and salivating, just thinking about a garlic bagel with scallion cream cheese. Oh god, this is the real deal, scallions cut into pieces and mixed in with the rich creamy goodness.....And the garlic, oh it's perfectly toasted so that it melts in your mouth like candy.

I was on my way into the city, as we Brooklynites refer to Manhattan. I love this seperatist attitude. Technically Brooklyn is the city just as much as Manhattan, but we like to wear shirts that proudly display "I heart Brooklyn" and such.

I decided to stop by my little bagel love shack and pick up my garlic scallion breathe bomb. I watched, delighted as the woman helping me used a long knife to pull the bagel down from the shelf and flung it into her hand. My eyes followed the blade as it sliced through the outer chewy layer of bread revealing its tender center. I almost lost my shit when she started to smear the cream cheese all over the bagel, so generous, she gave with both hands.

I had ordered coffee as well and became distracted from the process when she went to get my coffee. She came back and slid the coffee into a brown paper bag with my bagel. I paid. I smiled. I left and got on the subway to head into "the city."

So we now live in a police state. You can't get on a train in New York without seeing 6 police officers pretending that they're going to search your bags. When they actually do search bags, it's someone who looks middle eastern. Oh no, that's not racial profiling. We are so a tolerant free country with no discrimination. By the way, last time I checked there was this little thing in the constitution. It's called the fourth amendment. Here's a refresher.

Amendment IV


The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

We might as well take that part of the constitution and use it as toilet paper at this point.

Well, anyway they also passed this horrible coffee law, which I feel has seriously traumatized me. It is illegal to have an open container of coffee on the subway. Now I have to hunker down and sneak sips like a crack whore.

I got on the train and decided that I would not open my bag of garlic goodness, because let's face it, once the garlic bomb is dropped, there will be no more love for me on the 3 train. I contemplated opening the coffee, but I really wasn't interested in being padded down and rubber glove butt raped by the po po just so I could get my 100% Columbian fix.

So, I instead drifted into a fantasy. I could picture how I would open the bag, placing the coffee beside me, slowly unwrapping the bagel...You get the picture.

So I finally got to my destination and sat down. I began to live out my fantasy, placing the coffee next to me, slowly unwrapping the bagel...And there it was. Inside the wax paper that should have been cradling my garlic love lump was nothing other than a plain bagel sliced down the middle with not so much as a drop of cream cheese. I was heartbroken, horrified, scared, and dizzy.

I immediately called 411 and got the number to the bagel shop. I called them and told them of my traumatic experience and convinced them to write my name on the register with a note saying that they owe me a garlic bagel with scallion cream cheese, which is only right. I am officially neurotic. I immediately contacted the lovely Carrie Thomas, a fellow foody and the only person who could truly understand the hurt,pain, and emptiness I was feeling inside. As always she was a rock in stormy waters.

I did indeed go back to Bergen Bagels and fulfill my fantasy, and they did make good on their promise of replacing my bagel. I have a stomach fool of stank and all is right with the world.

Photo by Carrie Thomas

I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies

I stand outside in the waiting room, pacing anxiously, looking at the digital readout on my cellphone for the time.
How much longer until the baby arrives? I bite at my nails, well the nails on my left hand, the ones that hold down the strings. The nails on my right hand never get the attention that my teeth showers on the left one. This is due to the simple fact that I don't use guitar picks, but instead abuse the fingers of my right hand, hammering them against the strings of my guitar. Half of me is a crazy old hermet, living in a cave with overgrown fingernails. The other half is a nail biter, with jagged nails gnawed down to the quick.

I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies, but whether I'm ready or not, my baby is about to be born. If I hadn't quit smoking, with the knowledge that nicotine had a powerful hold on my body, I would have a cigar in my pocket, ready to smoke with my pals as I recieve their congratulatory pats on my back. Instead, I nervously pace, ocassionally checking tracking numbers, with the knowledge that my first album is on a truck somewhere in Brooklyn.

As soon as the nurse comes to get me, I will send you photos of my baby. You can tell me how cute she is, even if you really think her face is wrinkled and misproportioned. You can even tell me her face is wrinkled and misproportioned. Regardless of your thoughts my baby is coming and I will love her and I will give you a picture for your wallet. Do with it what you will.

Mupples

The word mupples was coined a few years back by my then roommate, Piia, The Finnish Wonder.

Mupples=Male+Couple.

This weekend was one of absolute laziness, I must admit. Remnants of the tropical storm had fluttered their way up to Brooklyn bringing sideways rain and turning umbrellas wrong side out. My umbrella was beat to begin with, and was laid to rest late Friday night very unceremoniously.

I spent Friday through Sunday mostly just curled up on the sofa watching mindless television. This is a strange departure for me as I really don't watch TV much at all except for the show, Lost, which was injected into my veins like dirty heroin last fall, afflicting me with an instant addiction. It's return to television in October will mean that I will get my weekly fix and stop the shaking in my hands.

On Sunday, I decided to venture out into the world, which had turned from apocalyptic to rather pleasant. However, a strange wind was blowing through Brooklyn. As I walked down the street, I kept passing couples. Let me correct that. I kept passing Mupples. Some of them were hand in hand. Some of them just sort of skipping along. All of them looked medicated with happy pills or some sort of potent love tonic.

I wanted to be happy for these frolicking couples, but they only served as living reminders of my singlehood, which seems to have settled in like a pair of old jeans that maintain the shape of my ass even after they've been thrown in the laundry hamper.

I passed the bus stop and noticed that the bus was coming, so I decided to get on it. I had no destination. I rarely ride the bus because I feel that it is a portal into a strange world which smells and tastes of something of which I just can't quite comprehend. It scares me. If there are vampires in Brooklyn, I think they ride the bus.

Three stops into my busride a gentleman got on. I knew him, yet we had never spoken. It's strange how you can see a person repeatedly yet you never say hello. I knew that he had to recognize me as well. We are familiar strangers, an odd urban phenomenon that would never fly in a small town.

I used to see him walking his dog. I would see him go into his apartment, which was one block away from mine. I always felt sad when I would see him, because he looked sad and his dog was very old and could barely walk. I knew that the dog would die soon. At some point, I guess the dog did die, because I didn't see him walking it anymore.

I feel that it had a profound effect on him because I noticed that it coincided with his appearance at the gym. He was working with a personal trainer, very intent on some sort of fitness goal, I thought. Next came subtle changes. The grey hair he had atop his head changed to dark brown. His clothing changed from loose fitting outdated garments to tighter and trendier threads to showcase his developing muscles.

I think the death of his dog made him feel old and alone. He decided to turn back the clock in little ways. Of course this is all speculation, coming from a passive stalker.

It had been months since I had seen this familiar stranger. He sat there on the bus with his dry cleaning neatly folded over his lap, the grey hair emerging at the roots, the muscular frame softer than the last time we had met but not said hello. I think that he has forgotten his mortality again. How many dogs must die for him to stick with his gym regiment and the regular maintenance required when one commits to coloring one's hair?

We got off the bus at the same stop and walked in opposite directions, not saying goodbye. I walked past more mupples, feeling that there is some factory pumping them out in twos. I stop myself. Have I become bitter?

It is then that I notice a young boy feeding McDonald's French Fries to a squirrel and realize that the world has gone terribly awry and I might as well just eat package after package of bacon and embrace the fact that I am not part of a mupple and that ultimately, that is a choice.

I am single. I accept it and embrace it. I sit at restaurants alone like a mysterious European professor, obviously wearing tweed. I talk to myself. I take bubble baths and listen to lesbian folk music. One day I will own many cats and have stacks of newspapers. Eventually, I will stop shaving and take up whittling. I will learn the banjo and lose some teeth. I will lose touch with the world and become what many call crotchety. I will make my own loose fitting clothing out of burlap sacks and rock on a porch with cracked planks, which I will never take the time to repair. I will reject technology and be the last person to send paper letters as everything becomes wireless. Above all things though, I will maintain my sanity.
We must all have romantic notions.

Photo by the lovely Carrie Thomas