Things I didn't say It's probably for the best The gimpy edition

I was weighed down carrying two bags this morning and was diverted into a small pathway due to a construction area. I passed a woman and she turned around and started screaming at me.

"What's the matter with you? You can't walk in a straight line?"

5 years ago I had an accident and consequently I walk with a slight limp. It's not something I often talk about. It doesn't so much make me feel deformed or less able, however it is more promounced with I carry bags or heavy awkward things.
In this situation I chose to keep walking as though I didn't hear the woman.

A tiny voice in my head however screemed "I was in an accident and walk with a fucking limp. What's your excuse for being a nasty cunt?"

please pardon the foul language of the little voice in my head most especially its use of the "c" word. I mean no disrespect to women by its usage here. I know how distasteful it is and thus, it's probably for the best that the little voice remained in my head, though now it's had its say on my blog as well.

Sigh.

Woman - Hear Her Roar? or Open The Door!

A strange thing happened in September of 1968. A protest against the miss America pageant literally eurupted into groups of women burning their bras (among other things).
This was one stop on the long bumpy road toward equality for women, which many argue is still going on to this day. A mere 4 years later in 1972 a young woman named Helen Reddy shot to the top of the billboard music charts with a song titled "I am Woman" as in I am woman hear me roar. The song became an anthem of solidarity for many women at the time.

I am by no means a historian or expert on the women's movement. Yes, I know these are only two instances, blips if you will in a long struggle towards equality for women. It's a struggle that has become convoluted to some extent in a post feminist world.

There are two questions I would like to pose and I will clarify shortly. Can women be treated equally to men? (and) Do all women really want to be?

I know there are some women who feel completely content and fulfilled baking cookies, ironing shirts and driving the children to soccer practice. If that is their choice, that is perfectly fine. There are still others who wish to grab the corporate world by the balls, fly into outer space, become professional body builders, or even run for president. Recently we saw the confirmation of Sonia Sotomayor as a justice for the US Supreme Court. She is only the third female justice to hold that honored position. Still it is progress.

So, the two questions I have posed were presented with a promise for clarification. Here goes. There is one thing I have never understood and that thing is this idea of chivalry. If women wish to be treated equally to men in society (as they should be), then why is it not offensive to them that men open doors for them, give them seats on the subway, let them walk out of the elevator first. It's the strangest thing to me. It makes no sense.

To me, seeing a man open a door for a woman comes with an implication of weakness. as though a woman is too feable to open the door for herself and needs a man to do it for her. My one exception to this thought is when it involves an older woman for example with a cane or a walker or a woman who is pushing a baby stroller and fighting with a door. That also goes for a man with a cane or walker or a man with a stroller. To me, yes opening the door for someone is a very sweet polite thing to do, but this whole idea of men specifically opening doors for women bothers me. Perhaps it doesn't bother women. I have not seen a woman once complain or see it in this way or at least expressed such feelings to me.

I have been given dirty looks by people on the subway because I sat in one open seat and there is a perfectly healthy able bodied woman standing there. It's as if I have slapped that woman. Why should that woman be more entitled to that seat? Why am I being rude when I am merely treating that woman the same way that I would treat a man? Should I treat her as weak and feable and give her the seat? I'd rather see her as strong. In these instances I find an inconsistency which to mean is in conflict with feminist principles.

So, should women have their cake and eat it too? Is it I am woman hear me roar? Is it, I am woman, open the door? Is it both?

2 Years

2 years ago today I had just moved into a basement apartment. I was sleeping on a blowup mattress and the floor had just been finished so I was dealing with a constant nausea that comes from breathing in fumes. I had just finished a stint of sleeping on people's sofas for over a year, traveling like a wandering gypsy, bags and guitar in tow. The blowup mattress was a big step up.

I rushed with my guitar and equipment to a show held at Cadman Plaza in Brooklyn for Marriage Equality New York. As everything was being setup,I spied a boy in tight jeans with nice legs and very cute floppy ears. I told my friend that he would be my boyfriend. I of course never made eye contact or tried to approach him. It was more of a joke. I had given up on dating. My life at that point in fact did not even leave room for flirtation. I was content with and resigned to being alone.

I performed a set as my self while two dragqueen friends, Chic and Sassy held umbrellas over my head to sheild me and my guitar from the rain. Then, I performed a set as Kitt & Kaboodle, my cabaret alter-ego with Jeff Cubeta. I was packing up my guitar and winding down when I was approached by a tight jean wearing floppy eared boy. He asked if I had a mailing list. I said yes, but I had rushed and didn't have it with me. He seemed dejected. Was he flirting with me? I was impervious to such things and oblivious perhaps, but hopeful. Maybe I wasn't content with being alone. I had seen him earlier walking around with a microphone followed by a camera crew. I asked him what they were filming for and he told me it was for a television show produced by the LGBT community center. I gave him my email address and told him to email me to let me know when the show aired. (this is the short version, btw. He left and then came back minutes later. I thought I had scared him away...and the whole throughout the whole situation I was very confused with his intentions...if it was flirtation, professional networking...I had no clue.)

I received an an email a few days later

"Hello, Im the guy with the camera from the marriage rally. The show
will be airing the third thursday of June in Manhattan on time warner
34 at 1030 and some other time on BCAT. You can also watch it online
at gaycenter.org/out.
Also if you ever want to grab a coffee or something that would be great."

I responded:


"Hey Konstantine (a.k.a. guy with the camera)

Thanks for the info. I don't own a television, so I'll
have to check it out on the website.

I am always up for grabbing a coffee or something. If
that something involves an old wooden rollercoaster in
Coney Island or a game of pool, even better.
I'm free Thursday evening,this friday from 2-4pm or after
8pm(very specific, I know), and then I'm in Minneapolis
doing a show, but I'll be back on Monday."

I will spare you the details and just say, the rest is history.
Two year later, I'm engaged to a floppy eared boy who looks quite hot in tight jeans.
oh and he is smart and sweet and kind and gentle and all that stuff... If you need a puke bucket, I totally understand.

US Airways Plane Crashes into the Hudson River

Today a US Airways plane crash landed in the hudson river after it's engines were disabled by running into a flock of geese. Amazingly, it seems that all the passengers and crew made it out ok. Wow.

Read the Full Story Here

Manhole Explosion!

No, This is not a walk down memory lane to recount my harrowing experience with the stomach flu, nor is this a post worthy of the possible titillation sparked by its title.

Last night I was mixing some tracks for the extraordinarily talented Jeff Cubeta, when my studio monitors started making a low crackling noise. I looked up and the lights in the apartment were flickering oddly. Seeing as how the wiring in our building is so messed up that we're one toaster strudel away from the building bursting into a towering inferno, I began to run around frantically lighting candles in preparation for an electric apocalypse. Ooh, I like the sound of that. Don't be surprised when I release my electro album titled electro apocalypse just in time for you to check the last box on your Mayan calendar.

Suddenly there was a loud boom and more flickering of lights. I decided to flee the apartment, leaving K in his underwear to fend for himself. well, I mean, I offered to take him with me, but he chose to stay behind.

So, this takes me back to a different walk down memory lane, but not the one where I was simultaneously hugging the toilet and the bathroom sink. It was late one wintry night back when I had hope in my eyes and an ass like a 12 year old Chinese gymnast. I had been drinking scotch and fighting off the advances of lecherous old men who wanted to shower me with platinum visas and buy me small islands off the coast of Spain. I was crossing an empty street when an odd clicking sound stopped me in my tracks. I looked down to see that I was standing over a steaming manhole, which sounds a lot more salacious than it actually was. Like the young fool that I was, I stood there trying to place the clicking sound. I shrugged, oh well and continued on my journey. I got about halfway down the block when I heard a loud explosion.

I turned around to see the manhole cover flying through the air landing and spinning like a sloppily flipped quarter. A steaming crater of devastation now occupied the space where I had been standing. Fire trucks, police, crowds descended upon the scene and I, a bit shocked, sauntered home, having lived to recount my tale to my roommate at the time.

So, last night, I went outside to discover that people were all coming out of their buildings, having heard the explosion. A similar descent of fire trucks, police and crowds swarmed to the front of Phat Albert's discount warehouse where yet another manhole had exploded. The street light flickered on and then off. People got bored with nothing much to see and the crowds dissipated.

So, the moral of the story, dear readers? As tempting as it may be, stay away from a steaming manhole, because it just might be the last manhole you lay your eyes on.

Faggot Bitch

Photo by Carrie Thomas

Last night I was walking down the steps to the subway platform to try and catch the train. At the bottom of the steps, the woman in front of me slowed down abruptly, causing me to step on her flip flop. Her foot slipped out and touched the floor of platform. She began to yell.

"Goddammit, Goddammit"

I stopped, acknowledged her and apologized but she kept yelling. She seemed kind of crazy. I apologized again and said that it was an accident.
She was still yelling so I started to walk away.

She yelled as I walked away

"it wouldn'a happened if you hadn' been ridin' my muthafuckin ass, you faggot bitch."
(Pause)...
"DID YOU HEAR ME?"

I kept walking as though I did not hear her until there was enough distance between us that I felt there would be no confrontation.

Though it would not normally matter, it is important to note that this woman was african american. The reason I imbue importance upon her race is that her use of the F-word in my mind seems incongruous to a people who suffered years of persecution, segregation and degradation under lashful tongues armed with the N-word.

My mind began to flip the situation. Had I been wearing flip flops, experienced the same situation from her perspective and turned to weak-minded hate speech substitute, the N-Word for the F-Word coming from a white man, there would have been a riot/murder on the subway platform.

I know that the best thing in this situation was to walk away from crazy, low-class, feeble-minded hatred, but regardless I felt violated.

The words echoed through my head. I found myself taken back to a place where I was 13 years old and scared to walk down the hallway at school because I knew that I would be called a faggot. Almost every day it happened. Many days I cried. I did not cry yesterday, but I will say this. As much as I do not have the right to use the N-word, unless you are of the homosexual persuasion, you do not have the right to use the F-word. So, nameless trashy lady, I doubt that you will read this, but I address this do you.

Don't you call me a motherfuckin' faggot. You don't have the right to use that word unless you want to give motherfuckin' faggots the right to use your word and I don't think you do, so back it off. You need to deal with your anger and your hatred. It is brewing underneath the surface and having your fucking flip flop come off does not give you the right to spew your venom on me. I forgive you for your ignorance, your prejudice and your hatred. I hope that one day, you are able to rise above it and behave like an adult. If you are unable to pursue that point of enlightenment, I suggest that you either stay home or keep it to yourself. There is no room for it in my world.

Garden Party 25

As previously posted, It was my pleasure to perform this year at Garden Party 25 here in NYC, the official kick-off to Gay Pride hosted by the hillarious and very gracious Kate Clinton.

You can see the smallest of snippets from Out At The Center, the television show for the LGBT Center here in NYC.

Doctor Ruth's Box

To live in New York is to constantly brush shoulders with celebrity.
Sightings are common and frequent ranging from A-list to Z-list. I once worked at a clothing store with that guy Justin who was the runner up in the first American Idol.
I must say that he wasn't a very nice person. I once helped Jeanine Garafalo pick out an outfit that she wore later that day to the MTV music awards. I've seen Taylor Dayne without her makeup. She's very kind and short. I once had to arrange a helicopter for a nobel prize winning phycisist and got to talk with Olympia Dukakis about her role in Tales of the City. I love her as Mrs. Madrigal and she confided that it was her favorite role. After 10 years in New York, you start to lose track of celebrity sightings. You can't throw a brick in this city without hitting a model or actor.

Yesterday I had a celebrity sighting of sorts, well not really, but it cracked me up. I was in an elevator and a messenger got in after me and stood in front of me. For some reason I decided to look at the name on the box that he was carrying. It looked heavy. There it was, plain as day "Dr. Ruth Westheimer" the cute little old lady sex therapist. I thought about how I could notate the address in my head and later stalk her. Why would I want to stalk Dr. Ruth? I wouldn't really have the desire to stalk her, but it would be nice to have the information should I go batshit crazy and feel the need to spice things up a bit. After quelling my desire to become a crazed criminal stalker, I began to think about what might be inside that box for Dr. Ruth. It will always be a mystery, but I can always fantacize.

The call of the Pigeon Captain

I was torn between calling this post what I called it and the alternative
"I really need a digital camera!"

I have to give a shout out to someone you would only find
brightening up the streets of New York.

Let's call him the pigeon captain.
He wears a big peacock feather in his pimpin hat with lots of jewelry and
he screems out bird calls through his ?gold? capped teeth.
Brilliant. Ugh. I need a picture. I passed him on the street today and I instantly became his number one fan.
Maybe I can get him to do a cameo on my third album. ooh, or better yet, he should be in my next music video!

Nov. 1st at Googies

Come one, come all!
You can never recapture this moment once it has slipped away

Thursday, Nov. 1st
9:30 PM
Googies Lounge Above The Living Room
154 Ludlow Street
(between Stanton and Rivington)
website

Ethan Hawke or Golden Shower Sally?

(Ethan Hawke in Gattaca 1997/Ethan Hawke 2007)

Living in New York it is quite common to pass by A thru Z list celebrities, porn stars, and even occasionaly people you want to gush over who give you the evil I will rip your eyes out with a rusty spoon if you tell me you love my body of work look.
BTW, think twice before you approach Bjork in front of the T-Mobile store while she's holding a water bottle, wearing gym clothes and engaged in conversation with an unknown man. I'm not saying she's crazy or anything, cuz we all know she's brilliant, but then again, I'm not saying she's crazy or anything. I adore Bjork. I even saw Dancer in the Dark 4 times in the theater which many say qualifies me as a professional masochist. Don't click on that by the way if you just ate, are thinking of eating, if you're in public or just generally need to keep your shit together.

Anyway, this post is not about Bjork. So, I used to have this big crush on Ethan Hawke. Just thinking of him scrubbing the dead skin off his body in Gattaca gets me all hot and bothered down in my nethers. Yes, I know it's too much information.
Have any of you seen him lately though? I passed him in the street the other day pacing outside of Pinkberry. I think his kids were inside and he had this crazy paranoid thing going on and not in a hot way. It has been ten years since Gattaca. Oh gravity, why art though so cruel?

Before I ran into Ethan Hawke I passed a woman in the crosswalk who obviously was homeless and smelled so much of Urine that it made me sad. It wasn't even like a whiff. She was full on golden shower sally. I felt bad. I wanted to give her a hug, but for obvious and many reasons that would have been a bad idea. How strange that she made me want to hug her and Ethan Hawke made me feel creeped out. sigh.

We're not in Kansas anymore or are we?

So it's official,
A tornado hit Brooklyn.

I thought I had escaped my roots as a Kansas farmboy
and left the twisters and trailerparks behind.
Apparently I was mistaken.

You must watch this.
Yes, this is Brooklyn.

And now a message from the MTA

Photo by Carrie Thomas

"There is no subway line right now that is running its full normal route. If you are at home -- and you haven't left -- don't. If people in any way shape or form can stay home, they should. I know it's kind of an odd message to give people . . . but today we had a real problem with water."

-Paul Fleuranges, A spokesman for the MTA New York City Transit system (earlier today)

If the subway system comes to a grinding hault because of one rainstorn, I really hate to imagine how fragile this system really is. The tracks are rusted. The reliability of service is shaky at best, yet the fares are always increasing.

Why can't they invest some money in making the subway system more reliable and able to withstand a fricking rain storm. Is this too much to ask?

ask your other dad

Photo by Carrie Thomas

On Saturday I got up earlier than god intended
to grab some coffee and walk K to the train.
He was heading into the city to volunteer
for the annual center kid's pride picnic.
As usual I found it hard to say goodbye to him
and found myself bedhead-and-all getting on the train with him.

My plan was to show up and see how adorable
he was working with the children and leave.
Of course that is not what happened. I ended up
with a nametag running a table putting temporary
tattoos on children of same sex couples while
K sat across from me doing face painting.

I observed a few things.
First off,gay daddies with their children are the cutest thing ever.
Second, I don't know where these children are coming from,
but they are almost all stunningly beautiful, happy and seemingly "normal" children.
I hate the word normal, but for the purpose of this it seems appropriate.

We have been led to believe for years by the christain right that
children raised by two mommies or two daddies are bound for
a life of such depraved deficiency that they'd be better off raised by a pack of rabid wolves.
This couldn't be further from the truth.
I saw children who are loved, clothed, fed and happy.

The highlight of this experience
was a child telling me that he asked his one daddy if he could have a tattoo
and his daddy said that he had to ask his other daddy and his other daddy said yes.

Check out this article all about the "unnatural" phenomenon of gay parenting.
It mentions black swan...well sorta. Sweet black swan, I hope you are being loved wherever you are.
I miss you.

The Broken Pigeon -Critters (Part 4)-

Photo by the very brilliant
Carrie Jo Thomas

I was walking on 23rd street last evening resisting the desire to indulge my craving for movie theater popcorn when I saw something that made me sick. It was a pigeon on the ground, trying to flap its wings, falling over. It looked sick, in pain and confused. I watched as people passed the poor bird. Some of them laughed, some of them looked disgusted. Some looked helpless.

For a few moments that pigeon became a mirror to the souls of the people passing by. I stood in front of the bird not sure what to do. I was torn between two desires. One was to scoop the bird up in my hands and try to save it. The other was to swiftly and mercifully take the role of Dr Kevorkian. I don't like to play god, but I really can't stand to watch a creature suffer.

Instead of choosing either option, I decided to call the city of new york to see if I could get help. I spoke with a woman who informed me that the city will help animals in distress with the exception of pigeons and seagulls.
For some reason, this really upset me. I paced in front of the bird, unsure of what to do.

I looked at the bird and gently whispered, "I'm sorry."

I walked away.
I put the bird in the back of my mind.
I feel guilty.
I feel as though I have failed on some level.
I can see the look in that poor birds eyes, so innocent, confused and hurting.
I should have done something, but I didn't.

On a scale much grander, this is how many of us including myself deal with the suffering of the world, the unjust and unnecesary war that we are waging. We become paralyzed, guilty and numb. We turn a blind eye and wait for someone to ease the pain of the world. Unfortunately it is our responsibility on an individual level to pick up the broken birds and make the decisions. Not making a decision, walking away, seems like a way of not making a choice, but it is a rather strong choice, as strong as snapping the bird's neck. I made the weakest and most selfish of choices. I walked away. I must learn from this.
The Critters Series Archives
Critters(Part 1)
Chloe & Ferdinand-Critters(Part 2)
The Rat Race-Critters(Part 3)

New York City has an extremely diverse cast of animal characters, all part of the urban jungle. As I interact with these four-legged, feathered, and sometimes one footed friends, I write about these encounters. From cockroach to politician, we are all part of an ecosystem, an interconnected chain. We all need each other to survive.

Don't take it away

Nathan's in Coney Island

Photo by Carrie Thomas

I was choking down my chilidog and watching the "circus folk" walk by, wondering if this is really the end? Will the cotton candy blow away in the winds of change, leaving behind a strip mall and a rollercoaster, which will eventually be too noisy for high rise luxury condos and later be turned into a coney island museum to show what the place used to be like?

I spent most of my Easter in Coney Island, wondering if the pealing faded paint and broken boardwalk would rise up like Jesus for the day. Everyone would see the freaks dancing in all their glory and children shooting at them with paint guns. Oh wait, am I supposed to be drawing out the parts of Coney Island that you should want to save? There isn't a part of it as strange as it may be that looks like a head for any chopping block in my book.

Coney Island in its glorious faded beauty reminds me that there used to be vaudeville, that men wore large one-piece bathing suits, and that a nickel and a bearded lady could both go a long way if you found the right place to use them.

We spit on the past instead of honoring it. We wheel the old people and the old things away to places where we don't have to see their decay. We stop sanding the wood every year and repainting the sign because the cracks in the wood and the color that has faded from the paint are like our lives. We don't like to be reminded that life is beautiful but fleeting. We'd prefer to put something new in the place of the old.... a new building...a new boyfriend...a new nose from your fifth husband and his fifth avenue surgeon.

It made my heart sink to see that the batting cages are gone and replaced by a construction site. Gone is the go-cart racetrack.
Soon, I will only have pictures and memories. I will be one of those old crotchity men telling anyone who will listen what the good old days were really like. I shoveled snow uphill 10 miles to get a corndog from the amazing snake boy and it cost a nickel and it took me 12 days of hard labor to earn that nickel, and I never complained, not once. Don't forget it.

I urge you to visit Coney Island before it is all gone and do everything in your power to protest its destruction. I chose to shoot part of my music video on the island of coney. I can't think of a better place to wear my straight jacket proudly and give a shout out to a place that is full of so much history and part of my home, my heart, my Brooklyn.

Coney Island, I love you. I wish I could save you. It really hurts me to the point of crying to think of losing you. If that is what it comes to, then I will carry you in my heart for as long as I live.

Chloe & Ferdinand (Critters Part 2)

Photo of and by the fancily footedCarrie Thomas

They loved with a passion befitting a trashy romance novel.
Though I was happy for them, it brought out my jealous side, which is never pretty.
Eventually though, I became accustomed to their being around and didn't know how I could live without them.

Chloe was a beauty, the kind of girl who wins the homecoming crown but still has a heart of gold. You want to hate her but you can't. She has great bone structure and will grow old gracefully. Her feathers were whiter than freshly fallen snow with little speckles of brown that said, "hey, I'm Cindy Crawford, I have a beauty mark."

Ferdinand was a dancer. He could puff his chest up with best of them. His tight muscular legs supported a beefy body that somehow floated gracefully above the ground when he would come courting the ladies.

These two exceptional creatures found each other in a city where I'm sure it's hard to find a good pigeon, let alone one with whom you could settle down and raise a family.

The heat in our little apartment on 12th street was always too high, so we kept the window in the kitchen cracked a few inches. I had noticed the birds flying around outside the window, which wasn't that unusual. I didn't notice however that two of them had begun to build a nest on our window sill. It wasn't until I went into the kitchen one morning and saw Chloe, beautiful Chloe sitting on the nest that I realised a pair of lovers had moved in. At first, I would go to the stove, which was right by the window, and Chloe would frantically fly away. She was never gone for long though, fearing her eggs would get too cold.

Eventually, we came to an understanding that I was not going to bother them. In fact, I quite enjoyed the company. I would cook my breakfast and chat with Chloe. I'm sure she appreciated the chit-chat with Ferdinand off foraging for food. Of course one day, Chloe was gone and Ferdinand was sitting at the nest, and I must admit that we didn't have a lot to talk about.

As spring began to thaw the winter, three of the ugliest little creatures you've ever seen busted out of that nest. Let me just say that there is nothing more awkward looking than a baby pigeon. However, over time these gnarly little munchkins grew fuzzle which began to form into feathers and they were adorable.

It was about a week until the pigeons would fly. They were testing their wings. Unfortunately this was the week when we had to move out of the apartment on 12th street and into the place on 3rd avenue. I decided to have a conversation with the girl who was moving into the place to make sure she let the pigeons live.

It was a sad day, when I found out from a downstairs neighbor that the nest had disappeared and the window had closed as soon as the girl moved into the apartment.

My heart went out to Ferdinand and Chloe. I had grown so fond of them. I had watched all of their dedication, love and hard work. It hurts my soul to realize the cruelty that resides in the human heart. A woman's hand ruined in moments what had taken months to build without a second thought. We often refer to animals as savages. Most animals only kill to survive or to protect themselves. Men kill without need, without regard and without reverence for the beauty that each life holds, whether it be an Iraqi child or a baby bird.

The Cellphone is the New Cigarette

Photo by Carrie Thomas

In case you hadn't noticed, smoking has gone out of fashion. Once a tool of actors at the dawn of the silver screen , a symbol of rebellion and a post-coital requisite, the cigarette has reached a level of appeal formerly reserved for asbestos and radio-active sludge.

I was speaking last evening with my good friend, Jason, about this very subject. He was lamenting the loss of his smoking friends to their non-smoking lifestyles, me included.

When I first moved to New York a trip to a bar meant smoke filled rooms that brought your eyes to tears and left your clothes smelling like an old man's smoking jacket. When the city passed a smoking ban in bars, the smoky atmosphere was replaced by an odd smell that can only be described as cleaning products used to cover up the smell of stale smoke. For a while, this chemical smell lingured. Now, I don't really notice any smell at all upon entering a bar.

Cigarettes, though thoroughly demonized served a purpose. This purpose was to create an illusion of busy-ness. People want something to fiddle with, suck on and flick to keep from staring at a blank wall letting others see how utterly alone and purposeless they fear they look.

Cigarettes are also a barrier. People fear close contact and interaction. A cigarette is a distraction, a reason to pause in a conversation and think of a witty retort while taking a long deep drag.

Obviously this void had to be filled. Thank god that angels decended from the heavens bearing cellphones, sidekicks and treos. These gifts have allowed for constant contact, something so necessary for human existence. Why carry on a conversation with someone when you can pretend you're listening while text messaging? Are we more connected? I think the answer is no. We are all disconnecting from each other. We are plugging in and unplugging from reality.

Ask yourself the question....How long can you go without grabbing your little device to check your messages, send a text, or pretend you're busy? How long can you go without taking a deep drag?

Yes, the cellphone is the new cigarette.

Like a child

I wish at times that I could look at the world with the eyes of a child.

New York is a city where one is constantly stimulated visually, sonicly, physically. The brain can't handle all this input, so a part of it is always short circuited. The result for me, is that it often takes a lot to excite me.

Yet, get me away from New York and I become spastic,climbing trees and running up mountains. I wonder if being away from New York for a long period of time will reroute my circuitry so that when I return, I will climb buildings and run up the avenues.

I live in a cultural center with boundless possibility and yet I generally only see the art of my friends/collaborators.
When I first moved here, I would go to every new museum exhibit and every gallery opening or performance art piece.

I was in Washington DC over Memorial Day Weekend and there in Dupont circle was a tiny girl in a sundress dancing, as a street performer sang a U2 cover. I envied her. She didn't care what anyone thought or if she was dancing the correct way. It was just the music and her soul connecting. I wish to see the world through the eyes of a child and sing and dance as if no one is watching.

Photography used with the kind permission of Carrie Thomas.

SoHo, Chinatown, Brooklyn, Today

SOHO-Last evening I had drinks in SOHO with the lovely miss Kim Levering. It was such a beautiful evening so, we sat outside next to chattering French girls. Apparently we chose the intersection I now will think of as hotdog cart highway. Somewhere in the ballpark of ten hotdog carts passed by as we sat enjoying the perfect weather and disconnected conversation.
As we were sitting, we were approached by a small boy holding a piece of paper, followed by his father who was pushing a stroller. The very cute little boy handed the paper to kim who began to read... "I have 6 children to feed..."

Kim: You have 6 kids to feed? You're a little young to have 6 kids.

She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a fistfull of change and handed it to the boy as the father looked on. It broke my heart to look at this little boy with his big brown eyes. I found myself filled with anger that I wanted to direct at the father. He was using his child to beg for him. He did not have the balls to beg himself. This poor child with his innocence, exploited by his father.

The little boy skipped over to the father, handed him the change, and then moved on to the next group of people on the street. The father followed, pushing the stroller. Coming down the block was a woman holding a child and pushing a stroller followed by twin girls wearing kicky red matching outfits. The twins like the boy were approaching people on the street with a similar note. The two scenes merged and there they were together, the two parents and the 6 children...strolling off into the sunset.

CHINATOWN-After our SoHo drinks, Kim and I walked down to chinatown, our hunger doing the steering. We passed the fishy smelling shops with unidentifiable sea creatures crawling around in their tanks and the crazy fruit carts parked outside with all kinds of fruit that look much like they were picked on mars and brought back to our planet for their exotic appeal. We settled at a Malaysian restaurant on Baxter street and shared a noodle dish.

Along comes a woman who looks about 80 wearing an outfit that can only be described as a Vietnamese rice picking uniform, hat and all. She is balancing bags on a broomstick over her back, which she is using to separate the different types of recyclables. Pure brilliance, she was. She looked as though she had worked hard all her life and that it would take a strong wind to ruffle her feathers. I don't know her, but I respect her. I also can't do this scene justice because it was more surreal than I can properly explain.

BROOKLYN

I ended my evening,hanging out with a group of friends, some of whom I haven't seen in quite a while. All in all it was a great day...gotta love New York :)

TODAY
This morning I chatted with my mother about everything and nothing including the fact that my grandmother is turning 85 this weekend.

I spoke with Carrie (Carrie Thomas, not my sister)about our weekend plans. She just updated her photos on her flickr site and I'm in love with this picture of the New York Skyline taken from a cab.

The lovely Carrie Thomas is a fellow Brooklynite and additionally she is a very talented writer, photographer, and Jacqueline of all trades. I think her photography really captures New York and the soul of her subjects and yet always has a sense of humor.

ooh... I was excited to discover this morning that Logo Online wrote a little snippet about the single. Yay! :)