Monday, March 12, 2007
Subway bloody subway
Last Saturday, I met up with my buddy KatieScarlett and we went to go see The Host, this Korean horror movie in which the titled monster is basically a giant, man-eating, amphibious Chingy!, and then forced her to accompany me to a K-town noodle shop for Tsingtaos to bolster me for what I consider an arduous and lengthy trek: a D-train ride to Brooklyn to visit our friend Miss Corbutt.
I hate going to Brooklyn. For one thing, I always get lost there. It seems like Flatbush and Atlantic Aves are everywhere, and go in every direction, so I can't even use those landmarks to get situated like I can here on the fair isle of Mannahattas. I hate going off the grid. Furthermore, once you actually get to Brooklyn, the nearest subway stop is always at least two miles from wherever you are going. People who live in Brooklyn don't notice this, because they are so used to it. My subway stop here is four blocks from my apartment, and that takes all of five minutes to walk. Our destination in Brooklyn was like ten blocks from the subway, and it took us a solid twenty minutes to get there. Granted, we did have to stop at a bar so we could pee after our post-Host Tsingtaos, at which I insisted on doing Jaegermeister shots to "keep us warm" during our hike. "I need spirits to keep my spirits up," I told KatieScarlett. "Oh, Razzy...it's really not that far. Miss Corbutt's place just isn't that convenient for getting to and from the train." She was being very tolerant of my curmudgeonly grousing, though, and just took her shot. I liberated the bar's supply of NYC condoms from the bathroom and we returned to our quest.
Miss Corbutt just had surgery, and we were asked to bring some prune juice for her. We had no idea where to buy prune juice, but we were hoping it would be at some establishment that also sells beer. We passed a bodega called Angie's Deli. "This looks like a good spot," I said. "I bet they sell beer."
"Yes, but do they have prune juice?" KatieScarlett asked skeptically.
"We won't know until we go in and see."
"If you were running your namesake deli, would you stock prune juice?"
I thought quickly over the inventory that I would purchase for my bodega: Heineken, imported cheese, other beers, sausage, frozen pizza, toilet paper, Beneful, ice cream, and rolling papers were the first things that came to mind--not prune juice.
"Good point," I said. "But maybe we should get some beer here?"
"We still have a ways to go...you don't want to carry the beer all that way, do you?" KatieScarlett asked cheerfully.
I groaned. "A ways to go" probably equals three miles in Brooklynese. We kept walking. Finally we found a grocery store that sold prune juice but NO COLD BEER. "We should have gone to Angie's Deli," I grumbled as we checked out. We stopped at another store for beer, and then we were on the home stretch to Miss Corbutt's.
We kept passing these young lesbian couples everywhere we went. After passing the last pair of pixie cuts, I was so strongly reminded of Smith that I asked, "God, did some wrinkle in space-time or whatever result in half of Northampton, Ass being mystically transported to Park Slope, or what?"
"I know, it's pretty lesbish around here," KatieScarlett agreed.
"Smith should open a fucking satellite office of the alumnae association here--if they haven't already. Now I see why you and Bienvenido-a-Miami moved here."
"Miss Corbutt lives here too and she's not a lesbian."
"Yeah, because she's from Northampton! Lesbians probably make her feel as comfortable as mountains, smoked salmon, and Starbucks make me, and decrepit steel mills, scrapple, and Christmas music makes you" (KatieScarlett is from Bethlehem, PA). "Are we there yet?" I added.
"Almost," said KatieScarlett in a quit-your-bitching type of tone.
We arrived at Miss Corbutt's and spent a while visiting with her and her boyfriend. Then she was feeling a bit strained, and since she just had her guts rearranged (her surgery required a lot of digging around in her abdomen), we left her to get some rest. I went over to KatieScarlett's and Bienvenido-a-Miami's for dinner, and afterward, was feeling very full and content and not at all like doing anything besides getting horizontal.
"You can stay the night here, Razzy," offered Bienvenido-a-Miami.
"I can't...you know, the dogs need walking. How the hell do I find the D train again?"
They gave me directions to the train and I sucked it up and trudged off alone into the misty night, hoping that I would not get lost in this most confusing of boroughs. Fortunately, I found the train, and even more fortunately, a Manhattan-bound D train zoomed up within five minutes of my arrival on the platform. I boarded and sank contentedly into an empty seat with my book about Genghis Khan, confident that all my troubles would subside now that Brooklyn was almost behind me.
Sadly, my hopes of a nice, quiet, Mongol horde-filled ride the whole way back to Sugar Hill were dashed almost immediately. Across from me were two short dudes that were obviously completely shitfaced. They were passed out and leaning against each other. I wasn't paying them much attention since they were both asleep. As the train emerged from the subway tunnel to cross the Manhattan Bridge, I looked across the East River to the city full of its tall buildings and bright lights and felt very pleased and relieved; I was returning to my home borough. I'd be home in twenty minutes.
**THUNK**
A loud noise snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that one of the drunk guys had fallen smack into the middle of the floor of the train. He didn't move, and I wondered if he was even alive. Everyone around him was trying to decide if this situation warranted a break from the typical New Yorker apathy concerning crazy and/or drunk people on the train. Finally, some dude on the train stood up, appraised the situation, and said to some guy a few seats over, "I guess we'd better pick him up."
The other guy made like he was going to protest, but the first guy reiterated, "We gotta pick him up. Come on, we can't just leave him there on the ground."
I vacated my prized seat so these guys could haul the drunk motherfucker up and lay him down across the bench where I'd been sitting. In spite of the drunk guy's petite size, they were having a difficult time getting him to stay put on the bench. Even though he was totally unconscious, his limbs were sprawled out like he was playing some bizarre static game of Twister.
"Holy shit!" one of the Good Samaritan lifters exclaimed, and they both released the man, who slipped back on the floor, this time with a slightly less pronounced thumping noise. Blood had started gushing from the guy's head, presumably from splitting his head open when he initially fell. There was blood all over the seat, and now it was pooling on the floor. Everyone was backing up as though they were going to get hepatitis just looking at him.
"I think we should call 911," said one of the lifters.
"Tell them to send a Hazmat team," quipped another passenger.
"Fuck, no, are you crazy?! They'll stop the train!"
While the prospect of being stuck with Bloody Mario for an indeterminate amount of time was unappealing, the guy was bleeding profusely and was generally unresponsive. I grudgingly sided with the guy who wanted to call 911.
"We have to get the cops or something," I offered.
"I know, I know," said pro-911 guy. "I don't want to be stuck here either. But, Jesus Christ, look at him! He's still fucking bleeding!"
The train pulled into the Grand Street station and I went with pro-911 guy to tell the conductor to call an ambulance. The conductor did indeed stop the train. When I returned to the car, the dude was now sitting upright although whether or not he was aware of his surroundings AT ALL was unclear. Blood was now pouring down his face onto his shirt, and given his dirty appearance, he looked like he'd just survived a roadside bomb in Iraq. People were shouting at him to wake up, I think because nobody was sure if he was just dead drunk or actually dying. Someone decided to try and appeal to his equally drunken but thus far uninjured friend.
The friend finally looked up with a bleary eye, announced something semi-intelligible about needing to piss, and started unzipping his fly.
"NO!" the entire train car shouted, practically in unison. "NO! NO! NO!"
"Eh?" he squinted up at everyone, apparently not believing that the subway car was an inappropriate place to urinate.
"You pull anything out of those pants and you'll be lookin' like your friend there," said the conductor menacingly, having just arrived at the car to assess the situation.
Meanwhile, one of the other passengers found an empty fifth of vodka under the drunks' original seat and showed it to the conductor.
"Here's what they were drinking," he announced. "Leeds Vodka. Christ, I've never even heard of that."
The conductor turned around and said, "I wouldn't touch that, sir. It could be a health risk."
The guy dropped the bottle immediately. I offered him some hand sanitizer. At that moment, two of New York's finest arrived. They took one look around and immediately shouted, "Okay, people, please exit the car! This car is being isolated!"
We all moved to a different car, and about 15 minutes later, the train was on its way. As we moved past the platform, I saw the two drunk dudes facing the wall as the cops fitted them each with a pair of lovely silver bracelets.
When I got home, I thought about all my trials, ranging from not being able to track down prune juice to nearly being spattered with possibly HIV-loaded blood, and I realized that ONCE AGAIN, everything was going fine until I ventured into that accursed borough across the river. It's all Brooklyn's fault.
I hate going to Brooklyn. For one thing, I always get lost there. It seems like Flatbush and Atlantic Aves are everywhere, and go in every direction, so I can't even use those landmarks to get situated like I can here on the fair isle of Mannahattas. I hate going off the grid. Furthermore, once you actually get to Brooklyn, the nearest subway stop is always at least two miles from wherever you are going. People who live in Brooklyn don't notice this, because they are so used to it. My subway stop here is four blocks from my apartment, and that takes all of five minutes to walk. Our destination in Brooklyn was like ten blocks from the subway, and it took us a solid twenty minutes to get there. Granted, we did have to stop at a bar so we could pee after our post-Host Tsingtaos, at which I insisted on doing Jaegermeister shots to "keep us warm" during our hike. "I need spirits to keep my spirits up," I told KatieScarlett. "Oh, Razzy...it's really not that far. Miss Corbutt's place just isn't that convenient for getting to and from the train." She was being very tolerant of my curmudgeonly grousing, though, and just took her shot. I liberated the bar's supply of NYC condoms from the bathroom and we returned to our quest.
Miss Corbutt just had surgery, and we were asked to bring some prune juice for her. We had no idea where to buy prune juice, but we were hoping it would be at some establishment that also sells beer. We passed a bodega called Angie's Deli. "This looks like a good spot," I said. "I bet they sell beer."
"Yes, but do they have prune juice?" KatieScarlett asked skeptically.
"We won't know until we go in and see."
"If you were running your namesake deli, would you stock prune juice?"
I thought quickly over the inventory that I would purchase for my bodega: Heineken, imported cheese, other beers, sausage, frozen pizza, toilet paper, Beneful, ice cream, and rolling papers were the first things that came to mind--not prune juice.
"Good point," I said. "But maybe we should get some beer here?"
"We still have a ways to go...you don't want to carry the beer all that way, do you?" KatieScarlett asked cheerfully.
I groaned. "A ways to go" probably equals three miles in Brooklynese. We kept walking. Finally we found a grocery store that sold prune juice but NO COLD BEER. "We should have gone to Angie's Deli," I grumbled as we checked out. We stopped at another store for beer, and then we were on the home stretch to Miss Corbutt's.
We kept passing these young lesbian couples everywhere we went. After passing the last pair of pixie cuts, I was so strongly reminded of Smith that I asked, "God, did some wrinkle in space-time or whatever result in half of Northampton, Ass being mystically transported to Park Slope, or what?"
"I know, it's pretty lesbish around here," KatieScarlett agreed.
"Smith should open a fucking satellite office of the alumnae association here--if they haven't already. Now I see why you and Bienvenido-a-Miami moved here."
"Miss Corbutt lives here too and she's not a lesbian."
"Yeah, because she's from Northampton! Lesbians probably make her feel as comfortable as mountains, smoked salmon, and Starbucks make me, and decrepit steel mills, scrapple, and Christmas music makes you" (KatieScarlett is from Bethlehem, PA). "Are we there yet?" I added.
"Almost," said KatieScarlett in a quit-your-bitching type of tone.
We arrived at Miss Corbutt's and spent a while visiting with her and her boyfriend. Then she was feeling a bit strained, and since she just had her guts rearranged (her surgery required a lot of digging around in her abdomen), we left her to get some rest. I went over to KatieScarlett's and Bienvenido-a-Miami's for dinner, and afterward, was feeling very full and content and not at all like doing anything besides getting horizontal.
"You can stay the night here, Razzy," offered Bienvenido-a-Miami.
"I can't...you know, the dogs need walking. How the hell do I find the D train again?"
They gave me directions to the train and I sucked it up and trudged off alone into the misty night, hoping that I would not get lost in this most confusing of boroughs. Fortunately, I found the train, and even more fortunately, a Manhattan-bound D train zoomed up within five minutes of my arrival on the platform. I boarded and sank contentedly into an empty seat with my book about Genghis Khan, confident that all my troubles would subside now that Brooklyn was almost behind me.
Sadly, my hopes of a nice, quiet, Mongol horde-filled ride the whole way back to Sugar Hill were dashed almost immediately. Across from me were two short dudes that were obviously completely shitfaced. They were passed out and leaning against each other. I wasn't paying them much attention since they were both asleep. As the train emerged from the subway tunnel to cross the Manhattan Bridge, I looked across the East River to the city full of its tall buildings and bright lights and felt very pleased and relieved; I was returning to my home borough. I'd be home in twenty minutes.
**THUNK**
A loud noise snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that one of the drunk guys had fallen smack into the middle of the floor of the train. He didn't move, and I wondered if he was even alive. Everyone around him was trying to decide if this situation warranted a break from the typical New Yorker apathy concerning crazy and/or drunk people on the train. Finally, some dude on the train stood up, appraised the situation, and said to some guy a few seats over, "I guess we'd better pick him up."
The other guy made like he was going to protest, but the first guy reiterated, "We gotta pick him up. Come on, we can't just leave him there on the ground."
I vacated my prized seat so these guys could haul the drunk motherfucker up and lay him down across the bench where I'd been sitting. In spite of the drunk guy's petite size, they were having a difficult time getting him to stay put on the bench. Even though he was totally unconscious, his limbs were sprawled out like he was playing some bizarre static game of Twister.
"Holy shit!" one of the Good Samaritan lifters exclaimed, and they both released the man, who slipped back on the floor, this time with a slightly less pronounced thumping noise. Blood had started gushing from the guy's head, presumably from splitting his head open when he initially fell. There was blood all over the seat, and now it was pooling on the floor. Everyone was backing up as though they were going to get hepatitis just looking at him.
"I think we should call 911," said one of the lifters.
"Tell them to send a Hazmat team," quipped another passenger.
"Fuck, no, are you crazy?! They'll stop the train!"
While the prospect of being stuck with Bloody Mario for an indeterminate amount of time was unappealing, the guy was bleeding profusely and was generally unresponsive. I grudgingly sided with the guy who wanted to call 911.
"We have to get the cops or something," I offered.
"I know, I know," said pro-911 guy. "I don't want to be stuck here either. But, Jesus Christ, look at him! He's still fucking bleeding!"
The train pulled into the Grand Street station and I went with pro-911 guy to tell the conductor to call an ambulance. The conductor did indeed stop the train. When I returned to the car, the dude was now sitting upright although whether or not he was aware of his surroundings AT ALL was unclear. Blood was now pouring down his face onto his shirt, and given his dirty appearance, he looked like he'd just survived a roadside bomb in Iraq. People were shouting at him to wake up, I think because nobody was sure if he was just dead drunk or actually dying. Someone decided to try and appeal to his equally drunken but thus far uninjured friend.
The friend finally looked up with a bleary eye, announced something semi-intelligible about needing to piss, and started unzipping his fly.
"NO!" the entire train car shouted, practically in unison. "NO! NO! NO!"
"Eh?" he squinted up at everyone, apparently not believing that the subway car was an inappropriate place to urinate.
"You pull anything out of those pants and you'll be lookin' like your friend there," said the conductor menacingly, having just arrived at the car to assess the situation.
Meanwhile, one of the other passengers found an empty fifth of vodka under the drunks' original seat and showed it to the conductor.
"Here's what they were drinking," he announced. "Leeds Vodka. Christ, I've never even heard of that."
The conductor turned around and said, "I wouldn't touch that, sir. It could be a health risk."
The guy dropped the bottle immediately. I offered him some hand sanitizer. At that moment, two of New York's finest arrived. They took one look around and immediately shouted, "Okay, people, please exit the car! This car is being isolated!"
We all moved to a different car, and about 15 minutes later, the train was on its way. As we moved past the platform, I saw the two drunk dudes facing the wall as the cops fitted them each with a pair of lovely silver bracelets.
When I got home, I thought about all my trials, ranging from not being able to track down prune juice to nearly being spattered with possibly HIV-loaded blood, and I realized that ONCE AGAIN, everything was going fine until I ventured into that accursed borough across the river. It's all Brooklyn's fault.
Labels: BK, crazies, gross, MTA, NYC, oh the horror
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Hood Sweet Hood
I sooper dooper la la love to love Bed Stuy. And not just because that's where I keep all of my stuff. I heart the old architectural gems crammed between LMI ghetto-blocked, Fedders-AC'd single family apartments. Heart the "Influential Women of Brooklyn" mural that shouts out Margaret Sanger. Heart the way beer [sandwich, trash bag, cat food, ramen, super glue] costs half what it does in Man-a-hattan. Heart the way people hang out on their stoops, keep dogs in the fenced in front yards, and even keep a few junk cars stashed in the back - just like bein home back in Kakalaka. And of course, I heart that whitey stays away. Mostly. (Begone, honkey, begone! High thee to the Willy-B!)
I gotta fess up, though, that a big chunk of why I get that special feeling out of living here is that it reaffirms something I've long suspected: the television didn't lie. Life really is like this. All that archetypical cable-portrayed bullshit came from somewhere, and I've hit a main nerve. Observe.
Fix-it Guy. Fix-it Guy lives on my block. He retiles, he hangs shingles, he repairs TVs, he cleans yards. Shovels snow, retools misbehaved plumbing, changes transmission. He borrows five dollars and he calls people "dude," to make fun of my white ass. He takes in the stray cats and still lives with him mom. I cruise home at any hour and my man is on the street with a wrench and some fucking twine reassmbling a television set that he can turn on without electricity. At nights he works as a barback at some rough and tumble queer joint, somewhere deeper into the hood. I have some untouched VIP passes awaiting myself and ten of my closest intrepid adventurers to go see what it's all about. Next time my microwave starts to leak plutonium, I'm packing that mofucker into a diuffel bag, rounding the bitches up and headed off to Starlight to see what it is.
Schneider. Unfortunately, Fix-it Guy has competition in the Boy next Door - Trinidad's answer to One Day at a Time's Schneider, complete with tool belt and laugh track. Comes in through the front door unannounced with a 22 of Guiness and some lilting tail of block bullshit. Two hours later, after he finishes the brew and a humble blunt, he heads in to the bathroom for 15 minutes of ceiling repair and leaves immediately, his drying handiwork taped up under a black garbage bag. He brings gifts like extra stereo speakers and grenadine, and for a while, he lived in the basement. Now he's done a runner, somewhere Upstate. But not before he replastered the ceiling.
Kools. People smoke them. I mean goddamn everybody.
White People. Roommate, a blond, has been referred to as Britney - for the once-glamorous and sweet-assed pre-Fed Ms Spears. She has been summoned with, "White meat! Come to me!" I have been addressed as "Asal" by the Yemen crew, for "sweet," but also as "Snow Ball," and one incredible time, a girl on her stoop just clucked at me loud as hell.
Store/Church Names. No editorializing: Mr. B's Black Power Variety, Homie Boyz Fried Chicken and Pizza, Fu King Chinese Food, Morning Dew Industrial Church of the Light of His Son, Bambi Day Care and Hair Salon. Nuff Said.
Guy on the Corner. See "Booty."
Cops. Not a rumor: cops hate black people. I thought this was true before, but y'all, the shit crackles.
The _____ Van Club. Conversion vans are the hottest ticket in this slice of America, fools. Make no mistake. The owners convene, brand their wehicles with vinyl logos, airbursh "Fruit Loops" or "Shawntelle" across the back. It could be "The Gold Suns of Glory Van Club," or "The K-unit Van Club." Contributing to the beautification of your street with righteous rims and paisley curtains, glimmering and shimmering in the late summer sun. Magnificent.
Booty. And I don't mean ass. I mean that's somebody's name. I mean Guy on the Corner, there all day and most o fthe night. A neighborhood insitution. You wanna find somebody? Ask Booty. You need to see someone who knows you? Find Booty. 'Bout 5"1' with a platinum grill, a real slick smile and witness to everything that happens in the script. I put this to anyone who offers the "Pirates or Ninjas" debate at a party.
A tree. Every block has a tree. In many cases, just one. If it has several, construction will down them like Vietnam vets until you got, you guessed, a Tree Growing in Brooklyn. Thank God people read.
Lest one confuse this marvelous screenplay with Life in Brooklyn, think on Bay Ridge. Willamsburg. Park Slope. For me, even day toliving showed me the way. I used to live in Bushwick, see, the heavy Latin edge before all the factories became lazy musician/hack artist lofts. Plenty of charm, Bushwick, but harder to translate, and altogether lacking the daily zing of life in the hood. Chocolate the toothless lech of a security guard took off when they finished construction. Johnny, the ex-punker, ex-jukie dealer of miscellany - books, swifter wet jets, safety pins, whatever - got hit by a car and vanished for the winter. Kids who opened bottles with his teeth at the grocery store foudn other interests. Not the Stuy. New adventures, daily, but a ready cast and plenty of reliability - a clockwork testament to the 70s film industry, a time machine of city wonder. Quentin Tarantino is a shit talker, and too interested in LA and Kung Fu - but from time to time, you have to realize that from the outside, you start to see that he does have a point.
What do you do?
Get back to the tube for some higher education.
I gotta fess up, though, that a big chunk of why I get that special feeling out of living here is that it reaffirms something I've long suspected: the television didn't lie. Life really is like this. All that archetypical cable-portrayed bullshit came from somewhere, and I've hit a main nerve. Observe.
Fix-it Guy. Fix-it Guy lives on my block. He retiles, he hangs shingles, he repairs TVs, he cleans yards. Shovels snow, retools misbehaved plumbing, changes transmission. He borrows five dollars and he calls people "dude," to make fun of my white ass. He takes in the stray cats and still lives with him mom. I cruise home at any hour and my man is on the street with a wrench and some fucking twine reassmbling a television set that he can turn on without electricity. At nights he works as a barback at some rough and tumble queer joint, somewhere deeper into the hood. I have some untouched VIP passes awaiting myself and ten of my closest intrepid adventurers to go see what it's all about. Next time my microwave starts to leak plutonium, I'm packing that mofucker into a diuffel bag, rounding the bitches up and headed off to Starlight to see what it is.
Schneider. Unfortunately, Fix-it Guy has competition in the Boy next Door - Trinidad's answer to One Day at a Time's Schneider, complete with tool belt and laugh track. Comes in through the front door unannounced with a 22 of Guiness and some lilting tail of block bullshit. Two hours later, after he finishes the brew and a humble blunt, he heads in to the bathroom for 15 minutes of ceiling repair and leaves immediately, his drying handiwork taped up under a black garbage bag. He brings gifts like extra stereo speakers and grenadine, and for a while, he lived in the basement. Now he's done a runner, somewhere Upstate. But not before he replastered the ceiling.
Kools. People smoke them. I mean goddamn everybody.
White People. Roommate, a blond, has been referred to as Britney - for the once-glamorous and sweet-assed pre-Fed Ms Spears. She has been summoned with, "White meat! Come to me!" I have been addressed as "Asal" by the Yemen crew, for "sweet," but also as "Snow Ball," and one incredible time, a girl on her stoop just clucked at me loud as hell.
Store/Church Names. No editorializing: Mr. B's Black Power Variety, Homie Boyz Fried Chicken and Pizza, Fu King Chinese Food, Morning Dew Industrial Church of the Light of His Son, Bambi Day Care and Hair Salon. Nuff Said.
Guy on the Corner. See "Booty."
Cops. Not a rumor: cops hate black people. I thought this was true before, but y'all, the shit crackles.
The _____ Van Club. Conversion vans are the hottest ticket in this slice of America, fools. Make no mistake. The owners convene, brand their wehicles with vinyl logos, airbursh "Fruit Loops" or "Shawntelle" across the back. It could be "The Gold Suns of Glory Van Club," or "The K-unit Van Club." Contributing to the beautification of your street with righteous rims and paisley curtains, glimmering and shimmering in the late summer sun. Magnificent.
Booty. And I don't mean ass. I mean that's somebody's name. I mean Guy on the Corner, there all day and most o fthe night. A neighborhood insitution. You wanna find somebody? Ask Booty. You need to see someone who knows you? Find Booty. 'Bout 5"1' with a platinum grill, a real slick smile and witness to everything that happens in the script. I put this to anyone who offers the "Pirates or Ninjas" debate at a party.
A tree. Every block has a tree. In many cases, just one. If it has several, construction will down them like Vietnam vets until you got, you guessed, a Tree Growing in Brooklyn. Thank God people read.
Lest one confuse this marvelous screenplay with Life in Brooklyn, think on Bay Ridge. Willamsburg. Park Slope. For me, even day toliving showed me the way. I used to live in Bushwick, see, the heavy Latin edge before all the factories became lazy musician/hack artist lofts. Plenty of charm, Bushwick, but harder to translate, and altogether lacking the daily zing of life in the hood. Chocolate the toothless lech of a security guard took off when they finished construction. Johnny, the ex-punker, ex-jukie dealer of miscellany - books, swifter wet jets, safety pins, whatever - got hit by a car and vanished for the winter. Kids who opened bottles with his teeth at the grocery store foudn other interests. Not the Stuy. New adventures, daily, but a ready cast and plenty of reliability - a clockwork testament to the 70s film industry, a time machine of city wonder. Quentin Tarantino is a shit talker, and too interested in LA and Kung Fu - but from time to time, you have to realize that from the outside, you start to see that he does have a point.
What do you do?
Get back to the tube for some higher education.
Labels: BK, Britney Spears, hilarious shit, NYC, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Rohr
I accompanied KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami to the historic Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn so that KatieScarlett could film a very scary movie there in preparation for Halloween. KatieScarlett is an excellent director, as you can tell from the scary, scary camera work, the terrifying effects, and the way she inspired Bienvenido-a-Miami and myself to run all over the place. She was so inspiring that I didn't even mind the bruise on my shin I got from purposefully tripping over the rail by Boss Tweed's family plot. So without further ado, check out our spookty movie, Rohr:
My favorite part of the whole thing is the Rorschach test-meets-kaleidoscope effect KatieScarlett employs in the middle of the film. Well, that and the lightning, obviously. The one failing was that the camera angle botched my attempt at providing the film with a solid titty shot, so I mooned the camera instead. It's not a horror movie without nudity, after all. That's called acting, people.
My favorite part of the whole thing is the Rorschach test-meets-kaleidoscope effect KatieScarlett employs in the middle of the film. Well, that and the lightning, obviously. The one failing was that the camera angle botched my attempt at providing the film with a solid titty shot, so I mooned the camera instead. It's not a horror movie without nudity, after all. That's called acting, people.
Labels: artfaggotry, BK, creative projects, epic geekery, KatieScarlett, Razzification, spooktiness
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