JAMES NARES is known primarily as a painter. His reputation in film rests mainly with ROME ‘78, NO JAPS AT MY FUNERAL and WAITING FOR THE WIND, three rarely-screened movies he made between 1978 and 1982, when he was associated wth what came to be known as the No Wave movement in New York. However, he was making films before that period, and has continued to make them ever since.
ANTHOLOGY FILM ARCHIVES from May 16-22, at 7:30 P.M. each night will present a selection of 34 films (many in brand-new prints) made from 1975 to 2007, only seven of which have ever screened.
A NEW YORK THING is currently developing a DVD of documentary interviews with some of New York’s most compelling “New Yorkers” from all walks of life. Keep an eye out for excerpts (like this one) on the GLOB.
On the Insignificance of Mass Appeal
Why Stan Brakhage Was the Ultimate American Independent Filmmaker
By Gabe Klinger
When historians speak of the origins of American independent cinema, they usually start with the well-documented case of John Cassavetes and Shadows (1959). A breakthrough in form, Cassavetes’ first widely circulated film is often publicized, with some ingenuousness, as the “first independent American feature”. Looking deeper, one finds a precedent in the example of Orson Welles and Macbeth (1948), not the only but one of the few American works of its era financed entirely by its director (though it was later released by the b-studio Republic Pictures). Both are instances of Hollywood players breaking from the system to accomplish their visions autonomously—a qualification that partly defines independent filmmaking. But their model, which varied from film to film, came at costs that both directors struggled with for their entire careers. Welles and Cassavetes had in common that they were both showmen who craved attention and had lofty artistic goals. When their films faltered with audiences, it damaged their egos in ways that made them retreat from directing for years. Nevertheless, Welles and Cassavetes entered into the mythology of independent filmmaking in America as persevering figures that taught us lessons in stamina and economic resource.
In this series of qualifications that we use to define the “indie” – as it’s annoyingly called nowadays – the notion of expanding forms, unbounded narratives, and expressive acting styles rarely come into play. A film may be bland or schlocky – when it’s not imitating commercial forms outright – and yet the marketing will tell us that a new creative vision has emerged. Even more deceptive are the countless articles in the press and non-academic symposia devoted to the topic of distribution problems. The films themselves take a back seat to, let’s face it, the self-entitlement of filmmakers and their producers who may or may not have anything to contribute to the art of filmmaking. If the cases of Welles and Cassavetes spurted, mostly for the worse, the trajectories of hundreds of egotistical baby auteurs, the slow admission of a legendary avant-garde figure like Stan Brakhage to the pantheon of independent cinema may offer a badly needed corrective remedy.
Brakhage, who in the time since his death in 2003 has achieved mainstream recognition in the form of no less than three separate mentions during the last two Academy Awards broadcasts (admittedly this was a bit unexpected), a major DVD release with the Criterion box “By Brakhage”, as well as obituaries in nearly every major American press, didn’t start without historical precedents either. The American artists who made films free of commercial interests before him – and before both Shadows and Macbeth, it should be emphasized – are in most cases not as immediately recognizable by name. A constellation of the early American avant-garde would include Kenneth Anger, James Broughton, Rudy Burkhardt, Mary Ellen Bute and Ted Nemeth, Joseph Cornell, Maya Deren, Robert Florey, Harry Hay, Jerome Hill, Theodore Huff, Charles Klein, Jay Leyda, Gregory Markopoulos, Marie Menken, Sidney Petterson, Charles Sheeler, Ralph Steiner, Paul Strand, James Sibley Watson, Melville Webber, and Herman Weinberg, among others.
The above are largely forgotten figures, even if their work figures prominently in the scholarly realm. The true independent nature of their work is known to the studious, if not to a wide public. Robert Florey and co-director Slavko Vorkapich, for example, made the essential contra-studio film The Life and Death of 9413, a Hollywood Extra (1928) in an apartment kitchen using one 400-watt lamp as the main source of light. In another significant instance, Maya Deren and Alexander Hammid created Meshes in the Afternoon (1943) over two and a half weeks in their home using primitive 16mm equipment and writing scenes as they went along. The rejection of sets, professional actors, production schedules, advanced equipment, and screenplays was certainly in evidence in the American avant-garde from the mid-1920’s onward. By the time Brakhage got his hands on a 16mm camera, with money that was supposed to go towards his college tuition, the tradition was well in place for a cinema that was closer to the intimate expression of poetry than to the mass spectacle of theater.
The lack of mainstream approval seemed hardly a concern to Stan Brakhage, who made a little less than four hundred known films without any type of direct studio support (he did make a series of films painted on top of 35mm clips and trailers of Hollywood films, if you can call this an indirect form of support). At some point in time (though it may be impossible to document) you could rent a handful of Brakhage titles such as Window Water Baby Moving (1959) and Mothlight (1963) from almost any public library in the States in 16mm. In the era before Blockbuster and Netflix, this made Brakhage more immediately accessible than most Hollywood directors whose films had long disappeared from their commercial runs. He also benefited from a few vestiges of artistic subsidy – meaning he fit into a system, though it wasn’t the system.
at 8:07 pm
MENTAL CHEMISTRY
This was it… Tennessee Red was in the hospital on his deathbed. He was sixty-nine years old. That is considered old in his circle of trust, which consisted of three people beside himself. Roskoe Jenkins and Tennessee’s twin boys Peter and Paul. Tennessee had been a mentor of Roskoe for many years and now he was about to make his exit from the physical world as we know it.
Tennessee had been a pimp for many years. He was smarter than the average hustler. Instead of blowing his bread on habits he was wise enough to invest in real estate. He had got some of his money cleaned and had invested in a bar and a building on a hundred and forty-fifth street in Harlem. The building was actually Roskoe’s. Tennessee put it in his name for laundering purposes.
Roskoe Jenkins was like a son to him. Tennessee had hipped Roskoe to many of the rules of the streets. How to utilize them and make them - and people - work in his favor. Now… the dice were about to fall on an ‘Ace’ on Tennessee’s behalf. He was about to push daisies somewhere in the tri-state area and he knew it. Roskoe knew it too.
Roskoe was there beside the old man, waiting for him to take the last breaths of his physical life. Tennessee didn’t appear to be in any pain. He was his old man self, there on that bed. His goatee was clipped sharp as a shark fin and his long grey perm rested long side by side with his shoulders. Cancer had eaten him alive.
Roskoe traveled inward to where in his mind he could see himself from an Ariel perspective, beside Paul and Peter. The con artist twins that were thirteen years old and headed to wherever it was they were headed, without Tennessee directing them. Tennessee had known the twins from the time they were spat out feet first, for he was still plugging away at sixty-one years old. He was their father.
Neither one of them could read or write a lick. But they knew how to make money. They knew how to convince a mother fucker to get up off a bank roll with faith that he would get back twice as much. They got around the literary barriers like Henry Ford. They would convince people to write up whatever it was that they needed to get in where they fit in. One would have thought they were too young to pull the jux’s they did.
Roskoe kept clear of the twins. He wasn’t one to mix up with dishonest mother fuckers at all. Unless they had a pussy. No matter what the age of the bastards. He was a clean cut clear to the point pimp - whom was about his business and one could tell just by looking at him, in that smoking grey suit with black pinstripes with hat and shoes matching. The dark colors were partially because it was snowed outside and freezing rain bumped shoulders and overtook the night. The freezing rain beat on the hospital room windows. It was mid February. The coldest month of the year. The four males in the room were there. Quiet. The twins stood beside each other at the foot of the bed. They were in suits like Roskoe wore when he was their age. On a borderline of conservative. Roskoe was on a chair to Tennessee’s left.
“Boys get out”, said Tennessee in a cold, heavy tone. He was about to lay down some shit that was not for their ears. And he knew not to ask Roskoe to follow his trail with the never made fatherhood plan. The boys would be all right raising themselves. Their mother whom was out of the game for six years and was dead as a doornail. She was a hooker to heart though. The shit they had seen, as little boys would hold them steady when it came to growing up. And what Tennessee had already taught them was enough to last more than the two lifetimes they possessed in twins’ unison. The two of them exited the room without saying a word.
“Ten man….” Roskoe took his fedora in his hand and set it on his knee. He went into his breast pocket and pulled a pack of menthol cigarettes and lighted one. Drew in and let the smoke out slow through his nose. The doctors knew there were pimps in the room and they were liable to do whatever they saw fit, outside of what the law permitted. They left them alone during visiting hours. Roskoe drew heavily on the smoke. “I already know you got some shit up your sleeve man. But tell me this…”
Tennessee tightened his jaw line. He was on his mother fucking deathbed and wasn’t up for answering annoying questions. “What? Roskoe I’m headed out the damn door. Don’t go asking me some bullshit you know fucking well I ain’t up to be answering!” Tennessee coughed several times and took a tissue from the box on the night table to remove the blood that slid down out of his narrow lips. His voice was low and tired. What he was about to say had been known from the beginning of time to man. Roskoe had gotten only part of the story, which helped his pimp hand grow strong and cold like hot ice.
Whether or not he would get the rest of the puzzle depended on if Tennessee could spill it all before he departed.
“I’m all ears Tennessee. Go on and let it out with your bloody mouth partner!”
The two men laughed for a couple seconds.
“I know - you know… what I have taught you about who you really are throughout all these years. And about the power of visualization. How to get things, situations and circumstances to work in your favor. Made you a well off cat ain’t it?”
“Sure,” Roskoe answered, “You damn sure waited long enough to spill it all though. But I’m glad you did”.
Tennessee had given Roskoe a few books that have been kept secret. Available in secret societies and in books stores if a mother fucker knew they existed and to ask for them. Books that changed his perspective, as times change. Books that helped him make a shipload of scratch, to the point where he didn’t have to pimp no more. But… he still had not retired. He was in it for sport.
“Roskoe you gone have to free yourself man”. Tennessee coughed up more blood and wiped it away with the same tissue.
“What the hell you talking about?! Do I look like I’m in chains?! You fixed to die in this mother fucker and…”
“You not getting it youngster!” Roskoe was well into his forties. Tennessee had him by an age grip so calling him youngster didn’t matter.
Tennessee coughed four times and rested his head on the pillow with his eyes wide open. He let out the death breath a person exhales before relying on a dirt nap to travel out of physical form.
Roskoe stamped the cigarette out on the hospital floor and lighted another one. “Tennessee! You have to be kidding me bruzz! You gone skip out on a pimp like that? I don’t believe this shit!” He slammed his fedora on the floor then picked it up and put it on his head and opened the room door. “Yo! Get somebody in here! My main man just died on me!”
The night nurse rushed into the room. She was a short woman of Indian descent with large bi-focal glasses bouncing on her nose. She must have just gotten the gig, for She did not to know what to do. She rushed back out the door past Roskoe. He went over and smoothed his palm over Tennessee’s face, shutting the eyes of his mentors’ corpse for the last time. He went out past the receptionist desk and pressed the down button for the elevator.
Someone put a hand on the arm of his long grey coat. The night nurse handed him a cell phone. “Tennessee said he wanted you to have this. I’m sorry”.
Roskoe took the phone from her hand, looked at it and dropped it in his coat pocket.
“It’s all right sweetie. Every one has their dooms day. You know what I’m saying doll?”
She nodded yes and went back to work. Roskoe’s deceased mother crossed his mind. Her dark complexion and her wavy hair. She was a good woman. She had passed away when he was twenty - five years old and Livingroom Johnston was twelve. They rarely ever spoke about death. There was something about the brothers that they kept things to themselves. It might have been a sacred pact between the two or it could have been denial. A way to avoid dealing with the pain that came with it. It took them some time to mention the death of their cousin Jerome to each other, let alone in front of a friend they considered as close as a sibling.
Outside the freezing rain came to a halt as Roskoe stood in front of the electric sliding doors. He went out to the curb across the street and unlocked the door of his hog and got in. He sat letting the car warm for about a half an hour. When he hit the button for the windshield wipers they smeared the cold water back and forth. The street lamps accompanied by the passing cars were blurs like tears through sorrow filled eyes. He wasn’t one to cry. He was a stone cold cat in his own right.
Roskoe pulled into an empty parking spot on fifty-seventh street in Mid Town Manhattan. Tennessee Red owned a bar there. Roskoe would collect the bread after closing and bring it to him the mornings after. When Tennessee got ill to where he was hospitalized he stated that Roskoe keep the bar running the way it was and keep the bread he copped from there. Roskoe didn’t ask about the paperwork of the joint, for that would have meant he was expecting the death of Tennessee.
Roskoe had dealt with a little situation there in the past. A cat by the name of Tango had called himself copping one of his ribs. Only thing was Tango knew nothing about pimping. He was a two sevens made by a palm of hands resembling a square. What kept Tango from being an absolute square was the fact that Tennessee had given him the job managing a joint. It was a hang out for hustlers, Johns, hookers, pimps, coke heads and drunks. But mostly drunks.
Roskoe entered into the bar. Roberta Freeway was sitting with her wide ass on the bar watching the large flat screen television set up in the corner, above a rack that held majority of the glasses. She had been instructed to close the joint at ten p.m. Roskoe already had it in his head that Tennessee was going to die. He drank very little. Most of the time he went without it. He knew what road the liquor takes a mother fucker when he doesn’t have the common sense or balls to deal without it. This was an occasion that called for a few sips regardless of the cold hard facts.
Roberta stretched out her legs and slid over the bar to the side Roskoe had entered on. He took his lid of his head and smoothed out his finger waves and glanced from his left to his right. The joint was empty. Roberta tugged at the hips of her tight strapless pink dress. There was a line of silk dragon prints down the sides of it. Her wig was black and long. Red at the tips like her finger and toenails.
“Damn baby. You look like you just looked death in the eyes. Hope you ain’t kill nobody else. You know you got to live with that shit, right?”
“Yeah… I know… only thing is I didn’t smoke nobody tonight Roberta”.
Roberta combed her hair to the side with her fingers. “What can I get you to drink babe?” She walked around the bar. Her high heels slapped the floor loud with each step.
“Give me a Cutty Sark on the rocks”. Roskoe sat on a stool at the center of the bar. He placed his lid on the stool beside him.
Roberta knew instantly Tennessee Red had passed away. She had known Roskoe since they were kids. A year ago he had her chauffeur him around in his Cadillac for a while. Just to put a few dollars in her pocket and not have her feel like it was charity. After the shit went down with the Tango cat Roskoe put her on as the main manager of Tennessee’s joint. Tango was an enemy of Roskoe’s. He had gotten sent up the river behind a brawl which ended with the death of an off duty police officer. Things ran a lot smoother.
The pimps that hung out in the bat called Robera: ‘THAT BITCH FOR PRESIDENT’. She didn’t give a shit. So long as her bread was right and not wrong.
Roskoe sipped on his drink and folded his arms on the bar. He stared into his eyes in the mirror. Roberta left him alone. She climbed back up and got back to her television show.
at 7:56 pm
THE BIGGEST MISCONCEPTION IS THAT THE JUNKIE IS SOFT ,
THAT ONCE YOUR A JUNKIE , THAT YOU ARE A SECOND CLASS
CITIZEN OF EXTURNAL ADDICTION , HOWEVER ,THAT IS A
FRAUD .SOME OF THE STRONGEST MEMBERS OF MODERN REALITY
ARE UNKNOWN JUNKIES , HOWEVER , ……
THERE IS A SECRET WAR GOING ON , THE REAL SPYS ARE
JUNKIES , I THINK THAT I’M THE OLNY INDERPENDENT
JUNKIE THAT I KNOW ,I’M WERY OF OVER FRENDLY TRAVELERS
THAT ARE COMMISHENED TO USE DRUGS TO INTRAP OR IMPLANT
PROBLEMS ON MY LATER DATES. I WILL NOT ALLOW ANY TO
SPONCER MY DRUG PROBLEM , NOR WILL I EXPLOIT MY FEDISH
, NOR WILL I ACCEPT COMMUNIAL DRUG USE , OR SPYSHIP
RECRUTMENT , CONSIDERING , IT MAY BE DEMEANING TO MY
SELF OWNERSHIP , AND MY SPIRITUAL VALUES , AT
CURRENTTEXT PASTTENSE , AND FUTURESEX SPEED , AND I
WILL NOT FORFEIT , CONSIDERING THE SHIRES THAT BRED
EXPERIENCES THAT PROVOKED SUCH “LUST CONTROL” , THAT
DRUG USEAGE BE, IN THE FIRISM PLACE.
NOW , CONSIDERING CONSIDERING RELEASES OF AGGERVATION
, AND THINGS THAT FOLKS DO AFTER THEY HAVE FINISHED
WORK , HOW CAN YOU GET HIGH , IF YOUR WORKING SOMEONE
ELSES NERVE ? AND IF YOUR GETTING HIGH AND SOMEONE IS
ON THE SIDELINE ATTEMPTING TO QUIZ YOU OUT , AND
QUESTION OR COMPRESS YOUR MOVEMENTS , TO THEIR
EXPECTATION , AS OPPOSED TO YOUR FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION
, SPIRITUAL SELF COMMUNICATION , AND SELF COMMUNION ,
PLEASE KEEP IN MIND , THE MAY NOT BE AS MIGHTY AS THE
ABILITY IS TO REMIX WITHOUT THEM , CONSIDERING THE
REAL ASSWHIPPIN’ , BECAUSE SPYSHIP IS A FORBIDDEN SIN
, EVIL IS INDERPENDENT WITH IT’S GRIN , AND HOW DARE
ANY QUESTION THE GOODNESS OF ONE PONDERING SHAME , AND
CONTERPLATING THE ESCAPE FROM THE INSANE .IF THE GODS
MUST BE CRAZY , CURE WHY.
Recently we requested photo submissions for the GLOB. I don’t know hat we expected but we certainly didn’t expect so many- and all of them winners. aNYthing is a creative collective, pooling talents from across NYC but yet it never ceases to amaze how much talent there is out there. Here are just a few selections- we are not even halfway through all that was sent-
Alexander Allen
Arnaud Boisgillot
Sam Falls
Sam Falls
Sam Falls
Colin- Gypsy Curses
Colin- Gypsy Curses
Colin- Gypsy Curses
Dana Goldstein
Dana Goldstein
Dana Goldstein
Dana Goldstein
John Gahl
John Gahl
John Gahl
Mike Terpeza
Mike Terpeza
Mike Terpeza
Mike Terpeza
Niko 14h10
Niko 14h10
Niko 14h10
Niko 14h10
John Gahl
Very Nearly Almost
Thank You everyone for your submissions. Keep ‘em coming!
Livingroom: You must be hungry. Let me get you a New York frank…
Eli: I’ll wait until I get back to West Bumblefuck to eat some of my momma’s home-cooked food. I’m only here an hour- let’s skate!
Livingroom: Skate? -Who ME? And skuff up the GATORS?
Livingroom: Yo man, let me get a hot dog!
Livingroom: Why don’t you take this napkin, since your momma ain’t here to wipe your mouth!
Eli: Let’s go do some manuals down that hill?
Livingroom: I’ll watch you, man.
Livingroom: Okay now- do your thing- Let’s see how sharp your skills are on the street.
Livingroom: My MAN. You got the gift! Making me want to get up and do my thing!
Livingroom: You’s a badd dude.
Eli: Learned it all from you. Let’s see if you still have it.
Livingroom: I’m a big-time famous writer now. Plus it will screw up my pimping…
Eli: Scared?
Eli: Okay, gimme back my board! You think you are still the king because you can do all that life-threatening stuff at lightning speed, and make it look easy? You made me sweat. I had to change my shirt!
…in fact, I only have time for one more trick, I’m going to mess your mind up with this one, too. I’m gonna need my Super-Pimp pink shirt to get the job done!
Eli: I’ll leave you to marinate on that, like when the rappers drop the mic after their show. Gotta grab my bus home. I’ll send you a postcard.
From New York Times writer Steven Kurutz comes a humorous and smartly
told expedition into the world of tribute bands. The author hits the
road with Rolling Stones tribute act Sticky Fingers as they trail the
real Stones 2005-2006 tour. Along the way, you’ll meet a group of
Deadheads who replicate exact Grateful Dead concerts; hear the history
of the first tribute band, Beatlemania; and learn about “tributitus,” a
disorder that results in a tribute performer identifying a little too
closely with the rock star they portray, with resulting swelling of the
ego. Affectionate and engaging, here is the ultimate anthem for classic
rock culture.
If you, like most hip street-wear conscious folks have been thumbing through he latest ANTENNA magazine,
…and came across our ad…
…and while you may appreciate that A NEW YORK THING isn’t insulting your intelligence by force-feeding that tired downtown artsy hipster image, but now wonder what it is exactly we are representing in our ads- it may interest you to check these links:
When Forty-Second Street was still “The Deuce” me and my little man Sha were at the Karate flicks. Inside the theater there was a concession booth that was closed, so my boy went out to the one in the lobby and asked for a cup of water. We then used the empty cup to fill with soda from the soda fountain at the closed booth, to drink orange soda to our heart’s content. Two young hookers saw what we were up to- we were sixteen. They were maybe fourteen, and bad as hell in their tight leopard skin slacks, frizzy hair shaved on the sides and dyed blonde, red skin and pretty almond eyes- Trinny or something- Anyhow, they came over and asked my boy for some soda. I knew they just wanted to hang out, and I was down, but he was a real hard-rock… He shut them down, “get your own cup!”
My first time painting trains in the subway tunnel, I had met these writers in summer camp and convinced them I was very experienced. They were from the projects and down for anything, so when we got back to the city they called me and invited me. I went through the motions but when we got to the edge of the platform at the back of the station, and they just jumped down the tracks and disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel, I choked. Not only was I afraid of this new undertaking for a million reasons, but I was like eleven years old, and still afraid of the damn dark. I thought they forgot about me, and was ready to hop away when they came back out of the gloom, calling my name. “Oh, what the heck?” I thought, as I took that fateful plunge into my new life.
We were all selling fireworks on Canal street and one day the strip was hot with police activity so we all took to the back streets. At that time the Chinese gangs had beef with all the non- Chinese getting money on their territory, and when two guys turned around and eyes me and my boy suspiciously, like we were following them, we cut through a parking lot so as not to cross their path and agitate them unnecessarily- when we come out on the flip side of the block, we happen to be right behind them again. They lost it. They hustled into a store, and before I could swallow my spit they were getting pushed out by the tough-ass Italian lady- “get out of my store with that GUN”. Obviously they removed themselves just so they could prepare their drop on us. Now the spotlight was on them, and element of surprise upset, they confronted us with words, “Yo, why you guys forrowing us?” I smiled and said, “relax, man, we weren’t following you. Its just a coincidence.”
We were walking as a group, when these two pretty boys in brand new leather bombers we sort of knew started waking along with us, smoking a joint. They pssed it to one of us and it got passed around without ever making it back to them. We never thought of it as unfair, as we all shared everything. But dude took issue and started posturing tough. “I’ve been robbed!” One of our witty friends punched the kid in his eye and stipped off his leather coat in one lightening movement, tucking it away under his arm, “No THAT’S robbed!”
Some guys needed back-up for a fight so came and rounded up a bunch of us from the park. As we walk over to the spot, I find out its only one guy they are looking to jump. I fell back to the rear immediately as I only approved of one-on-one fights. Anyhow, who the hell was this guy, Ghengis Khan?- they had assembled a small army. When we get to the pizzeria, its this cool ass black punk-rocker dude I knew from around, so I already had in mind to stop it… but I had no need. When he stepped out of the joint with this cute Japanese punk chick on his arm, and saw the cowardly mob ready to stomp on him, he made a poetic gesture, flinging his slice and rootbeer all over the front lines. When everyone moved out of the flying food’s trajectory, he jumped through the sagging defenses and took off down the block- to fight another day.
Summer nights we would all sneak into the pool. This one daredevil kid dared me to jump off the wall into the pool with him. Wall wasn’t so high so I climbed up with him. Once we were up there I understood that to jump off the wall (which was the back of the handball court), one had to spring off the little fence ON TOP of the wall, dangling for a moment in space with a steep drop onto concrete on both sides, moreover, there was a good ten feet of pavement between the wall and the pool, which in turn was surrounded by a steel railing one could always tangle up on landing. I wanted to have some fun, but this guy was a fuckin’ psychopath! I swallowed my pride, and before I climbed back down to safety I watched him make his dangerous, insane, but beautiful splash.
My boy was driving me to some party when he got a page from his mom and said we had to shoot back to Brooklyn real quick to take care of something. His mom sat in front of their building, distressed- his sister was a beautiful woman confined to a wheelchair by some debilitating muscular condition, and the elevator was broken. Without a word my man took his sister over his shoulder- and she was not little- carrying her up six flights, across the roof, and down the other stairs until he deposited her back in bed, me struggling to keep up with the relatively light wheelchair. Then we were free to go to the party… me looking at my boy all night like he is some kind of superhero.
One night I was fighting with my girlfriend and I split to walk the streets and felt at last for sure that our good thing was over. Then I saw the crazy guy that I always knew was some kind of genius- he was playing Mahalia Jackson on some beat up radio and repeatedly zinging a Kool Whip container top into the sky like a little frisbee (well, more like a boomerang, since it came right back to him, every time). We were on friendly terms so I tried to open up to him with my troubles hoping for some advice, or at least to be heard. But he silenced me andhanded me one of these little discs. Now I was throwing, or trying to throw like him, but soon I realized that it was nearly impossible to do what he made look so easy. And that he had found the answer. His answer, at least…
I met these two Puerto Rican girls on the subway one night. They were cute but rowdy. We hung out together for the night and they told a lot of stories. One scam they said they pulled all the time- even if they pulled once, was pretty clever. They would hunt for single boys in nice cars and let the boys pick them up, drive them around. Then the girl would make the boy go inside a store to buy her a soda. The girl hopped into the drivers seat and took off with the car to her uncle’s chop shop. Tough luck for the guy, would have to chalk it up to “women’s liberation.”
One Night I was fucked up waiting for the train late night, train taking forever, so I started talking to these homeless dudes who were playing house in the train station, when I noticed that one of their people was steady running up and down the platform like it was some kind of marathon- with no shoelaces. So I get smart and ask, “what is your boy running from? -where is he running to? -why is he running??” The old dude looked at me, shaking his head, “young-blood, I just came home from eleven years in the penitentiary- up there there’s guys that will stab someone to death, and if you ask them why they did it, they couldn’t tell you. So believe me, if you knew why he was running- you would get up there and join him!”
So I bring this extra-gorgeous high society girl on a date to Gil Scott Heron’s show at Summer Stage, and because I can’t say no, my boy tags along- a gangbanger just home from reform school. He’s really some type of South Bronx killer, reads too many comic books and regularly says the foulest things to girls. Gil Scott is just talking, not really singing, so my girl and this bad ass kid get bored and go off to the side to hang around and talk under this big tree. I see him writing something in her book, so I walk over and actually snatch the book from him, certain he has written death threats and profanities- it was a poem that I can’t recall verbatim, but it ran something like, “even a demon, feeding on human blood in the depths of hell, stands in awe of the sunlight on a flower.” I handed him back the book, blushing and returned to hear out Gil Scott, secretly hoping the two of them would fall in love behind my back, and save each other’s lives.
A respected writer, mostly tagged train insides with black, shiny ultra-drippy markers, from Queensbridge got sent away to spend the rest of his life in prison. Another writer we knew from Queensbridge, a good kid, got sent to jail on a petty beef and was relieved to run into the older dude on Rikers. The older guy skipped the formalities and greeted the homeboy with a slice clean across the face with a razor blade- saying he could go back to the hood with that scar so they could all remember him.
My boy’s mom sent him to the store and with the thirty-five cents change, he went to the bodega to buy a loosie. At this time, the mayor had placed an iron grip on the sale of loose cigarettes, so they would not sell it at the usual spot, nor next door, or up the block either. Finally we found an out-of-the-way Korean grocery the sold him this sought after Newport. Back at his house he was made to do a few more chores and finally we repaired to the fire escape so he could smoke the damn thing already. On lighting it, he fumbled the cigarette and it fell down through the slats of the fire escape to the sidewalk below. “Senora,” he called a lady standing nearby. She did her best to toss it up to him, but it only got a foot or two of lift from each attempt. Finally a passing neighbor got into the action and rolled the cigarette up in an envelope. This package made it into our hands after a few tries and the man walked away triumphant. My boy unwrapped it, lit it, and took a long, thoughtful and relieved draw, blew out the smoke through his nose and said, shaking his head, “Man, the things you gotta go through…”
There was this crazy homeless guy who must have seen too many Karate movies in his day and walked around pretending to be a Kung-Fu master. One day I was coming down off a week long drinking binge and it felt like my liver was stuck to my spine like hot bubblegum- I was dragging myself up the block. When he saw me coming, he gave me the crazy fake Kung-Fu salute, then proceeded to grab me into some kind of bear hug, gripping my lower back sharply with three fingers. I don’t know if it was his intention- though it must have been- but he moved my internal organs around and in some unimaginable way, kick started my metabolism and I felt fine. I thanked him as he walked away, back to playing the humble hobo, secret master of God-knows-what that he was.
My boy lived next to this giant cocaine dealing complex uptown. We were standing on the curb, listening to the Reggae show on his radio, perched on the curb of a parked car when gun shots started popping off. A group tumbled out of the coke spot all shooting at each other right in front of us and moving our way. Besides Robert Duvall in “Apocalypse Now” I’d never seen anything like this: my boy tuned the radio as if nothing was happening (granted it was for him a daily occurrence). Facing his calm resolve, I resisted the natural urge to cower behind the car for cover. I asked, “shouldn’t we run?” He looked at me kool as heck, eyes even lidded a bit as if he was sleepy- “Would I get shot standing here? -or would I get shot running?” The group made it up the block without hitting us, or each other.
A kid we grew up with just came home from a stint in prison looking all muscular and military and in that defining moment I imagined he might have chosen to steer a straight path from there on in. We talked a bit on the night time sidewalks and it seemed he had grown up a lot. Then a rented car screeches up the wrong way on a one-way street, pretty girl driving- she pops the door open for him and slides over into the passenger seat. He jumps behind the steering wheel, slams the door, waves at me, and screeches off. Before the week was up he was back in the joint.
My friend from Harlem gets into it with a friend of a friend from Little Italy. The kid is twice my friend’s size and things aren’t looking so good. I had conflicting interests but my heart told me to step in for my boy. I had a new set of brass knuckles that I was eager to test out so I sucker punched the guy wen they were clinching hoping to even the odds and do so undetected. I don’t know who saw what or informed whom, but in no time flat- the entire neighborhood mobilized against us two. If not for the appearance of two beat cops we would probably have been left as stains on the sidewalk. Some months later I was still nervous around Little Italy and my friend drags me of all places to the San Genarro feast. Emerging from the gambling den is the big boss over all the Italian kids and he looks right at me in an understanding way- “come in and don’t worry- that guy you beat up isn’t one of us- that guy is a drug addict…” etc. I thought he may have been trying to rock me to sleep, but it turned out fine- three angels swooped down from the stained glass window and said I owed them ten Hail Marys!
Taking a taxi uptown late night and the cabbie is doing like 100 MPH up Park Ave listening to Bangara. Around 42 Street, coming out of that little underpass, we hit the incline at a good clip and we seemed to float over the city skyline before the wheels came back down to asphalt with a thud. Driver turns around with wide-eyed excitement, exclaiming, “we flew in the air, like television!” I told him to stop the cab right where we were to let me out.
I got into a great conversation with this old guy who was begging for change in front of the book store, as we are walking along talking philosophy I wasn’t sure if we were both wandering or if he was gently leading us somewhere but suddenly we ended up at the crack spot. The dealer recognized him as a regular and asked him “how many?” but my man was so into our debate that he acted like he didn’t even hear the guy and just kept on about the meaning of life. The crack dealer was a tall dark skinned Jamaican in a yellow track suit and- not one to be ignored- demanded the customers’ attention. My man interrupted the dialogue to tell the dealer, “I mean no disrespect, but what me and my friend are building on right now takes precedent over all that,” and waved him away. I don’t believe the crack dealer had ever heard such talk from a custy and stood there visibly flabbergasted by his behavior. Soon enough we wrapped up our talk. I went on my way, and my new friend went off to smoke his crack.
First time I went to go scope out the train yards, we were afraid to go in and tag up- even though there was hardly any fence to stop us, but we checked out all the paintings- and there was one car painted by ERNI New Wave (who now paints sets for David La Chapelle), with characters, and the characters had NO faces. I remember thinking, like, you can’t do that, but then of course you can- where was it written that you couldn’t make a cartoon character without a face? It was then I caught the spirit, the “faith of graffiti”…
Photography by J ROBERTS, Words from an anonymous NYobserver!
