High-ist

I just wrote a whole paragraph about the infestation of russians in NYC and how they alone are responsible for the death of the last bastions of Cosmopolitan American civility left but the wifi in Starbucks crashed and so did my draft. GOD IS SPEAKING TO ME THROUGH GOOGLE STARBUCKS Wifi. Like, OMG. I was hypothesizing about Trump trading a night with Melania for Putin demanding a mass forced exodus back to the Cossak homeland for ALL rUSSIANS ON AMERICAN SOIL. Something tells me vlad would give it some serious thought, if only just to Instagram himself with Melania’s day-after panties around his neck. But I won’t write that, even as I use up as many of my first amendment rewards points while I still can. Might put me on some list of dissidents. Maybe I’ve been watching too much of that anti-scientology show starring the Queen of Queens. But the diabolical types can only hurt me if I believe they can. That brings me back to why I was so annoyed with russians this morning. They’re just EVERYWHERE and they’re LOUD AND OBNOXIOUS AS FUCK. But that’s why GOD invented headphones. I have three pairs of Bose (’cause I’m rich) to tune out the russians. Sounding curmudgeonly and russia-ist am I? YOU’RE FUCKING RIGHT I AM! This is not your playground Svetlana. Sashay-away. Byee.

The other day I took the F train to Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn to visit the brownstone where my departed adoptive Italian grandmother lived her entire life. I hadn’t been since I was about 17, and it looked exactly the same, even the neighborhood, all very old-world; no hipsters, no Starbucks, no signs of any kind of progress into modernism or condo conversion. Used to trek over from Manhattan (via Cadillac) in the 70’s for Sunday dinner, which for Italians lasts from whenever you get home from church until you pass out. I hummed a few Barry White tunes, those my adoptive Italian grandfather used to cook to, and felt nothing along the lines of nostalgia as I puddle-jumped in the rain back to the F Train and got off at 34th Street to find myself feeling sorry for the pathetically small discarded Christmas trees strewn about the streets, used up and thrown away like a russian whore (without the blackmail). So temporary, so sad.

Discontented and underwhelmed from the drive-by of life as a nihilist in the big city and an old guy going to school with people born in the 1990’s. But I’m not quite ready to blow my brains all over the F train (not today anyway) so what to do? How to cope? Go to a happy place? Delusion of past life escapism? Time for a list!

Memories 

OK, Sunday dinners in Brooklyn were kind of fun, if only for the food and front-row seat for the knock-down drag-out in-fights of generational hostility known as Italian family dinners. FUCK ME? FUCK YOU! Every time I hear the smooth voice of Barry White I’m reminded of visceral antagonism and monetary one-upmanship. My Caddy is bigger than your Caddy. But really, it was the cannoli and gabbagool.  Two opposing tastes that taste tasty together. The only real harmony experienced during Sunday dinners in Brooklyn. Still, a positive is a positive.

Limelight on 7th Ave. David Barton is OUT. Out of business anyway. It was fun till he started getting serious. The old church where I spent so many collegiate nights at Area Limelight is now available for lease again. Hmm, I AM looking for a more permamant habitat. But, the memories are long-gone of Warhol and gold cocaine-cutting razor blades and dancing to Vicious Pink and the Cure until all hours in tweed jackets and tiny leather ties. Strangely I remember many nights at Limelight when I was 17, 18, 19 and so-on. Danceteria and Palladium too, but there was something much more intimate about the church of 80’s new wave hair culture on 7th Avenue that causes positive speculation.

I’ll have to end for now, as this draft, like my faith in humanity, is about to be obliterated again. More later on the good olde days of pre-russia NYC.


 

 

 

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