Sunday, November 19, 2017

Paris in bad weather

“Then there was the bad weather,” begins Ernest Hemingway’s memoir of living in Paris in the twenties, A Moveable Feast. “It would come in one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the wind drove the rain against the big green autobus in the terminal....”

I'm not dumb.  Start with Hemingway.

Hemingway knew exactly what he was doing when he began his poem to Paris with a cold, rainy, windswept day. He knew that bad weather brings out the lyrical in Paris and in the visitor, too. It summons up feelings of regret, loss, sadness—and in the case of the first pangs of winter—intimations of mortality. The stuff of poetry. And of keen memories. The soul aches in a kind of unappeasable ecstasy of melancholy. Anyone who has not passed a chill, rainy day in Paris will have an incomplete vision of the city, and of him- or herself in it.

Great photographers like André Kertész understood how splendid Paris looks awash in gray and painted with rain. His book, J’aime Paris, shot entirely in black and white over the course of forty years, draws heavily on foul weather. I don’t know of anyone, with the possible exceptions of Atget and Cartier-Bresson, who has come closer to capturing the soul of Paris with a camera. The viewer will remember many of these photographs—even if he or she can’t name the photographer—because they have become part of the Parisian landscape in our minds’ eyes. That solitary man, his coat windblown as he walks toward wet cobblestones; the statue of Henry IV on horseback reflected in a puddle fringed by—yes—those sodden leaves. Kertész’s Paris sends a nostalgic chill through our bodies.

On one memorable trip to Paris, it rained. When it didn’t rain, it threatened to. This was in October, so leaves were starting to fall from trees, and that added a sense of forlornness to my visit. Each morning, I stepped out from my hotel on the Left Bank just off the Boulevard St. Germain into a dull gray morning. The sky hung low, the color of graphite, and it seemed just as heavy. The air was cool and dense.

But I wasn’t disappointed. After a shot of bitter espresso, I was ready to go. That week in October I set myself the goal of following the flow of the Seine, walking from one end of Paris to the other. I had bad weather as my companion, and a good one it was, too. I walked along the quays and over the bridges in a soft drizzle. The colossal bronze figures that hang off the side of the Pont Mirabeau were wet and streaming. The Eiffel Tower lost its summit in the fog. The cars and autobuses made hissing noises as they flowed by on wet pavement. The Seine was flecked with pellets of rain. The dark, varnished houseboats, so long a fixture on the river, had their lights shining invitingly out of pilothouses. The facade of Notre Dame in the gloom sent a medieval shudder through me. None of this I would have seen in the sunlight.

Then there is the matter of food.

There may be no Parisian experience as gratifying as walking out of the rain or cold into a welcoming, warm bistro. There is the taking off of the heavy wet coat and hat and then the sitting down to one of the meals the French seemed to have created expressly for days such as this: pot-au-feu or cassoulet or choucroute.

I remember one rainy day on this trip in particular. I walked in out of the wet, sat down and ordered the house specialty, pot-au-feu. For those unfamiliar with this poem, do not seek enlightenment in the dictionary. It will tell you that pot-au-feu is “a dish of boiled meat and vegetables, the broth of which is usually served separately.” This sounds like British cooking, not French, and the dictionary should be sued for libel. My spirits rose as the large smoking bowl was brought to my table along with bread and wine. I let the broth rise up to my face, the concentrated beauty of France. Then I took that first large spoonful into my mouth. The savory meat and vegetables and intense broth traveled to my belly. I was restored.

I sat and ate in the bistro and watched the people hurry by outside bent against the weather. I heard the tat, tat, tat of the rain as it beat against the bistro glass. The trees on the street were skeletal and looked defenseless. Where had I seen this before? In what book of photographs about Paris? I looked around inside and saw others like myself being braced by a meal such as mine and by the warmth of the room. The sounds of conversation and of crockery softly rattling filled the air. Efficient waiters flowed by, distinguished men with long white aprons, working elegantly. Delicious food was being brought out of the kitchen, and I watched as it was put in front of expectant diners. Every so often the front door would open, and a new refugee would enter, shuddering, with umbrella and dripping coat, a dramatic reminder that outside was no cinema.

I finished my meal slowly. I had left almost all vestiges of cold behind. My waiter took the plates away. Then he brought me a small, potent espresso. I lingered over it, savoring each drop. I looked outside. It would be good to stay here a bit longer.

I got up to go. Paris—gloomy, darkly beautiful Paris—was waiting.

Friday, November 17, 2017

Commencing with the simplest things--death

I was cleaning the apartment the other day and had Pandora tuned to the Bill Monroe station.  So it was country, it was bluegrass music, of the truest kind.

I listened for close to an hour.  Then something made me stop and listen to Ralph Stanley sing "Who Will Sing for Me."  Here's the first verse:

Oft I sing for my friends
When death's cold hand I see
When I reach my journey's end
Who will sing one song for me?

Then it struck me--and this is certainly not an original observation--how boldly and movingly country music talks about death.  There are so many great, poignant songs about death in country music.  The most famous is probably "Will the Circle Be Unbroken" by the Carter Family.  This is the first verse of that song:

I was standing by my window
On one cold and cloudy day
When I saw the hearse come rolling
For to carry my mother away.

Country music faces death.  Looks it straight in the eye.  Fears it.  Respects it.  It doesn't serve up any "Death, Be Not Proud" hokum.  (John Donne, it does not work.)

Those people--and here I mean the purebreds, the mountain singers, those from deep in the hollers where there isn't an un-genuine note--tell the truth.  That music will send chills down your spine.  It can be stark, but it's always true, the best of it.

Stark.  What is more stark than death?  I want to look it in the eye.  (Not for too long!)  I want death to know--I see you.  I know I will meet you one day.  And you will prevail.  These songs help me with that.  They give me courage. (And, yes, I am afraid.)  Especially at seventy-two, when I'm starting to hear footsteps.

Ralph Stanley wrote the most chilling, wonderful song about death.  He sings it unaccompanied, a capella, just that pure mountain voice of his.  It's called "O Death."  Some of the lyrics are below.  Nobody looked at death more clear-eyed than he.  But you have to listen to him sing the song. (Click here to do just that.)   It's something I can't describe.

Death, be proud.  Ralph Stanley wrote a killer song about you.

O, Death
O, Death
Won't you spare me over til another year
Well what is this that I can't see
With ice cold hands takin' hold of me
Well I am death, none can excel
I'll open the door to heaven or hell
Whoa, death someone would pray
Could you wait to call me another day?

Ralph Stanley

The Painters of Crosby Street, Part 2

New York, 1979.  I'd broken up with my girlfriend and was living in a sublet loft in Soho on Crosby Street for the summer.  I met a Russian painter in my building, Arina, an outgoing, exuberant woman.  She came by one evening and invited me to a party in her loft that Saturday.

I was going to a party in a painter’s loft!  I felt like now I’d truly been given official Soho citizenship.  Soho was, after all, settled by painters when it was an untamed frontier.  The painters were the pioneers.  They fought the early battles with the city and landlords for the Certificate of Occupancy—that coveted document that declared you could live in a commercial building—and those battles were often long, costly and unfriendly. 

I rang Arina’s bell Saturday evening.  She opened it and smiled.


“Come in, Reechard.”

 I walked inside.  A group of people were already there talking loudly away.  The room was large, spilling with light.  This was a genuine loft, unlike mine.  Half of it was filled with furniture, and the other half was empty except for a tall standing easel upon which was mounted an unfinished painting.  This half-emptiness of the loft made the furnished area seem like the set of a play.  I felt as if at any moment stage hands might come in and move the tables and chairs around. 
There was a piano in one corner, and a young man with dark blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses was playing furiously—some classical music I didn’t recognize.  The man, who seemed to be about twenty-five, looked vaguely familiar, but I was sure I’d never seen him before, and that seemed strange.
I never saw this kind of stratosphere in the Greenwich Village apartments where I'd lived.  There was so much space and light I felt like I was outdoors.  There were no walls where walls would normally be, where the eye would be stopped.  It was deliriously disorienting.  There was a long heavy table next to the far wall and on it was a bounty of food—weighty Russian hors d'oeuvres with plates of cheeses and bread.  There were also six or seven opened bottles of vodka and twice as many bottles of wine.  People poured drinks and piled food on paper plates.

“Reechard, I want you to meet Zbarski,” Arina said.  She grabbed my arm and hauled me over to a tall thin man with reddish hair and a sharp-angled face.  He had a cigarette in one hand and was gesturing with it flamboyantly, painting the air with smoke as he talked.
“Zbarski!” Arina said.  “Meet Reechard.  From downstairs Michael’s loft.”
The man stopped talking and looked down at me.  Then in a sonorous musical voice he said, “Michael loft?  I thought he sublet to woman.”

 “No, Zbarski,” Arina said.

  He smiled and stuck out his hand.

 “I am Felix Zbarski,” he said.

  I told him my name.

 “Are you painter?” he asked.

 “No, writer.”  Pause.  “Well, I want to be.” 

“Writer?  Good!  We have already too many painters!"
Later, I learned that Felix Zbarski was a highly-regarded painter.  But at that moment, he was simply a smiling, booming-voiced Russian to me.
I heard the Russian language everywhere in loud melodic exchange.  Such a tongue, rich and dark as coal.  The voices thundered; they could carry across steppes. 
Everyone there looked interesting.  There were children, too, running about.  There is nothing so delightful and slightly intimidating as a boy or girl with parents who are artists and who were raised in Soho.  For them—especially as they grow old enough to understand a bit of the world—art, and the struggle to make art, is normal.  Their parents make art, and their parents’ friends do, too.  They come home from school to canvasses and paint and the exuberant, slightly desperate life of creation everywhere. 

It’s something to see these parents meet their kids as school breaks up for the day.  They have that same communal happiness all parents do seeing their children again, but these parents are dressed like Modigliani.  The children are slightly feral with their long hair a little disheveled.  Their eyes are alive with a penetrating confidence.  They know Manhattan, or this part of Manhattan, these urban native boys and girls, and they are completely at ease with the city.  It’s part of them.  They know and understand the city like a Louisiana country kid knows the bayou.  Seeing those parents, struggling with their art, not much money, yet raising families, just doing it—what was stopping me?  Why didn't I just quit my job at the ad agency and write?
Arina had two large dogs, boxers, with tawny coats and drooling dark maws who traveled about the room together nudging your legs and sniffing.  They came up to me.
“This is Pooshkin,” Arina said, stroking one.  “And this—Gogol,” she said, pointing to the other.  “They are sisters,” she said, laughing.  It was tricky for them to be dogs on the shiny old wood floors.  If they chased each other, their legs would splay out, like skaters.

 “Who is that man playing the piano?”  I asked her.  He looked unhappy as he pounded away expertly.
“He is Dmitri Shostakovich.”
What?  Dmitri Shostakovich?  I thought he was dead.”  I didn’t even think of how ridiculously young the man was, how impossible that he be Shostakovich.

 “That is grandson.”
Really?  Dmitri Shostakovich’s grandson?  The great composer?”

“Sure.  Why not?”
I looked more closely at him.  Yes, there was that classic visage—those thin lips, brown glasses, nearly squarish head, tall forehead, all softened by another generation, but still there nonetheless. The music he unhappily played, I learned, was his own.

And that phrase seemed to me to be the essence of my existence that summer:  Why not?  Walk into a loft and why wouldn’t you find Dmitri Shostakovich’s grandson, or anyone else for that matter?  And you would.  I looked around the room at all the people.  I wanted to be Russian right then and there.  I took a small glass and poured some vodka into it.  This seemed a good way to start.  The liquid looked like water, but was far more dangerous.  I started to drink, but Zbarski stopped me by putting a hand on my arm.
“You must toast something!” he commanded.


I thought for a moment and looked around the room. 
“Quiet!” Zbarski bellowed with a wave of his long flag-like arm.  “Reechard gives toast!”  His voice stopped all talking.  The room waited.

I raised my glass. “To art!” I said. 
Zbarski smiled.  He turned to face the people in the room.  He raised his own glass.

“To art!” His voiced covered the room. 
The crowd answered, raising glasses, “To art!” 

And then he drained his drink in one great, authoritative gulp. 

Felix Zbarsky and friend

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

The Painters of Crosby Street, Part 1

New York City, 1979.  I'd broken up with my girlfriend and was living in a sublet loft in Soho on Crosby Street for the summer.  I was thirty-five, and I had aspirations to be a writer.  I was an advertising copywriter, though, about as far from being a writer as you can get, despite the “writer” the two words share.    

I’d tried to write for real now and then, but I’d never gotten far.  I’d written stories in college that had won an award, but when I went into the world, I just stopped.  The pen I picked up wrote slogans, not short stories.  I was paid well for those slogans and commercials, and New York City always offered plenty of tempting ways to spend that money.  I still harbored the idea that I was a Writer. When you get to your mid-thirties, however, and you haven’t written more than a few stories since college, you can’t help but wonder: am I deluding myself? Was I ever going to summon the courage to just fucking write?

I didn’t know anyone in my building on Crosby Street.  I would share the elevator with people now and then, but I never said hello to anyone. They all looked like artists, and I guess I was intimidated and maybe thinking of my own lack of resolve.  They wore paint-splattered pants or bib jeans.  A few had children.  I always felt preppy, like I’d stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalog.  I guess I had.

Then one day I met Arina.  I met her in the building's huge elevator—too vast for just people living in this small building and obviously used for commercial purposes.  I got on at my floor to go down, and she was there.  She looked and me and spoke:

“Are you taking loft of Michael this summer?”

“Uh, yes,” I said.  “I am.  Sublet.”

“I hope they don’t charge you too much.” 
She wore her hair short, a blade of which cut across her forehead on a sharp angle.  Her smile was open and ready, like a child’s.  And that voice.  She had a black-bread-thick Russian accent.  I loved to hear English spoken with a Russian accent, like hers. 

“No, well, I don’t think they did.”

I introduced myself. 

“I am Arina,” she said.  “I know Michael long time.”
The elevator reached the first floor.  There was no lobby, just a small area with wall mailboxes.

“You come for party or to eat something,” Arina said.  “I will tell you when.”
“Oh, yes, sure. That would be great.  What floor do you live on?”


“Great.  How will I get in touch with you?”

“I will knock on door,” she said, as if that were absurdly obvious.  Then she laughed, and it seemed I heard that crackling in the chest that comes from heavy smoking.  I stole a quick glance at her right hand and saw her fingertips were stained varnish-yellow.  We walked outside into the sunlight.

“I must to buy paint,” she said.
“You’re a painter?”

“Da,” she said.  “Painter.”

She smiled and turned and walked south on Crosby toward Canal Street on her way to the magnificent Pearl Paint Store.  All painters in New York went to Pearl Paint to buy their supplies, sooner or later.  They were pilgrims going to a shrine.  I loved going there myself, even though I was no painter.  It was four or five floors of everything that had anything to do with painting.  The old wooden stairs creaked appealingly as you explored each floor.  I wanted to buy everything, even though I could barely draw a stick figure.  Such an array of things!  I waved goodbye to Arina as she walked away. 
Before I came to Soho, I hadn’t met many painters.  Soho introduced me to painters, and that was one of the great pleasures of living there.  

When I walked into a painter’s studio, I loved seeing the disarray.  I loved the tubes of paint that had been strangled empty, lying side by side, tin corpses.  I loved the dried globs of paint on palettes or on old tables, the remnants of experiments of mixing colors, trying to match what he or she saw.  I liked the appealing chaos of a painter’s studio, with all those old coffee cans filled with upturned brushes, small and large; the unframed canvasses they stretched themselves, the in-progress paintings.  I never saw an un-messy painter’s studio—thank God.  It gave me a jolt of freedom when I saw this wild work.  Painting was physical.  Everything was action.  I always felt more buoyant in a painter’s loft—even if I wasn’t floored by the work. 

It wasn’t too long afterward that Arina knocked on my door.  It was around ten o’clock at night.  I found out she was a night owl, and, for her, the night, at ten o’clock, was hardly beginning.  I opened the door. 

“Reechard, we having party Saturday.  I want you to come.”
“Well, sure.  What time?”

 “I don’t know.  Maybe five.”
“The afternoon?”

“We begin early.  We go until there is no one left.”
“Ok, great.  Thanks.”

 She looked past me into the loft.  “You don’t move nothing?”
“No, no, it’s their place.”

“So?  Move things for you!  It’s your place for next three four months.”
I laughed.  “I’ll think about it.”

“Are you with woman?” she asked.
“No, not now.”

“I see if I can find you woman,” she said.  And then she turned and left.


Tuesday, November 14, 2017


On a bright September day in 1972, I walked up to an apartment building at 8 Duke Street in London. I looked at the list of names next to the door, and I found who I was looking for. I nervously pressed the buzzer next to the name. Pause. Then I heard, through the intercom, a nasalized, even-keyed voice.


"Uh, it's...Richard...Goodman.  From America."

"Come on up."

Buzzzz. Door released. I walked inside.

I walked three flights up, and, arriving at the door, I knocked.

It was opened by William Burroughs.

William S. Burroughs himself. The author of Naked Lunch, The Yage Letters and Junky. This was the same William Burroughs who had been called the father of the Beat Generation, the friend and mentor of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. There he was, smaller than I had imagined from the photographs, wearing a dark turtleneck, gray hair pulled over to cover some baldness. He beckoned me in.

I had written my Master's essay on Burroughs, and, during the process, had written him in care of his publisher with some questions. He replied!  We struck up an irregular correspondence. When I wrote him I was coming to England and asked if I might come see him, he said yes.

That is how it came to pass that I was in William Burroughs' London apartment. At first, he seemed shy, even a bit awkward. He sat on a stool in the center of his small living room with a cigarette almost always pressed to his lips or dangling from his hand. Ashtrays seemed to grow hills of butts quickly, and soon the room was very smoky. What was I going to ask him? There were so many questions. Thankfully, he began.

"I just got back from New York," he said. "I flew over there with the film script of Naked Lunch. Terry Southern and I were working on it. A producer said he was interested: I think he does ‘The Dating Game’ or some quiz show. So, Terry and I flew out to LA at his expense. When we arrived, this big black shiny Rolls-Royce met us at the airport, whisked us on into town. Well, it turned out he wasn’t interested. He said we’d have to cut out all the sex scenes and a lot of the scenes with violence. But what’s Naked Lunch without sex and violence?"

He spread his arms to indicate "nothing."

"Terry and I did some cutting, but he still wasn’t satisfied, so we gave it up. When we went to leave, the Rolls had shrunk considerably, down to some kind of mini. I said to Terry, 'We’d better get out of here fast before he decides not to pay the hotel bill.'"

He talked more and, gradually, he loosened up. (I'm not sure I ever did. It all seemed so unbelievable to me. I was just twenty-seven.) This was helped by the fact that friends of his began showing up all through the day. 

I told him that I liked The Yage Letters very much (a book consisting of an exchange of letters between Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg) but that I didn’t like Allen Ginsberg’s contribution. I thought it was self-indulgent. (God, that sounds insufferable now.)

"Oh, well," he said. "Allen has this idea that the whole world is love. Everyone is everyone’s brother, that kind of thing. He’s always felt that way. But I have a different view. I think there are sinister people about, trying to do you harm."

What about the revolver the character Lee (an early pseudonym for Burroughs himself) carried in Junky? Did Burroughs himself ever carry a gun? I was not going to ask him directly about his shooting his wife dead during a William Tell game gone wrong when he was living in Mexico in the early 1950s.

"Ohhh, yeah. When I was in Mexico City. I used to have this big ol’ .380 automatic. Used to stick it in my pants, right here." He pointed to his stomach-belt area. He was getting into character. "I remember one day I went into this pissoir, and I was waiting for my turn, when this man comes in — a typical punk — and he pushes his way in front of me. So, I opened my coat and tapped the handle." Pause. "He didn’t go into that pissoir ahead of me."

At a certain point, everyone decided to go to a restaurant in Soho. A caravan formed, and we headed out.  It was, ironically, a Mexican restaurant.  We ate and drank a lot.  I'm not sure why now, but I asked him about Norman Mailer.

"I like Norman,” he said slowly and precisely, "A lot of people say they have trouble with Norman, but I don’t. Get along with him quite well."

He seemed distant, so I let him be. Afterwards, we all walked out into the London night. Burroughs seemed a bit wobbly to me, and I was worried that he might have trouble finding his way back to his apartment building. He was going to walk. He was in a bright mood now. He shook my hand warmly.

"Ok, Baby," he said. "You’ve got my address. Next time you’re in London, look me up."

He waved and ambled off down the street. We all watched him disappear into the blackness of the night. Then we turned away and began walking.

"Will he be all right?" I asked one of his friends.

"William? Oh, sure. Somehow he always seems to find his way home."

William Burroughs at the time I met him

Saturday, November 11, 2017


I was getting a tattoo.

My twenty-four year-old daughter had gotten one, an owl, the symbol of Athena.  She suggested I get one, too.  She was visiting me in New Orleans.  I decided I would.

You may wonder: why?  Why did I want to get a tattoo at all?  
Good question. I’m tempted to say, “Why not?”  The answer is, simply, for the adventure.  For the sense of solidarity with my daughter.  For the—badass-ness of it.  One of my friends here, a man about my age, said, when I told him that I was thinking about getting a tattoo,

“But you’ll have that on your body for the rest of your life!!!”

“I’m seventy-two.  Rest-of-your-life has a less weighty meaning at this point.”

Anyway, it wouldn't be anything unusual in New Orleans, a heavily tatted city.  (I’ve picked up some jargon along the way.) I'd chosen the likeness of a bicycle for my tattoo, an old Raleigh three-speed that I owned when I first came to New York and that I'd loved.  My daughter had pulled a photo from the Internet for the tattoo artist to work from.
The hour arrived, and my daughter and I drove to Pigment, the tattoo parlor on Magazine Street in New Orleans we'd chosen.  On the way up, I asked her if the actual tattooing hurt.  She'd gotten hers in New York where she lives.

“Not really,” she said.  “I was nervous when I went in, but when he started, it just felt like he was putting pressure on my skin with the needle.”

We arrived at Pigment.  I had just one moment of hesitation, at the door.
“Dad?” my daughter said, a slight bit of tone in her voice.

“Yes! Yes! I’m doing it.”
In we walked.

A heavily tattooed—surprise!—young man in a t-shirt was behind the counter.  The place looked surprisingly orderly and, well, normal.  I could see some cubicles in back where the tattoo artists were performing their magic.  No screams.  I explained to the man what I wanted, showed him the image of a bicycle on my daughter’s phone.  He examined it.
“Yeah, we can do that.  Where do you want it?”

I had decided my upper left arm.
“Ok, wait just a minute.”

He went to the back and a few minutes later a young man, slightly disheveled with clearly unwashed dark hair and, somewhat alarmingly, shaky hands, stood before me.  His name was Sean.  I explained what I wanted, gave him the phone with the image.
He then said something. I couldn’t make it out, because he mumbled.

“Yeah, ok. I can do this.”                                    

“How much will that be?”
“Uh, I can do this for one-fifty.”

That didn’t seem unreasonable.  I said yes.  He made a Xerox of the image on the phone and took it back to where he worked to make a sketch of it.
“Do you think he might be a heroin addict?” I asked my daughter.  “I mean, look at how his hands shake.  I’m a little concerned—you know, the needle.  I don’t want to end up with some sort of insane zig-zag thing that looks like a toddler did it.”

“Yeah,” she said, “he is a little shaky.”

“It’ll be fine.”
About ten minutes later, he came back with the sketch.  He showed it to me.  It looked all right, nothing spectacular.

“Sure.  Looks good,” I said.
He nodded.  Then he went back to make a stencil of the drawing from which he would make the actual tattoo. He finished and beckoned me back to his cubicle.

So it came to pass that I was lying in a semi-twisted position on the kind of plastic cushioned couch you find in a doctor’s office, turned away from Sean so as to better afford him a good vantage to work.  And then he began to tattoo me. 

The first thing I realized was that it hurt.  It fucking hurt.  It felt like a constant stream of flu shots.  Daughter!  What the hell?  You told me….but of course I couldn’t say this because I’d seem too much a wimp.  You can’t be a wimp in a tattoo parlor.  It just won’t do.  That would be like saying you don’t like loud noise at a Hell’s Angel’s rally. ("Hey, you guys, be quiet!") So I just took it.  And took it.  I remember lying there, about twenty or thirty minutes in, tired of the puncturing needle and suddenly becoming conscious of the music that was playing all around me.  Of course, it was going to be tattoo parlor music.  And it was going to be loud.  This is the lyric that I kept hearing:

You think your great big husband will protect you, you are wrong!
            You think your little wife will protect you, you are wrong!
            You think your children will protect you, you are wrong!
            You think your government will protect you, you are wrong!

It was sung with ferocious vehemence, in that monotonal, punishing pulse that punk rock does so expertly.  Lying there, in pain, that music assaulting me, made me think, as I winced—what the fuck am I doing here?   I found the song later.  It’s titled “Heathen Child” by Grinderman.  Play it when you’re getting a root canal.  You’ll see what I mean.

I calmed down. I had not spoken to Sean while he was doing his work.  I didn’t want to break his concentration.  After one particularly painful jab, I did ask, “Has anyone stopped you in the middle of a tattoo and just gotten up and left.”

“Hasn't happened so far,” he said in his mumbly voice.  He paused.  “Why—you thinking of that?”

“Me?  Ha ha!  No, no!  Of course not!  Just curious.”

Finally, after what I suppose was about an hour, Sean was done.

My daughter moved in to have a look.

“Oh, that looks great!” she said.

I got up and, slightly dazed, shirtless, looked in the mirror.

There it was, on my arm, a bicycle.

And, I have to say, it looked pretty damn cool.  It really did look like my old Raleigh three-speed.  The detail was amazing—all the spokes, radiating from the center of each wheel, faithfully rendered.  I could even sense the heft of the bike, its presence.  There it was, memorialized on my upper left arm.  My daughter was beaming.  I thanked Sean.  Sincerely.  Because he really had done a marvelous job.  I was, well, in awe.  He looked pleased.  He took a shaky photo of his art.  Then he streaked some salve on the still-aching arm and covered it with Saran Wrap.  My daughter later told me that was customary.

“Just wash it with some mild soap three times a day and put some AV cream on it.  After a few days, it should be fine.”

I put my shirt back on.  I shook Sean’s hand.  Then, with my daughter, I walked outside.  I was suddenly feeling very cocky.  Very baddass.  Seventy-two, and look at me.



Thursday, November 9, 2017


New York, 1985.  A sharp fall Saturday. Early afternoon. The air smelled cool and delicious. It was invigorating, like a shot of pure oxygen. I was walking up Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village when I saw her. She was standing on the corner of Eleventh Street about a block away. I could see her curly red hair in all its wild abundance, a crimson beacon. She was unmistakable. She didn’t recognize me at first, but as I got closer, her face became bright, as if it were a sun emerging from behind a cloud.


It was about 1pm. I would never have seen her out before eleven. She was nocturnal. When you saw her in the daytime, it was as if you’d awakened a sleeping owl. Daytime was alien to her. It always seemed as if she were adapting to it. The expression, “groping in the dark” needed to be “groping in the light” for Pamela.

“Pamela!” I said.
She blinked, found the source of the words, then she laughed a beat or two.

“Hi, hello,” she said. Once again, I realized how tall she was, probably 5’ 10”. It was difficult to say because of the fullness of her hair. “What are you up to?” she said.

“Taking a walk. Such an incredible day. What about you?”

She had on a navy-blue pea coat. She wore a silk scarf tied in a series of complex, appealing swirls about her neck with a broad blue ribbon around the back of her hair. She always dressed with flair, with panache. I used to ask her, “How do you always dress so well? If I gave you a pair of galoshes and a nail clipper for clothes, you’d look great.”
She’d laugh--again, one or two beats. “I don’t think about it.”

So, there she was. When I said the word “walk” to her, she frowned slightly. She was not fond of exercise.
“I’m still waking up,” she said. Just behind us, looking like a castle waiting to be sieged, was the Jefferson Market Library. A big red brick anomaly that I loved. I glanced at the library clock. It was one-fifteen.

“I’m meeting Wilhem for brunch,” she said. She had full lips. She had the wan skin of redheads.

“Didn’t I tell you? I’ve got a new boyfriend. I’m in love.”
“Wilhem? What’s that name?”

“Dutch. He’s Dutch.”
“How’d you meet him?”

“I met him at a party. I’m a goner. He’s going to ruin me.”
“What’s he do?”

“He does lots of things. Right now he works in a gallery in Soho. He’s got lots of ideas,” she said.  
“I’d like to meet this guy,” I said.

She continued her half-convincing lament. “I’m a goner. I’m like a teenager. I can’t think straight. Help me. I’m his sex slave. It’s pathetic.” She laughed at herself.

I couldn’t help but think of that Joni Mitchell line, “Help me, I’m falling in love again.”
“Pamela,” I said, “it sounds like it’s a little too late for help.”  I felt a pang of envy.

“Too late,” she said, as if repeating some kind of curse. “Too late. Yes, it’s too late.”
I left her there in her predicament and went off on my Saturday walk.  She might be helpless, but, unlike me on this beautiful fall day in New York, she was in love.