10-20-03, 12:04 AM -
Bit of a perfunctory update here. Nothing terribly profound to say, just working on the album promotion thing like a rabid hamster in a vat of warm marmalade.
And watching a bit too much Black Adder, apparently.
I did hear that the BBC is bringing Doctor Who back, which both intrigues and frightens me. One needs a lot of spare time to be a proper Doctor Who fan, and I ain't got nearly so much of that as I used to.
But then, I get a bit less immersed in fictional universes nowadays. Except that one where I'm a rock star just about to be discovered.
And okay, I might just give a tiiiny shit about the new Matrix installment. And sure, I might be biting my nails just a haaair too much until Return of the King comes out. And don't get me started on Star Wars: Episode III. Don't...do...it...
Partook of a few NYC delicacies over the past couple of weeks. Visited the old New York Marble Cemetery on the first day it's ever been open to the general public, as part of the Open House New York weekend, wherein places in the city that are normally closed to the public are on display.
They established the New York Marble Cemetery in 1830, & since then, buildings have grown up around to the point where no one remembered the thing was there. The only entrance is this tiny locked gate that opens to a narrow alley that eventually takes you to a half-acre patch of grass right smack in the middle of these 3-to-10-story buildings on the Lower East Side.
The last person was buried there in 1937, and it's been largely abandoned since then. One guy was the trustee for over 70 years, and he had the keys to the gate, but never really went there until a few years ago when some descendants of the cemetery's residents inquired about the vaults.
See, instead of a standard burial plot with a headstone, these are underground vaults that can hold numerous remains, and were generally family-owned. The names of the deceased are inscribed on marble tablets, which are built into a stone wall surrounding the cemetery. This wall is crumbling, and there's a new effort by the descendants to save it. These descendants, by the way, have the right to be buried in their family vaults, according to the cemetery charter.
And if anyone's interested, there is an empty vault for sale. If nothing else, you could stay there when you're in town visiting the Wifely & I. I'm sure it's comfy, & you could probably sell it for a decent profit 10 years from now. Or just move in permanently when you get hit by a bus.
Overheard a French guy talking to one of the tour guides:
"So, if I were to buy zis vault, I could play soccer on ze field, no?"
"Why not? Zere are so few open spaces in ze city, it would be perfect."
Those wacky Frenchies.
Having had enough of grim death, the Wifely & I moved on to Central Park. This time I visited without my busking hat on. Might do the sing-fer-my-supper thing again sometime, but it'll likely have to wait till the weather warms back up.
This time, we sat by the Lake and watched the tourists in their rowboats. You always see these guys trying to impress their ladyfriends with the chivalrous rowing behavior. And then they tire out in the middle of the lake and just float around till the wind blows them back to the Boathouse. It's not a big lake, after all.
Lots of ducks, though. And geese. And a couple of bigass white swans that'll eat out of little kids' hands. Truthfully, they're nearly big enough to eat the little kids, but I don't think the Africanized killer swans have made it this far north yet.
So we're sitting on our little section of the long bench by the water, when up hobbles this ancient little man, wearing dusty velcro sneakers and ill-fitting brown outerwear. He eases himself onto the bench spot next to ours, muttering to himself distractedly.
Almost immediately a small flock of pigeons descends from a nearby tree, setting down right at the old man's feet. He continues to grumble to himself while retrieving a crumpled plastic Wonder Bread sack from his equally crumpled jacket. He distributes the bread crumbs evenly amongst the flock, but retains a handful.
Slightly apart from the busily pecking flock, a single pigeon loiters. He has a different coloring than the rest, white with gray speckles. His eyes are fixed on the old man, his gaze attentive but somehow casual. He knows something. The man mumbles in the bird's direction, then holds out his frail arm, index finger extended.
Without hesitation, as if on cue, the pigeon beats his wings lightly, just enough to boost him up onto the old man's hand. He sets himself down comfortably on the wrinkled index finger and pecks at a small stash of bread tucked in between the thumb and palm.
Everyone on the path stops, watching this dreamlike sequence. The old man doesn't seem to notice. After a moment, the bird flies back down and waits for the next serving. Upon refilling his palm, the man turns his wizened eyes back to his own personal pigeon.
The other pigeons mill about, waiting for more ground food. None of them appears to be considering the outstretched arm, instead looking sidelong at the man's feet. Only the white speckled bird seems to be in on the joke, waiting patiently until the index finger presents itself. Up he flies, again and again, until the last handful is gone.
Finished, the old man rises slowly and waves indifferently at his feathered rabble, who lift off en masse, their speckled leader guiding them across the smooth water to the far side of the lake. Still muttering, the old man hobbles back in the direction from which he came.
The Wifely and I just sat quietly for a while as the sun began to go down. There was nothing to say.
3:40 PM -
Oh, and speaking of unsexy things, beware of cable access. We'd just about gotten used to seeing homemade dry-hump porn on there, which is not terribly shocking, particularly to people who've lived with musicians.
But last night, I'm flipping channels. Wifely's giving me feedback.
Flip, flip. "Home Shopping Network?"
Flip, flip. "Some kinda Survivor crap?"
The screen is filled with sweaty man-chest. The camera pulls back as the chest turns around to reveal the most magnificent red mullet in television history. The perm-curly locks stream down the hairy red back, which is apparently in the throes of some sort of pole dance.
Yes, friends, it's a mullet striptease. Pete help us.
"Oh, my God!!" exclaims the Wifely.
"Surely he won't..." I begin.
I am stopped by a quick camera-angle change. Now the specimen is in full view, writhing before us with a lady-pleasin' sneer. His shirt is off, but a pair of acid-washed jeans protects us from experiencing his full manhood.
Or so we think.
"OH, MY GOD!!"
Off come the jeans in one swift motion, revealing a beet-red banana hammock gyrating to the muffled techno soundtrack. He grabs it. He swings it. He stretches it.
"God, I hope not..."
The gyrations become more vigorous. Where else can this go?
"Oh, God, don't do it!"
Then it happened. The hog came out.
"You are shitting me!!"
"Holy mother of..."
"God, what is that?"
It's a hog, all right. A mullet hog. With a little black leather silver-studded collar up around both the franks and the beans.
"Sweet Jesus, no."
"Can we turn this off?"
"Wait, what's he doing now?"
If possible, the gyrations have become even more frenzied, as the mulletman's flaccid unit bounces furiously through the air, a marvel of aerodynamics, if not grace. His face is twisted into a sneering rictus, a promise of hours of hot sex in the shitter of the local pool hall.
At last it was too much.
"Please, God, turn this off."
I did. "What, that didn't do it for you?"
"I don't know if anything could do it for me after that."
No. Nor me.
So anyway, be careful out there. You never know what magical things hide in the hobbit-holes of life.