Frankie’s back. Yeah, Frankie. Frankie, the guy who comes and goes. Mostly, he goes, but when he comes – boy, does he come. Or rather, he tries to. When Frankie comes, it’s usually after he’s spent 4-6 months on Riker's Island. See, Frankie’s got this cycle. First he’s here, smoking crack in the hall and asking for a shot of tequila. But then, a couple of weeks later, he’s asking if he can come in, (“t’chill – y’know?”). Then, all of a sudden, he's gone. He's gone right after he asked you for that hit you didn't have time to deal with. Where'd he go? Back to Riker's, of course. Back to the place where guys like him don't take as much risk asking the things they always ask...
Frankie’s short. He’s short, he most often stinks, and he doesn’t have a lot of teeth. More specifically, his teeth are scattered throughtout his mouth, in a manner that makes me obsess over whether it would be possible to replace only what’s missing or if it’s just plain necessary to remove everything altogether – to make a clean slate. I know this obsession is a distraction. I can see Frankie watching me obsess over his teeth. I can see that he knows I'm distracted by their crookedness. And I can see how he works it.
He works it by asking if he can come in. This only happens when he’s just gotten back from Reichers. When he’s just come back from Reichers, he comes to me. He comes to me – hard – and he asks for everything a Puerto Rican crack-head who’s just gotten back from Reichers can ask for. First he asks for a shot, then he asks for a hit – and then he asks me if I’ll buy him a hit of what he really wants.
What he doesn’t know is that I know what he wants is more complicated than he thinks. I know he wants more than he says he’s wanting. I know it because he can’t step out of my personal zone and he can’t stop sniffing me like I’m some sort of bitch in heat. He’s in my face. He’s in my zone. He’s standing in front of me, posing his just-out-of-Reichers bod as if there’s no way any homo on earth could resist him, trying to stare me down. Down onto the couch…
I stare back at him. I stare right back at him – right back in the eye, my eyes whispering, “I know what you’re up to, and a Reichers-buffed bod isn’t enough.” I don’t care what he’s up to. I don’t care what he wants. Yeah, it’s cute that he’s playing me. But not cute enough to get myself played.
So I give him his shot, and maybe I let him take a hit or two. Why not? I’m doing my bumps. So why not give the motherfucker his hits? And maybe I take a hit. Or two. But that’s all. ‘Cuz I don’t like his hits. He knows it. He wishes I would, but he knows it. He knows I don’t like his hits. He doesn’t like my bumps, and I don’t like his hits.
And we both know this. From the moment this dance starts, we both know it, but I let him lead anyway. ‘Cuz he’s been at Reichers for the past 4-6 months. And he’s gotten used to mansex, whether he admits it or not. So whether he admits it or not, he’s the one coming onto me. And I’m the one saying no.
Christ, but that pisses him off.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
So You Wanna Know What Goes On Here, in Bushwick, do Ya?
Then I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you even though you already know. Or, you already have a good idea – which is to say, a very, very bad idea. Because what goes on here in Bushwick is very bad. Very, very bad. It’s so very, very bad, it’s downright good.
But you expected that. That’s why you’re reading. You’re reading because you’re expecting the very, very bad. And even though the very, very bad has been told many, many times before – you’re still waiting to see how the very, very bad lives and thrives in today’s society. In today’s society outside Manhattan. In today’s society outside Manhattan, in Bushwick. Because in order to outlive life in today’s New York, one must venture beyond today’s Manhattan. One must venture all the way to Northeast Brooklyn – to Bushwick. One must venture to where everything that’s been done before dares to be done again. (And again, and again…)
“Is there anything special about Buswick?,” you might ask. No, there’s nothing particularly special about this neighborhood where all of America’s beer once flowed, and all of America’s beer-es-tocracy once dwelled. Yeah, that’s a made-up term. We’re gonna encounter a lot of made-up terms along this path. If you can’t handle made-up terms, then switch to another blog – one that has nothing to do with reality-based fantasy… Then we’ll all be all set.
All of which is to say, “Of course, idiot – there’s plenty that’s special about Bushwick.” Do your own fucking Wikipedia. You’ll see. (If, that is, Wikipedia has the balls to call it like it was.) Bushwick is not only the place that kept America drunk throughout the ‘30s, ‘40s and ‘50s – it’s the place that held onto keeping the country as drunk as it could while White Flight affected it, and its ability to do so.
Imagine. The fleeing of a neighborhood that affected its ability to maintain a virtually narcotic hold upon those who wished to flee it. And upon those who’d grown accustomed to fleeing the day-to-day hum-drum of their lives through the consumption of what that neighborhood had, up until then, produced – regularly.
In other words, “What happens when the source of the drug stops producing the drug – all in the name of no longer being worthy of producing that drug?”
That’s what happened in Bushwick. That’s what happened in Bushwick, about forty years ago. And 40 years ago is long ago enough as not to warrant further description as to exactly what happened then. At this point, and at this time, all that matters is that – long ago – Bushwick was transformed. It was transformed because it stopped producing its drug. It stopped producing its drug of alcohol. It stopped producing the drug that was so common at the time that it pretty near devastated most of our grandparents. Most, that is, of our readers’ grandparents. That’s right. You. Our readers. It – alcohol – probably almost wound up destroying your grandparents. If it didn’t, then consider yourselves lucky. If it didn’t, then your grandparents were probably Jewish or Morman of Seventh-Day Adventist. If that was the case, then good for you. (And, simultaneously, I’m sorry for you…)
But we were talking about Bushwick. We were talking about Bushwick, in Brooklyn. Bushwick – that peculiar neighborhood where blue-collar immigrants and Blue-Bloods co-existed, for the sake of producing that which would intoxicate them all. You see, Bushwick was – at the turn of the 20th Century – the hub of America’s beer production. That’s why we still have Knickerbocker Avenue. That’s why the area is sprinkled with factories (which have recently been turned into lofts), interspersed with ornate Victorian homes. That, and the blackout of 1977, are the reasons why Bushwick has an aesthetic unlike so much of the rest of Brooklyn. Bushwick isn’t picturesque like Park Slope. It isn’t anywhere near as adorable as the cobble-stoned Brooklyn Heights. And it has nowhere near the self-imposed kitschy charm of the far-away Coney Island. No, Bushwick’s aesthtic – of it can even be called that – is much more like that of Los Angeles. It’s scattered, and full of flotsam and jetsom. To understand Bushwick is to drive or ride through it – if only by imagination. In order to appreciate Bushwick, one must look not at it, but along it. For it is only through glancing at Bushwick’s appearance – as it appears as we coast alongside it – that we are able to understand it.
Why, do you ask, do I go into so much extraneous description about the place where I ask you that you ask about? My apologies if you think my premise is too verbose. But I need you to understand: What goes on here – even though it might seem identical to what goes on in so many other places – is special. It’s unique. It’s unique in the sense that it’s happening here and now, in one of the only parts of New York that will allow it to happen. One of the only parts of today’s New York that will allow this kind of scenario to go on in – to use poor grammar, as eventually I must – is here, in the scattered neighborhood known as Bushwick.
Ready to hear?
I’ll bet you are.
But you expected that. That’s why you’re reading. You’re reading because you’re expecting the very, very bad. And even though the very, very bad has been told many, many times before – you’re still waiting to see how the very, very bad lives and thrives in today’s society. In today’s society outside Manhattan. In today’s society outside Manhattan, in Bushwick. Because in order to outlive life in today’s New York, one must venture beyond today’s Manhattan. One must venture all the way to Northeast Brooklyn – to Bushwick. One must venture to where everything that’s been done before dares to be done again. (And again, and again…)
“Is there anything special about Buswick?,” you might ask. No, there’s nothing particularly special about this neighborhood where all of America’s beer once flowed, and all of America’s beer-es-tocracy once dwelled. Yeah, that’s a made-up term. We’re gonna encounter a lot of made-up terms along this path. If you can’t handle made-up terms, then switch to another blog – one that has nothing to do with reality-based fantasy… Then we’ll all be all set.
All of which is to say, “Of course, idiot – there’s plenty that’s special about Bushwick.” Do your own fucking Wikipedia. You’ll see. (If, that is, Wikipedia has the balls to call it like it was.) Bushwick is not only the place that kept America drunk throughout the ‘30s, ‘40s and ‘50s – it’s the place that held onto keeping the country as drunk as it could while White Flight affected it, and its ability to do so.
Imagine. The fleeing of a neighborhood that affected its ability to maintain a virtually narcotic hold upon those who wished to flee it. And upon those who’d grown accustomed to fleeing the day-to-day hum-drum of their lives through the consumption of what that neighborhood had, up until then, produced – regularly.
In other words, “What happens when the source of the drug stops producing the drug – all in the name of no longer being worthy of producing that drug?”
That’s what happened in Bushwick. That’s what happened in Bushwick, about forty years ago. And 40 years ago is long ago enough as not to warrant further description as to exactly what happened then. At this point, and at this time, all that matters is that – long ago – Bushwick was transformed. It was transformed because it stopped producing its drug. It stopped producing its drug of alcohol. It stopped producing the drug that was so common at the time that it pretty near devastated most of our grandparents. Most, that is, of our readers’ grandparents. That’s right. You. Our readers. It – alcohol – probably almost wound up destroying your grandparents. If it didn’t, then consider yourselves lucky. If it didn’t, then your grandparents were probably Jewish or Morman of Seventh-Day Adventist. If that was the case, then good for you. (And, simultaneously, I’m sorry for you…)
But we were talking about Bushwick. We were talking about Bushwick, in Brooklyn. Bushwick – that peculiar neighborhood where blue-collar immigrants and Blue-Bloods co-existed, for the sake of producing that which would intoxicate them all. You see, Bushwick was – at the turn of the 20th Century – the hub of America’s beer production. That’s why we still have Knickerbocker Avenue. That’s why the area is sprinkled with factories (which have recently been turned into lofts), interspersed with ornate Victorian homes. That, and the blackout of 1977, are the reasons why Bushwick has an aesthetic unlike so much of the rest of Brooklyn. Bushwick isn’t picturesque like Park Slope. It isn’t anywhere near as adorable as the cobble-stoned Brooklyn Heights. And it has nowhere near the self-imposed kitschy charm of the far-away Coney Island. No, Bushwick’s aesthtic – of it can even be called that – is much more like that of Los Angeles. It’s scattered, and full of flotsam and jetsom. To understand Bushwick is to drive or ride through it – if only by imagination. In order to appreciate Bushwick, one must look not at it, but along it. For it is only through glancing at Bushwick’s appearance – as it appears as we coast alongside it – that we are able to understand it.
Why, do you ask, do I go into so much extraneous description about the place where I ask you that you ask about? My apologies if you think my premise is too verbose. But I need you to understand: What goes on here – even though it might seem identical to what goes on in so many other places – is special. It’s unique. It’s unique in the sense that it’s happening here and now, in one of the only parts of New York that will allow it to happen. One of the only parts of today’s New York that will allow this kind of scenario to go on in – to use poor grammar, as eventually I must – is here, in the scattered neighborhood known as Bushwick.
Ready to hear?
I’ll bet you are.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
A Letter to My Fellow New Yorkers: Greetings from Bushwick!
[The following is presented as though I was writing for a local publicaton, as an exercise, per a dear friend's advice... Even tho' it's directed towawd New Yorkers, everyone can get a feel for it...]
Hello, readers.
I’m assuming most of you are New Yorkers, so I won’t go into detail about exactly where I am. You know where I am, even if you’ve never been here.
Even if you’ve never been here, you’ve heard about it. You’ve heard about Bushwick. All of you New Yorkers have heard about Bushwick. If you haven’t, you pretend you have.
Don’t lie. You know you do. You know you pretend you’ve heard about Bushwick, even though you haven’t.
Except that you have. You have heard about it. You have heard about Bushwick. You’ve heard enough about Bushwick to know that you want to hear more. You want to hear more about Bushwick.
So what do you want to know first? How seedy it is out here on the outskirts of gentrification, or how dangerous? How grimy, or how insidious? What’s that, you say? Neither? Both? None of the above? All? Well, then, let me tell you…
But just for the record, let neither of us forget: You are the reader, and I am the storyteller. Yeah, that’s right. I’m the storyteller. That means I tell stories (as if you needed to know). But for some reason -- some strange silly reason – I felt the need to remind you of our dynamic. Because that’s all it is. A dynamic. And if you’re still reading, well then, you’re more of a voyeur than I expected you to be. ("Nice dynamic. Gooood dynamic…")
So welcome, my dynamic voyeur, to my dynamic world. To Bushwick. To Buswick at the turn of the New Millenium. The Late Turn of the New Millenium…
Don’t forget – you’re watching. You’re reading. I never asked you to. See, so much of the here and now in Bushwick has to do with our exhibitionistic tendencies (and, simultaneously, so much of that same here, and that same now, is dependent upon your tendency toward voyeurism), that it suddenly becomes difficult to decipher exactly who’s getting off and who’s getting them off, if y’know what I mean.
So don’t forget. That’s a big part of it. That’s a big part of Buswhick: Not forgetting that somebody is watching; that they know they’re watching, and that those they’re watching know they’re being watched. That’s a big part of it. A big part. Probably the biggest part of all of Bushwick. The biggest part of Bushwick is that it knows its Renaissance – if it can ever come near being called that – must occur under the microscope of the microcultural gaze. Shit, too much has happened already not to make it so. Too much. Too much history. Too much history, claiming its place in history, leaving only those cracks in history that know full well they’re nothing but cracks fruitlessly attempting to justify their existence. To live out their lives. Their lives amidst the other cracks. Their attempts at cracking into the cracks of history.
Come. Witness it. Witness life admist the cracks. It isn’t as bleak or banal as it sounds. As a matter of fact, it’s rich. It’s rich with richness… The almost earthen richness of a territory paved over for glory but then left to succumb to the whims of urban decay… Left, crying in near vain, for its original earthen richness to return.
What does one do with such territory? How does one revive the earth beneath an industrial park? It’s simple, really. One must merely show up, and then one must merely proclaim said territory to be his or her own. His own, her home.
So let’s talk about Bushwick, dear voyeur -- since you seem so interested. And I’ll be that one…
Hello, readers.
I’m assuming most of you are New Yorkers, so I won’t go into detail about exactly where I am. You know where I am, even if you’ve never been here.
Even if you’ve never been here, you’ve heard about it. You’ve heard about Bushwick. All of you New Yorkers have heard about Bushwick. If you haven’t, you pretend you have.
Don’t lie. You know you do. You know you pretend you’ve heard about Bushwick, even though you haven’t.
Except that you have. You have heard about it. You have heard about Bushwick. You’ve heard enough about Bushwick to know that you want to hear more. You want to hear more about Bushwick.
So what do you want to know first? How seedy it is out here on the outskirts of gentrification, or how dangerous? How grimy, or how insidious? What’s that, you say? Neither? Both? None of the above? All? Well, then, let me tell you…
But just for the record, let neither of us forget: You are the reader, and I am the storyteller. Yeah, that’s right. I’m the storyteller. That means I tell stories (as if you needed to know). But for some reason -- some strange silly reason – I felt the need to remind you of our dynamic. Because that’s all it is. A dynamic. And if you’re still reading, well then, you’re more of a voyeur than I expected you to be. ("Nice dynamic. Gooood dynamic…")
So welcome, my dynamic voyeur, to my dynamic world. To Bushwick. To Buswick at the turn of the New Millenium. The Late Turn of the New Millenium…
Don’t forget – you’re watching. You’re reading. I never asked you to. See, so much of the here and now in Bushwick has to do with our exhibitionistic tendencies (and, simultaneously, so much of that same here, and that same now, is dependent upon your tendency toward voyeurism), that it suddenly becomes difficult to decipher exactly who’s getting off and who’s getting them off, if y’know what I mean.
So don’t forget. That’s a big part of it. That’s a big part of Buswhick: Not forgetting that somebody is watching; that they know they’re watching, and that those they’re watching know they’re being watched. That’s a big part of it. A big part. Probably the biggest part of all of Bushwick. The biggest part of Bushwick is that it knows its Renaissance – if it can ever come near being called that – must occur under the microscope of the microcultural gaze. Shit, too much has happened already not to make it so. Too much. Too much history. Too much history, claiming its place in history, leaving only those cracks in history that know full well they’re nothing but cracks fruitlessly attempting to justify their existence. To live out their lives. Their lives amidst the other cracks. Their attempts at cracking into the cracks of history.
Come. Witness it. Witness life admist the cracks. It isn’t as bleak or banal as it sounds. As a matter of fact, it’s rich. It’s rich with richness… The almost earthen richness of a territory paved over for glory but then left to succumb to the whims of urban decay… Left, crying in near vain, for its original earthen richness to return.
What does one do with such territory? How does one revive the earth beneath an industrial park? It’s simple, really. One must merely show up, and then one must merely proclaim said territory to be his or her own. His own, her home.
So let’s talk about Bushwick, dear voyeur -- since you seem so interested. And I’ll be that one…
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