Bonnie's leftovers.

Hattie r u sure it was left on your door by a passing bird and wasn't 'left' there by some failed Soprano wannabee?

I love it in NYC that even the local birds have to be 'famous' ....Pall Mall... relatives... Luv it...

Sick as it was to see it did make me feel alive to see 'Nature" as opposed to taht fuckin mouse in my building that I can't wait to hit over the head with a hammer as he lays on the gluetrap gasping for his last breathe

(NOTE TO ANIMAL LOVERS ...Please ignore last paragraph... i had the devil in me when I wrote it).

Oh AN I love that last paragraph! Very Tom & Jerry.

Just imagine the rodent is your landlord.

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Hattie is this your new shop on St. Marks betwen Bowery and 2nd Ave?

Yes Messy Rosie. You should stop by, we have a great selection of meat pies. And our pies are far superior to those of Mrs. Mooney's across the street.

Speaking of Mrs. Mooney, has anyone seen my pussy cat?

Not overheard on Ave. B all last Saturday night: conversation in the English language.

The bar mall was populated solely by foreign tourists cashing in on the dead US dollar. Thousands of them. No joke, you could not hear one person who was local.

Well now we know what the Europeans felt like (since the 1920s through the 80s...)
with Americans all over the place
grabbing up everthing with their fat American dollars. Treating Parisians and Romans
like personal slaves...

Now it's our turn to be their slaves.

I don't have to travel over there anymore.

With great sadness, I read of the imminent closing of one of our last Bowery landmarks, the Amato Opera. Of course, at 88, Mr. Amato has the right to take a rest, but it is still a light going out on May 31..

NY Times on the closing

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What is that seven?

It is a person's mind turned into a studio efficiency apartment on Avenue C. !
Complete with view of some incidental civil unrest down the block.

I forgot to add a Yoruba proverb I hear people in the neighborhood share:
"The people who SAY they are teaching you to be tall are the same people who are teaching you to be small."

But since this is My Own Private East Village nothing here has to make sense to anybody else.
Not the old woman who has been living in the cracks too long who gets God Stuff from things too simple for you to notice -don't step on that candy wrapper, rare as a blind pigeon.
Not the Pentacostal girls who wear dowdy sack dresses but paint their faces like Celia Cruz. Not the virgins with closed eyes who, in white dresses, are led through the streets by old women laughing at the men.
Not the three year old asking, "Can you run from B to Clinton and beat the cars on Houston?"
Not the landlady who climbs five flights of stairs to knock on your door, flash her .38, and tell you that as far as the rent goes the building owner in Jackson State Prison, Detroit, wants CASH.
Not the one person you finally reach on the phone, after calling ten different people, who tells you it feels like their head is going to explode so they can't talk now.
Not the 386 Hydra Shok hollow point Plus-P that bounced off a twelfth rib, jellied a liver, and is caught in the corner of the Corona Girl's smile pasted up on a bodega door.
Not the firemen who are down the block dowsing a smoldering mattress while they help themselves to the teevee, camera, and jar of pennies.
Not the one-armed 15-year-old who finds it easy to get in to the building front hall to catch a little sleep thereby showing you how a formerly right-handed youth can teach you how to get something simple and available as a dream while the building complaint inspecter you called claims he is not able to locate your building on the block.
Not the sad face drawn on the bank clock.
Not Bimbo Rivas' daughter in whose dark eyes the notes of songs resist their intervals of silence to respond to Loisaida with the valiant continuation of the life of her father.
Not the ghost of Lucky Cien Fuegos softly singing, "Mi casa esta en la Avenida C, yo nunca espero oir de ti otra vez."
Not any of that.

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How's this for an affront.
This morning I'm drumming in Tompkins Sq. around quarter to ten.
And fucking Sesame Street tries to have me kicked out of the park.
No joke.
They were filming in the park and came over to say, "We're picking you up on our audio."
I asked for a fee to go away and the director accused me of trying to extort them.
Then she went to get a park worker who, thankfully, was very appreciative and courteous, just asked if I would move but by that time I told her I only had about ten minutes left before I had to leave so she just said O.K.
It just kinda hurts that a film crew can come to exploit the marginal community for a resource and they think they have more priviledge than me who lives there.
People can be soooo arrogant and conceited.
Next time keep Big Bird in the dog run.

Outside your 5th floor window at 11PM.
Your tax dollars at work.
And then when you are on the roof -just human nature to find out what is going on, right?- the local goon squad member comes up to flash his badge and nine millimeter telling you to keep off your own roof, like he is unaware you were one of the 8 million people it took to pay for the flying police station.

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Tonight's shootout on your block sponsored by 600 years of racial oppression and only 8 years of a Federal Idiocracy plus their economic collapse which is also why two homeless people now sleep in your building's entryway every night this summer. Welcome to literally backward progress to the goodoldbadolddays.
Next? How about the TNT squad with their machine guns and flak vests. The only time city services get delivered promptly here is when they themselves are getting shot at !

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