As described previously, Trinity Church hosts a fair number of students who come to serve the less fortunate. Sometimes they’re from private schools – and sometimes from their public counterparts. Sometimes they’re from the NY suburbs and other times, they hail from places like Minnesota and Alabama. I find them all interesting – but none like the intellectual elite who visited this past week.
Getting a decent education in a New York City public school is a challenging proposition. I don’t think anybody would dispute that statement. Aware of this reality, educators have set up a few elite public schools to benefit those who are financially-challenged but at once intellectually gifted. To identify the elite, the city administers a standardized test, assigning each student with just a number so as not to discriminate. Nobody knows whether the student attached to that number is black, white, Hispanic, Asian, female or male. Continue Reading
When it comes to cases of mistaken identity, they are unfortunately not all that uncommon. Take a cabby I once knew named James. James was in the habit of depositing cash in an ATM around midnight each night he drove a cab (mind you, this was before credit card machines when everybody paid cash and by midnight, we’d actually have enough money to be worth killing) to avoid being “relieved” of his night’s earnings.
Well…one night he made his usual deposit. The next guy who came along and used that same ATM turned out to be a murderer – and it was his photo that should have been featured on the front page of one of the Big Apple’s tabloids. But somehow, James got the nod! By the time the morons who placed James’ picture in their tabloid figured out the mistake, they were up to their asses in a lawsuit filed by my cabby friend. Continue Reading
No doubt, the passing of ARETHA FRANKLIN has affected many people. The Queen of Soul sang the soundtrack to so many of our lives. But Aretha’s exit from this world has special meaning for me. I was just 11 years old when daddy came on one of his too rare visits after my parents’ divorce. Always with some records in tow with which to impress mom, my brother and me, daddy played a just-recorded record he’d produced on a new artist with the preface “This girl is fantastic. It’s too bad Columbia doesn’t know how to sell a black artist. Eventually, we’ll lose her. But that doesn’t diminish her amazing talent.” (I’m paraphrasing here). The new singer whose record he played that day was Aretha Franklin. Aretha’s passing almost felt like my father had died again. Continue Reading
Predictably, once the news hit the Daily News about my surprising financial riches, there were escorts who would snuggle up to me in some poorly-camouflaged attempt at accessing my wallet (which by the way, never has even a dollar inside). None of this surprised me as “the crew” are farmers of a sort – their crop being greenbacks and their farms the guys who would yield the almighty bumper crop.
But it did come as a surprise that a volunteer would bust a move – albeit with much more style and subtlety than your average flatbacker. While mingling with the volunteers last Saturday, one of the cuter girls addressed me as “Dollar Bill”…high-fived me hello (I hadn’t seen her for a while)…and then added “I need a million dollars and a pony.” Continue Reading
Every year I will at least once a) take the 60 mile bike ride from East 10th Street to the foot of the Tappan Zee Bridge on the New Jersey side – and back – and b) ride the train to Cold Spring…hike the 3 miles to the trailhead…climb Breakneck Mountain…and take the trails back to the Cold Spring station. Both take a considerable amount of effort – geriatric standing or not.
So yesterday was the Breakneck expedition. Silly me, I thought the temperature and humidity had moderated some. And maybe it had. But you wouldn’t know it by the way hikers (me included) sweated their asses off going up that ridge. It was hot! I must have mopped my brow 200 times in the course of the hike. Continue Reading
Before the last legal nightmare, my life was boring. Now? It’s beyond boring. I dare not associate with any of my old “friends” for fear I’ll catch another promotion charge. Thus, my entire interaction with other humans comes via volunteering – which I only do part time (though virtually every day) – and (sorry to say) not with people I find particularly lively. And so, if I haven’t mentioned it before, I’m bored to death.
While I pay for cable and most of the premium channels, I find it impossible to fill my day with worthy entertainment. And so…I read…and then I nap…and then I read…and then I nap…and then oh forget it. You know what’s next. Continue Reading
I know it’s hard to believe, but once upon a time I had a cute girlfriend who loved me unconditionally. I was but 19 years old and in college when I began dating Jane. In retrospect, I probably should have married her. Certainly, I wasn’t gonna do any better. But that’s all water under the bridge now. If I ever thought “Maybe I should look Jane up and see how she’s doing. We should hang out”…I can forget that now.
For what reason I can’t recall, just this past Friday, I decided to Google an old college roommate. Arnie has a very common name but I knew if I placed “MD” after that name I might find him. And sure enough, there was Arnie, a colitis and Chrone’s disease specialist, working at a hospital in Washington State – and still married with 4 children. In fact, I went to the wedding! Continue Reading
As a student of American History, I’m well aware that the rose-colored glasses our elementary, secondary and high school teachers would have us view our country through might not be founded in reality.
Just for example, we study the Mexican War and resulting annexation of the western third of our territory as if Mexico did something to start that war. But the sorry fact is the USA busted an imperialistic move on a weak nation secure in the knowledge that Mexico would capitulate and American would annex California in the deal. And leave us not talk about how the invading hordes of European immigrants who would become citizens of the USA treated native Americans. We all know about that. Continue Reading
Call it the SHU (acronym for special housing unit)…or SEG…or ISO (as they say in the Tombs). It’s all the same thing. Solitary confinement in the context of the Manhattan Detention Center means the inmate subjected to that style of incarceration can’t leave his cell – and can’t make a phone call. His meals are slipped under his cell door which as with all cell doors there, has a 4 inch space between the floor and that sliding slab of metal.
So what does an inmate have to do for the privilege of gaining entry to the bad boys club? I’m not exactly sure of all the ways a detainee can merit separation. But I can tell you what I observed. Calling an hispanic corrections officer a fucking spic doesn’t do it! And mouthing off to a female CO “Fuck you, bitch” likewise didn’t earn the move! But here are two things that do: Continue Reading
If I didn’t know it before all the legal drama that currently defines my life, I certainly do now. The authorities will go to considerable lengths to strengthen their case against a target. This reality first presented itself even before “the visit” (of five years ago).
An SEO guru told me I should link my Facebook account (which I barely used) with each and every blog post in order to maximize my Google rank. So following his instructions, I did just that without any odd mishaps until one day, twenty or so members requested to be my friend. It was only until I’d accepted the fifteenth or so that I noticed the girl I’d just friended was 15 years old! Continue Reading
So let’s say you’re a big music fan and spend hours a day bopping to your favorite sounds. What happens when you get locked up in the Tombs? Initially, you’re mostly out of luck. Whatever music you hear will come from the television in the common area – mostly in the form of jingles playing behind the commercials. Forevermore, I will be reminded of my vacation at the Tombs whenever I hear the song “These Are a Few of My Favorite Things.” It’s the music from some commercial or other I heard at least 25 times during my stay.
But once the unit’s commissary day rolls around, inmates have an opportunity to improve the situation. Made available for purchase by the corrections department is a see-through Sony radio, ear buds, and batteries – all for about $22. Basically, the unit resembles an old Sony Walkman. Whether it’s AM or AM/FM I do not know. I assume it’s the latter – which even with both bands, offers the listener significantly fewer choices than if he were on the outside. I’m not a big fan of commercial radio but still, if I were in for a while, I’d get that radio if for no other reason than to ascertain what time it was while locked in. Peering out the translucent slat in my cell, looking for hints of dawn’s early light would no longer be necessary. Continue Reading
Since the day IRS agents came a-knockin’ at my door, I’ve done a lot of research in preparation for the possibility of my incarceration. And one admonition I remembered when entering the Tombs was to beware of people offering favors during the early minutes and hours after I got locked up. Yet despite all my reading and the little voice inside my head telling me to beware, I managed to get hustled in those first few hours.
While the arresting officers did offer to let me make a phone call shortly after apprehending me, I declined, thinking I’d get ROR’d – and didn’t need to bother anybody with my unfortunate circumstances. I’ve made worse decisions during this whole nightmare but in retrospect, I’d have been better advised to accept their offer. It wasn’t until more than a day later that I got the opportunity to make that phone call. Yes, my public defender had promised to call my cousin after I was escorted from the court room. But I had no idea if he’d gotten through to her or whether she’d begun the arduous task of qualifying to bail me out. I knew I’d be in for a week. But I was hoping miscommunications wouldn’t make my stay longer. Continue Reading
In our modern society, questionable statements of fact by one person are generally followed by another’s Google search to verify the first individual’s claim. And thus, know-it-alls get outed for their indiscretion. But not so in the joint. Know-it-alls get to operate with impunity in that Google-deprived setting.
Enter a guy I’ll call Harry, a thirty or forty-something black inmate of European heritage who speaks English with a heavy French accent. While watching a soccer match with the boys, I remarked that I never liked soccer and disliked playing it as a child because owing to the size of the field, all the running involved wasn’t for me. In response to that statement, Harry claimed that in fact, a soccer field is just about the same size as an American football field. Somehow, I felt it looked significantly larger, but Harry assured me that all the lines on a football field have fooled me into thinking it’s smaller than it really is. Without Google for verification, I simply let it go figuring “Who the fuck cares, really? Regardless of the field size, soccer’s a snore by me. Time to go read a book.” Continue Reading
I think it’s safe to say that career criminals view the world differently from law-abiding citizens. They’ll excuse – and even advocate – the behavior that lands them in places like the Manhattan Detention Center. But a take on inmate machismo I learned during my incarceration really struck me as odd. Allow me to share.
Somewhere around midway through the marathon 20 hour intake process, a group of us reprobates were sent from intake up to medical, where we’re weighed, pee and blood-tested, and have our blood pressure taken. In fact, a few guys didn’t want to submit to the blood test until they discovered that refusal carried incarceration in ISO, which means you never leave your cell and can’t use the phone.
While awaiting my turn to see a doctor of Caribbean descent whose accent was so strong I had difficulty understanding his questions, one inmate observed out loud that he used to think that all men who crossed their legs while sitting were gay. But in fact, he knows a few guys who do just that (though not tightly), who aren’t. To this declaration, another of my compadres disagreed. By him, any guy who crosses his legs in any manner while sitting sucks cock. Case closed. At this revelation, I a) shook my head to myself…and b) made sure to never cross my legs in the slam. And there were several times while reading in our unit’s open area, when I began to do just that and then caught myself before being labeled homosexual. Continue Reading
Suffice it to say that I am currently stuck smack dab in the jaws of a two front legal dilemma – faced with the real prospect of serving time in prison. So the question might arise as to how I reacted after being sprung from the Tombs – and what is my current mental condition. I’m amazed at how well I’m taking the strain.
The threat of serving prison time is nothing new to me. I’ve been living in federal limbo for five years on that front. People freaked out when they read the Daily News feature in October of 2016 thinking I’d just been apprehended. But that was in fact very old news. The feds raided me on July 29, 2013 and I still await sentencing on that charge. With respect to the specter of incarceration, I view my week in the Manhattan Detention Center as an orientation of sorts. Whatever the future holds, I’m not going anywhere as bad as the Tombs. And that’s an odd comfort. I’ve survived the initial trial by fire. Continue Reading
Back when I went to Camp All America (basically a summer session of New York Military Academy), showering and shitting were done completely out in the open. Thirty eight kids shared two shower heads and three toilets with absolutely no partition or privacy. So one might ask “Is that what it’s like in the joint?”
Well…I’m glad to say that times have changed. Figuring (and rightly so in my opinion) that such public displays might breed homosexuality and/or violence, the powers that be afford inmates their privacy while shitting and showering. I’ve already indicated that in the Tombs, each man has his own cell complete with a sink and toilet. So I won’t repeat except to say when it came time for a sit-down, you were free to stay as long as you wanted with nobody checking on you unless they chose to peer through the window on your cell door. Continue Reading
One thing I wondered about as the specter of jail or prison time loomed over my head for the past 5 years, was whether I’d be able to get enough sleep when and if I went in. I figured that 8 uninterrupted hours of quiet time was a fantasy I wouldn’t even bother to entertain. And as it turned out, I was dead on. Despite, I did not exit my incarceration sleep-deprived. But since, I sleep no longer than four hours at a time – owing to what my body is apparently still used to from being locked up.
In theory, 9 PM to 5 AM when almost all inmates are locked in would be that 8 hours of quiet time. But that’s not exactly how it worked. At 9, we without immediate job duties were confined to our cells. But several of the inmates remained outside sweeping, mopping and moving tables and chairs each night. That racket continued for at least an hour after lock-in time. Additionally, guys would shout out to each other from the confines of their cells so effectively, relative quiet didn’t really begin until after 10 PM. Continue Reading
While conducting a little email intercourse (of the verbal variety) with a “friend” yesterday, she let me know that on advice of somebody or other and pursuant to my current nightmare, she would not be associating with me until after the next court date. Owing to her precarious position concerning the custody of her child, she felt that action prudent. I get that – except that at some point, she moved a drug-addled junky girlfriend into her apartment who no doubt shot up on the premises while the child wasn’t looking. Inconsistency notwithstanding…not a huge problem. It’s not like I’m in love.
But the exchange got me to thinking. This girl is one of a company of women who walked away scot-free under the current legal initiative. She was in the trenches doing what the girls do and for reasons only the New York DA could tell you, went unprosecuted. I surmise the assumption is that those who own or run a business in the escort realm are the masterminds who would manipulate simple-minded worker bees who if the bosses weren’t around availing the girls of the opportunity to ply their wares, wouldn’t be doing what they’re doing. Continue Reading
In a previous entry, I claimed to be the only white boy in my unit while locked up in The Tombs. That’s not exactly true. For the first three days of my visit, there was another caucasian along with me. Crackhead Charlie (what I called him for obvious reasons) was a piece of work all right. A tile layer by trade (when he was employed), Charlie spent most of his time (by his own admission) either stealing or smoking crack. No fewer than 30 times had he been in and out of custody thanks to his constant illegal activity and addiction to the rock.
At 49 years of age and close to medically obese, Charlie wasn’t really a tough guy. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t sound off if he fucking felt like it – a reality which got him into trouble when his mouth flew out of control. As a person with an inquiring mind, I questioned Charley about the worst place he was ever locked up. His answer was Rikers, where after saying something sassy to a crip, he awakened to a severe beating dished out by no fewer than 8 of the offended inmate’s brothers. Continue Reading
As I ponder my current dire circumstances, certain ironies and hypocrisies associated with my condition rear their ugly heads. Without revealing too much, I can convey to my readership that I am currently being prosecuted pursuant to an initiative which has been in the works for many months and possibly even years. As proof of that supposition, I offer part of the prosecution discovery package which cites an email I sent in April of 2015.
And what that means is the District Attorney under whose watch this case commenced is one ERIC SCHNEIDERMAN. Mr. Schneiderman is no longer our state’s DA because he recently resigned after it was alleged by no fewer than 3 of his previous girlfriends that during the act of sexual intercourse, he spit in their faces and in one case, told a dark-skinned Indian girlfriend that she was his “brown slave.” Continue Reading
I don’t mean to throw shade on the federal government (for obvious reasons), but I’d be remiss in my self-appointed reporter duties if I didn’t comment on three recent circumstances that have left me shaking my head.
First up…social security. Studying my statement (available on the government website), I see the amended returns and pursuant SS contributions are not in evidence on my report. In short, the IRS has not told SS about the seizure, plea, nor money that should have been forwarded to the Social Security Administration. Continue Reading
One of the few light moments associated with my one week incarceration came courtesy of a public defender who when questioned by my cousin (a suburban career woman) “What’s it like inside The Tombs,” he fairly exploded “They’re barbarians and animals!” This from a guy whose job it is to defend the accused!
Ok! So that’s his take on the population based on years of clients he’s represented on the state’s tab. But he’s never spent a week inside. I had my own take. One of the first questions I asked after getting locked up was “Doesn’t anybody white commit crimes in New York? What the fuck?” This of course met with applause from my new friends of color all of whom cited racial profiling as the reason what seemed like 95% of the inmates were black or hispanic (mostly Dominican and Puerto Rican). Continue Reading
As evidenced by the smorgasbord of prison shows on television, inquiring minds want to know what prison (or jail) life is really like. While I wouldn’t claim to know the system at all levels throughout the various jurisdictions, I can certainly illuminate and enlighten when it comes to county (and specifically New York County) jail. In the coming posts, I’ll be doing just that…describing what life is really like on the inside. First up, prisoner cuisine.
A day in Tombs life begins at around 4:30 AM when the breakfast cart rolls in and anybody who wants to get up can chow down. We didn’t have clocks or watches (not allowed) during 9 PM to 5 AM lock-in, and so, I’d peer through the skinny translucent slat/window in my cell. And if I saw the light of day beginning to shine on the horizon, I knew 5 AM was nigh. Continue Reading
Just after 9 PM lock-in last night, my cell door crashes open and a corrections officer appears in the opening. “Mersey! Grab your blanket, tans, and sheets. You’re going home.”
“Can I return Upper 19’s books before I go? I want to do the right thing,” ask I. He doesn’t give a crap about that. So I simply place them on the card table next to my cell where for the past 6 days a group of Puerto Ricans has been playing some unidentifiable card game at 120 decibels. Continue Reading
I can’t imagine that anybody remembers this place now…but about 15 years ago, there was a very successful Korean outcall which called itself DREAMHOUSE. Dreamhouse was notable for a few reasons. First and foremost, it was the first Korean outcall to use real pictures in their ads.
At the time, the boss was going through ad reps like club girls goes through guys. Which is to say that every week she was trying out a new one. This of course caused major wars between the two advertising agencies who fed the Village Voice somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 – 80 k per week….not to mention among ad guys whether it was with a rep from the same or competing agency.
When it was my turn to come to the plate, I was determined to stop the revolving door. “One week of ads with me and they’d know they found the right guy,” was my hope. With camera in hand, I rode the #6 to Grand Central…the #7 to Jackson Heights/74th Street…the GG to Grand Street…and then hoofed the last half mile to a private row house behind the old Panamerican Hotel in Maspeth, Queens. Continue Reading
On numerous occasions, I’ve met girls in this business who’ve bragged “I could write a book” – meaning their bizarre experiences would be so fascinating that if ghost-written by a professional, the narration would be of great interest to the general reading public. Exercising my altruistic affirmative action initiative (or maybe I was just looking to get laid), I’ve responded with “write me something halfway decent and I’ll help you get it published” only to discover that the girl was completely full of crap. Only once in 20 years did somebody call my bluff and actually deliver something worthy.
The author’s name is Brianna, a superbusty feature dancer who once graced the pages of Score and Gent…in between working as a buck private escort for the bitch she summarily defecates on in this sordid jewel. The following is that effort, a long and entertaining piece about her trials and tribulations slaving for a gross-out owner who I can tell you first hand…was no walk in the park.
I don’t have the original as submitted – and having reread the article in its entirety – can tell that the first 500 words are ghostwritten. But after that, it’s all Brianna. And some of it is pretty fucking entertaining. Her story was inserted as the first feature in April 2002’s Escort Magazine – along with her photo on the cover – and brought what Brianna described as an “overwhelming response.”
Here’s the feature as published: Continue Reading
I have a theory with which I think most people would agree. If when you meet a girl (or guy) and want to familiarize yourself with his or her essence, there’s a foolproof way to do that. Pose this question: “Describe to me one of the top ten days of your life.” The answer will provide insight hours and days of hanging out just might not! I don’t have a list of my top ten days on hand or in my mind. But reading a baseball book this morning in which 150 major leaguers describe their one most meaningful hit, I remembered one I’ll share today.
It was the summer of 1963. As usual, mom had prescribed for me one of her “meaningful” summers (as in no coed camps where all I do is try to feel up girls). In later years, those summers involved canoe trips, bicycle excursions and the like. But this summer was sports camp. Camp All America was its name. But it wasn’t exactly all about sports. It was about discipline (of which I didn’t have a lot) as well. Predictably, this institution was located in Croton, New York on the campus of New York Military Academy (where our president went to school). The day started with calisthenics on the quad. Then a shitty breakfast in the mess hall – segueing into an hour and a half of cleaning up our bunks for inspection military style. I assume you’re getting the picture. Continue Reading
There are countless ways with which a guy can quantify a prospective mate. Intelligence, height, weight, facial beauty, booty/breast size shape and firmness, vocal timbre, sexual proficiency. The list is virtually endless. But today I want to talk about the stink factor.
Everybody stinks at one point or another. But some people stink a little (or a lot) more than others. I’m not a stinky guy. But I distinctly recall removing my khakis to take a shower during my stay at MDC and marveling at the stench I was emitting – thanks to no deodorant. Continue Reading
I know I’ve told this story before but indulge me. One of my first assignments when I went to work for Action magazine was to harangue the paper’s Asian customers for their ad money. This was not an easy or enjoyable task. The girls didn’t know me. And they sure didn’t want to pay their bills. As such, they didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat when I arrived.
The cold shoulder treatment lasted for literally a year or two until one day, the girls showed me a long haired wig which I donned and then broke into a heavy metal swagger to gales of laughter. That broke the ice and thereafter, their eyes met mine when I stopped by. I was in the club.
I mention this today because in my new life as volunteer, I find many of the people I serve are little Asian ladies who like the girls who gave me their ad money, aren’t prone to acknowledging my existence. They live in Chinatown, speak no English, and for all intents and purposes shield themselves from any American culture with a surprising vigilance. But when it comes to lining up at every pantry they can find near their neighborhood, they do find themselves – for better or worse – mixing with Americans. Continue Reading
To casual fans of pop music, the name JERRY LEIBER might not mean a lot. But even if you’ve no interest in the genre, you simply have to know some of his songs. “Kansas City,” “Hound Dog,” “Stand By Me,” “Spanish Harlem,” “Charlie Brown,” Yakety Yak,” “Jailhouse Rock,” “Poison Ivy,” “Love Potion # 9,” and “On Broadway?” All written by Jerry Leiber.
One reason I like reading biographies of musical icons lies in the fact that often, I’ll run up on names of people I met or even knew well in my musical days. And reading Paul Simon’s biography, I encountered the name of Jerry Leiber, who I recalled I’d actually met in the mid-70’s.
At the time, I was writing songs with an established co-writer who had little difficulty getting us in publishers’ doors. As with Leiber 20 years before, Dorian (my partner) and I had our fingers on the pulse of the new disco/funk music which was selling at the time. With tunes like “Move It,” “Gettin’ There Fast,” “Walkin’ On a Highwire,” and “Troublemakers,” we had enough with which to interest publishers. Continue Reading
It must have been 25 or more years ago that one day I decided to ride down to the Staten Island Ferry…take the boat…and explore what New York City’s orphan boro had to offer. With virtually no plan, I simply ascended from the ferry to the first major street…turned right…and pedaled. Soon I found a path to the water and what I can honestly say was a road surrounded by near wilderness. Breaks in the brush and foliage provided fishing spots for the kind of people our president wants to keep out of the country. Continue Reading
Popsicle (my father) was part of The Greatest Generation. That’s right. He was in the navy for The Big One – WWII! But he never shipped out. Daddy was the band leader on a base out in Brooklyn. Thus the joke “Daddy fought the war on the BMT,” the train that ran to the base. Regardless, after my parents’ divorce, I found a lot of old, dusty navy electronics down in the basement which the old man had obviously somehow commandeered during his service.
Most of it was high tech stuff like oscilloscopes and other even more unrecognizable apparatus. But mixed in all the electronics of the day was this big-ass/battleship gray/hundred pound metal box with a huge multi-band dial. The behemoth looked like it might be a radio…so I brought it upstairs to check the monster out. And sure enough, one of the bands was AM. I had myself a “new” high tech radio. Continue Reading
While I had the dubious opportunity of playing behind many of the recording artists who provided the background music for my tween and teen years long after their careers peaked, there weren’t a whole lot of real blues guys I ever got to meet. JOHNNY WINTER came to jam with the band I joined after exiting graduate school. And I was once introduced to DOCTOR JOHN (if you want to call him blues) at a record company office. But otherwise I mostly picked in blues anonymity. But there was one guy I knew well before he became the stuff of legend.
Dorian Burton (not the guy I just mentioned) was a journeyman songwriter in the old school Broadway style who you might mistake for Little Richard. He crashed in a shitty rooming house and basically lived to drink liquor, smoke weed, write songs and suck cock (not necessarily in that order). Notwithstanding his subsistence lifestyle, Dorian had had a few hits and thus, publishers would answer their phones when he called – and wannabe songwriters wanted to write with him for his connections – if not his talent. I was one of them. Despite the fact that there were about four of us who competed for Dorian’s time, nobody got jealous – as he was so difficult to write with. We all understood that working with Dorian daily would have been madness. Continue Reading
Mired in an 850 page small print paperback chronicling the history of the USA from 1812 through 1848, I’m reminded that if you stick a project out to the end (ya know…like actually reading the entire book), a reward generally awaits. That reward came in the form of a story about a supreme siren by the name of MARGARET O’NEALE.
Margaret (who preferred the name Peggy) was one of those ladies who every man wanted to mount – a fact of which she was well aware. And as barmaid at a Washington hotel – and with a husband away at sea for 4 years, Peggy had a slew of lovers – all gentlemen of station and renown. When the hubby died (some said he committed suicide owing to his depression concerning his wife’s affairs), Peggy quickly married JOHN EATON (one of the aforementioned gentlemen) who became ANDREW JACKSON’S Secretary of War. Continue Reading
Here’s a question for today: What’s the difference between an escort and a regular girl (beyond the obvious…like the former sells sex and the latter doesn’t)? I found out last Saturday at the soup kitchen. Angie (who I’ve mentioned before) is a salt-of-the-earth Korean American girl you could take home to mom eight days a week and twice on Sunday. She’s cute, warm, friendly and all that good stuff. Everybody loves Angie. Except the corporation which took over the sneaker publication for which she used to work. They laid her off after the changeover.
I can’t imagine that Angie was anything but an exemplary employee. Why they would nuke her only they know. While we were cleaning the men’s bathroom (not an appetizing job – especially for a girl), Angie apprised me of this sad reality. “So you’re getting unemployment, right? That should be a decent amount of money to tide you over,” I offered assuming she was. Her answer? “No. I don’t feel right taking that money.” Continue Reading
Of all the poor decisions an aspiring party girl could make, entering the world of loop pornography rates among the worst. Flatbackin’ is something a woman can pretty much put in her past once she stops. But performing in just one porn loop is a mistake that can chase a girl for the rest of her life!
Picture the scene. A dude falls for a pretty girl and is ready to say “I do.” Then one of his friends says “Hey! I saw your girl sucking three cocks at the same time on an internet video!” And that’s all she wrote with most guys. The bubble bursts when he finds the video and the girl wonders how she was so stupid. For a thousand quick dollars, she’s effectively ruined her life. Now if somebody says “Hey! Your girl was an escort”…a girl can deny deny deny and there’s no proof. But with a porn loop? You get the idea. Continue Reading
Today, I’m happy to announce that all’s well that ends well on the new computer front. I am the proud owner of a mid-2010 model iMac, purchased for a mere $200 on Craigslist from a French lawyer who lives on the Upper East Side. It’s a curious deal that a man of my means with so few expenses would do anything but buy a brand new unit. But that’s besides the point. Back in 2002, I did buy a brand new Mac. It was very expensive and ultimately, a poor decision. The machine lasted but five years and has been since followed by two used units purchased at 1/3 the price, both of which performed much more admirably than the new joint.
As we all know, purchasing a new computer presents a set of challenges associated with replacing software (hopefully free or cheap) that is often old but superior to the new versions. Such was my issue with respect to Photoshop and Garageband. I do not like or want the new versions having seen and tested both. Could I somehow load my new computer with that old software? And would my spanking new Mac High Sierra OS even support the old programs? Continue Reading
Somebody asked me a funny question recently: “How many jobs have you been fired from versus how many have you quit?” And as I was thinking, what I recalled most was two jobs from which I was never officially fired – but lost because of phone messages I left for the boss. I figure that’s more of a unique circumstance.
The first came courtesy of THE BELMONTS, a shitty musical gig which I never liked in the first place. I initially met Warren (the counterfeit Belmont who ran the group’s business) through JOEY DEE, yet another moldy oldie I worked for who lived just down the street from Warren in (guess where) the Bronx. Joe was off and Warren needing a bass player, asked if he could borrow me for a night. Warren didn’t work as much as Joe…but he paid better. So sooner than later, I left Joe for the Belmonts. Now when I say “paid better” I’m talking $50 or $75 a job versus $100 (in 1985 dollars). Not exactly union scale – if you get my drift. Continue Reading
July 28th, 2013 was a warm summer day with seemingly no significance. Having recently shed the yolk of selling Village Voice and Backpage ads, semi-retirement for me meant a quick ride to and dip in the Asser Levy pool, and then a longer ride down the East River bikeway for a stop in Chinatown – or maybe to the ferry for a boat ride to Staten. Such was my carefree life.
Then 9 AM the next day, everything changed. A knock at the door. “Who’s there?” asked I innocently. The particulars of the ensuing conversation I won’t detail here. But within a few minutes, I knew the feds had seized most of my money and I was in serious trouble.
Guys who read this blog can only access the last 30 published posts. But I have saved in a file the other two or three thousand. And I have what I published on July 28th, 2013 just hours before the boom fell. Here it is…the last piece I wrote before the day of reckoning. Continue Reading