Tales of a New York Wiseguy

Travels in France-2007

2007-07-22T05:28:00.000-07:00

My wife and I recently travelled on our honeymoon to France. We stayed four nights in Paris, four nights in a bed & breakfast near Avignon in Provence, and four nights in Cassis, a fishing village on the Mediterranean. The trip went great and there were no major glitches. Our favorite spots were Paris, of course, Avignon, Aix-en-Provence, Isle sur la Sorgue, Cassis, and Nice. Driving the 5 door automatic Citroen was fairly easygoing except for Marseilles and some of the perched villages in the Luberon. Marseilles was insane, feverish activity everywhere with no idea of where we were going. Some pictures of the trip are forthcoming.

Village Thoughts

2007-07-12T05:06:00.001-07:00

Back in the 90s a fellow literary buddy and I drove up to NYC from North Carolina to attend a Beat Generation writers' workshop honoring Jack Kerouac. I wrote the following poem while my buddy and I drank cold beers, smoked clove cigarettes, and watched the world go by in Greenwich Village from an outdoor cafe.

Village Thoughts

Buildings of masonry tainted by time,

Smells wafting freely attacking our senses,

Walking then sitting then walking some more,

Quaffing our thirst with cold beer in cafes.

Reflecting on past moments of life,

When others now gone or grown old have moved on,

Leaving the pith of life's essence to us,

Inheritors making history without notice.

Faint voices sharing Kerouac in the corner of park,

Ears straining to share a magical tale,

When one man sought quest towards a dharmic tradition,

Sunlight piercing trees, keeping dreams still alive.

Clove-scented cigarettes sweetening our lips,

Passerbuys moving along with anonymous gait,

A Yugoslavian waitress so ingenous and protected,

From pain afflicted in her so recent past.

Demonstrations to greet us with messages unfolded,

Of life's pursuit of tranquillity yet greeted by anguish,

Human emotion screaming and crying out,

For understanding in a voiceless urban canyon.

Colors and people and smells by the dozen,

French bakeries, cappuccino, punk rock at St. Marks,

Laughing at teeshirts, drowning in the braless parade,

Life's endless show weaving our shared mosaic.

Growing up in New York City

2007-07-11T20:32:00.000-07:00

Growing up in New York City introduced me to the world of colorful people quickly. My subway ride to high school on the East Side of Manhattan, 15th St. and 2nd Ave. everyday was a real trip. The old Canarsie line, or BMT, at 14th street provided hilarity on a continual basis. The middle-aged lady who was swinging back and forth from the strap because all the straps except one were missing. Every time the train lurched this lady would go flying a few feet but managed to hold on like she was riding a bronco. Poor thing. The worse thing about being a wiseguy in NYC was that her swaying back and forth aimlessly was a form of entertainment for us. When we realized that the fun was over with we tried to help but she had already shaken a few bones. Now I would race over if anyone were going through that.

The windows were often broken also so when the train surfaced from the underground on its way to Brooklyn, the person sitting next to the window in a rainstorm would be soaked.

The doors would sometimes slam shut very quickly or move real slow and then slam shut so we saw lots of people caught inbetween the doors with that panic look on their face, that true deer in the headlights look.

Lots of fun stuff like that. The A train ride had a ton of good stories but we'll hold off on those for now.