Like two Lyonnais
Vying to lead the same fille
Off to the traboules. . .
dimanche 27 décembre 2009
vendredi 25 décembre 2009
Christmas-time is here
So my cousin Sam "DJ Balagan" Hopkins was Dj-ing at Heebonism last night at Fontana's in the Lower East Side. After the party, I went with Sam and his girlfriend Julia to grab some quick, obligatory Jewish Christmas Chinese. We ended up scarfing won-ton's at Fu Zhow Restaurant at 84, Eldridge St . . . mainly because it was serendipitously open at 3 in the morning. In any case, as Sam put is so well : "It's hard to find bad chinese food cooked by chinese people, no matter who they're catering to."
So, Jewish Chinese Xmas food experience checked off the list, I got to thinking that if we Jewish people had Xmas, we'd sure beat the pants off of everyone who's trying so hard to "make it happen" tonight. When Adriana asked me for some examples, I responded :
"We'd put the tree outside, because who knows what that's going to bring in the house ! And we'd invite everyone and Santa Claus would really be Sol Classner, and he'd bring hard candies and schnapps to all good children. And all children are good, after all. So he'd bring them to all the children. And instead of new bikes that are just going to ... Leer másbreak, we'd all get scarves and donations made in our name to the United Jewish Federation. No Ham ! We'd have a brisket and potatonik, chopped liver and applecake. Everyone over 50 would fall asleep by eleven o'clock and all the kids would go out for a wild night !"
So, Jewish Chinese Xmas food experience checked off the list, I got to thinking that if we Jewish people had Xmas, we'd sure beat the pants off of everyone who's trying so hard to "make it happen" tonight. When Adriana asked me for some examples, I responded :
"We'd put the tree outside, because who knows what that's going to bring in the house ! And we'd invite everyone and Santa Claus would really be Sol Classner, and he'd bring hard candies and schnapps to all good children. And all children are good, after all. So he'd bring them to all the children. And instead of new bikes that are just going to ... Leer másbreak, we'd all get scarves and donations made in our name to the United Jewish Federation. No Ham ! We'd have a brisket and potatonik, chopped liver and applecake. Everyone over 50 would fall asleep by eleven o'clock and all the kids would go out for a wild night !"
NYC - From Marseille -
Welcome to my blog, I'll be posting parts of my work in progress, here (working title = "Peregrinations") Photos will also be a standard feature !
Part I : The Saxophone Playing Extraterrestrial
So this is about Soul ! The Ashkenaze bastard grandson of Soul. Not the soles of my kickers that I found at a Housing Works. The one in Gramercy -- 20th and Lex. (I needed black shoes for Kippour, as I dumped my molding dressy kickers when I hauled it out of Marseille -- Yeah, I wear leather on Kippour, what's it your business ?). No, not those soles. But they're sturdy and rubbery enough to cut it up on the runway. And no, not Seoul, where everyone seems to be heading to teach English these days --
By the way, is it just me who has this image of South Korea as some sort of evangelical Asian Disneyland ? I guess seeing is believing/having some sort of idea rather than this vague impression of mine. . . .
But no ! Not Seoul. And Sol. Que calor ! Yeah, not that Sol. What about the lonely "sole". Well, that's getting closer. The Soul closed up on itself. The solitude of the Soul. And the motion of the soul.
Take for instance this story :
(Photo : Homage to the Saxophone Extraterrestrial)
In the train. From Morgan stop. Then occurred the closing of the automatic doors. Michael sat down on the bench. The line “L” = gray line. Fluorescent light at two o'clock in the morning burned his eyes. But it is as that when one is cooked stupid, drunk.
In all manners, the wagon was almost empty per the hour that it was then. Montrose stop occurred next. The train stopped, was started again. At a stretch somebody hustled the door between the wagons, and violently, too. And into the wagon an extraterrestrial entered, dressed-up in the body of a black with sunglasses. It carried around its neck a kind of altered suspender strap from which a saxophone was hanging.
Without a word, it started to play. That sound, resonating and not bad ! Well sounded and played! And it filled the almost empty wagon with some jazz baby Jazz. Jazz. Its antennas in crimson spangles marked tempo. Andante. Ambient. Allegro. Adagio. Largo. Basta !
However. . . . it was two hours into the morning, already. That one is the hour when all are bursted, torn asunder with alcohol. Especially Friday ! Yes ! Friday, especially. There, the young people of twenty-years start to face the anguish of having drunk 150 dollars and now they shall not be able to pay their iphone charges. Because they still can't, in anything that they do, find stable work -- not even a job, mcjob, blowjob etc… In this time, we lived a shit. Shit of economy. Economy of shit. "The example is the rule and the rule the example," once said a wise man.
But all that being, one cannot reproach an extraterrestrial who plays the sax with an agility only known to extraterrestrail beings.
Let us see. . . . after having finished its spectacle on the fly, the extraterrestrial all at once started to howl an incoherent invective laden with misogynisms against some banked-up uncultivated sores of the cheeky Connecticutian suburbs (suburbs which are spread everywhere in this country of "Gode Blesse Yeux"). But these uncultivated young sores, well lubricated after a night in the “false-filthy” boxy-clubs of Williamsburg, had only tried to make the extraterrestrial a pretty compliment. . . . Tho, it should be noted that a compliment coming from young uncultivated sores misses a certain mark of sincerity.
“Woowoo, you play soooo well!”
They were four or five, a group of girls (of whom the femininity, replaced by a vulgarity of “self reliance”, turned them rather male), accompanied by an young man with a limp wrist wearing a pink pea-coat. This “man”, towards the end of the spectacle, took a bill out from his wallet.
“Woowoo, you're awesome!”
“You will make give, you tarts of lesbians. Put that in your arse-holes and cunty-crannies. Not, you do not even like to give it," said the extraterrestrial, etc.
So, the so-called “man”, takes back into the pocket of his pink p-coat the bill.
“Gives me, the money, son of whore! ”, the extraterrestrial said, holding out to him a waxed-paper dixie cup.
The extraterrestrial howled and threw the goblet to the feet of the “man”.
The girls started again some: “We gave you a fucking compliment and you insult us with insults ! Are you crazy ? You sicko !"
“Gives me the money, son-whore, foutrés, lesbians, you also ( it says that to the "man"), etc.”
It left the wagon at once to play the same spectacle in the next one. . . .
Can we blame the extraterrestrial ? After all, his soul had not yet joined his human body. And the compliment from the young snots was certainly vulgar, if not, ingenuine. Even when we humans move from one city to another, we experience a period of depression wherein the slightest miscalculated expression can set off a violent sort of reaction. It's just that interim of time in which we must wait for the soul to peregrinate to our body's new digs. Now, think of an extraterrestrial and multiply that times 10^x ! Aha ! Or, as they say in Mexico : "Aja ! ".
Part I : The Saxophone Playing Extraterrestrial
So this is about Soul ! The Ashkenaze bastard grandson of Soul. Not the soles of my kickers that I found at a Housing Works. The one in Gramercy -- 20th and Lex. (I needed black shoes for Kippour, as I dumped my molding dressy kickers when I hauled it out of Marseille -- Yeah, I wear leather on Kippour, what's it your business ?). No, not those soles. But they're sturdy and rubbery enough to cut it up on the runway. And no, not Seoul, where everyone seems to be heading to teach English these days --
By the way, is it just me who has this image of South Korea as some sort of evangelical Asian Disneyland ? I guess seeing is believing/having some sort of idea rather than this vague impression of mine. . . .
But no ! Not Seoul. And Sol. Que calor ! Yeah, not that Sol. What about the lonely "sole". Well, that's getting closer. The Soul closed up on itself. The solitude of the Soul. And the motion of the soul.
Take for instance this story :
(Photo : Homage to the Saxophone Extraterrestrial)
In the train. From Morgan stop. Then occurred the closing of the automatic doors. Michael sat down on the bench. The line “L” = gray line. Fluorescent light at two o'clock in the morning burned his eyes. But it is as that when one is cooked stupid, drunk.
In all manners, the wagon was almost empty per the hour that it was then. Montrose stop occurred next. The train stopped, was started again. At a stretch somebody hustled the door between the wagons, and violently, too. And into the wagon an extraterrestrial entered, dressed-up in the body of a black with sunglasses. It carried around its neck a kind of altered suspender strap from which a saxophone was hanging.
Without a word, it started to play. That sound, resonating and not bad ! Well sounded and played! And it filled the almost empty wagon with some jazz baby Jazz. Jazz. Its antennas in crimson spangles marked tempo. Andante. Ambient. Allegro. Adagio. Largo. Basta !
However. . . . it was two hours into the morning, already. That one is the hour when all are bursted, torn asunder with alcohol. Especially Friday ! Yes ! Friday, especially. There, the young people of twenty-years start to face the anguish of having drunk 150 dollars and now they shall not be able to pay their iphone charges. Because they still can't, in anything that they do, find stable work -- not even a job, mcjob, blowjob etc… In this time, we lived a shit. Shit of economy. Economy of shit. "The example is the rule and the rule the example," once said a wise man.
But all that being, one cannot reproach an extraterrestrial who plays the sax with an agility only known to extraterrestrail beings.
Let us see. . . . after having finished its spectacle on the fly, the extraterrestrial all at once started to howl an incoherent invective laden with misogynisms against some banked-up uncultivated sores of the cheeky Connecticutian suburbs (suburbs which are spread everywhere in this country of "Gode Blesse Yeux"). But these uncultivated young sores, well lubricated after a night in the “false-filthy” boxy-clubs of Williamsburg, had only tried to make the extraterrestrial a pretty compliment. . . . Tho, it should be noted that a compliment coming from young uncultivated sores misses a certain mark of sincerity.
“Woowoo, you play soooo well!”
They were four or five, a group of girls (of whom the femininity, replaced by a vulgarity of “self reliance”, turned them rather male), accompanied by an young man with a limp wrist wearing a pink pea-coat. This “man”, towards the end of the spectacle, took a bill out from his wallet.
“Woowoo, you're awesome!”
“You will make give, you tarts of lesbians. Put that in your arse-holes and cunty-crannies. Not, you do not even like to give it," said the extraterrestrial, etc.
So, the so-called “man”, takes back into the pocket of his pink p-coat the bill.
“Gives me, the money, son of whore! ”, the extraterrestrial said, holding out to him a waxed-paper dixie cup.
The extraterrestrial howled and threw the goblet to the feet of the “man”.
The girls started again some: “We gave you a fucking compliment and you insult us with insults ! Are you crazy ? You sicko !"
“Gives me the money, son-whore, foutrés, lesbians, you also ( it says that to the "man"), etc.”
It left the wagon at once to play the same spectacle in the next one. . . .
Can we blame the extraterrestrial ? After all, his soul had not yet joined his human body. And the compliment from the young snots was certainly vulgar, if not, ingenuine. Even when we humans move from one city to another, we experience a period of depression wherein the slightest miscalculated expression can set off a violent sort of reaction. It's just that interim of time in which we must wait for the soul to peregrinate to our body's new digs. Now, think of an extraterrestrial and multiply that times 10^x ! Aha ! Or, as they say in Mexico : "Aja ! ".
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