NYC What will I miss?
Smoking cigarettes on my fire escape? Roof top parties. The Hudson river and our brown bag parties?
The Lion's Head? The Underground? 1020? Piano's, Arlene's?
Snorting coke in the kitchen of the Heights with crazy Victor and Salin?
McSorley's?
Stevo: Drinking beers on his rooftop while the sun comes up.
Most of us are gone:
My luminous Oinkster, Margit & Abbas, Stevo, Broke Back Wilson, Diego, Caroline, my beloved Bailey and our late night walks home, Coke-head Christian, Les Miserable D. Stearling, Ani, The Jerk-off booths, The Village Idiot, Owl and Foxy and our sunday afternoon excursions to Yogi's. They're all gone.
The best bars in the city have been turned into Banks of America, Star Bucks or Duane Reades. My favorite Newsstand is now a shoe store for infants. The West End, where Burroughs, Ginsberg & Kerouac use to drink, now has flushing toilets, over priced beer and fake food posing as "Cuban gourmet."
None of this makes sense anymore. All the mad ones are gone. I'm surrounded by baby carriages and righteous assholes with too much money and time spent on trying to turn the entire city into a gated Crate & Barrel hell.
The ones that are already gone I already miss. The ones here, Jeremy and Jessica, my sweet Pieface, Dame Gross, Ace and Sam, Misha, The crew at Synaesthetic Theatre and our work, I will miss too.
There's not much left here.
It's rather unsettling when one spends eight months homesick and when he finally gets home, it doesn't feel like home anymore.
This morning when I woke up I thought, maybe I'll move to Texas. What a strange thought. Lord knows why that came to mind.
Smoking cigarettes on my fire escape? Roof top parties. The Hudson river and our brown bag parties?
The Lion's Head? The Underground? 1020? Piano's, Arlene's?
Snorting coke in the kitchen of the Heights with crazy Victor and Salin?
McSorley's?
Stevo: Drinking beers on his rooftop while the sun comes up.
Most of us are gone:
My luminous Oinkster, Margit & Abbas, Stevo, Broke Back Wilson, Diego, Caroline, my beloved Bailey and our late night walks home, Coke-head Christian, Les Miserable D. Stearling, Ani, The Jerk-off booths, The Village Idiot, Owl and Foxy and our sunday afternoon excursions to Yogi's. They're all gone.
The best bars in the city have been turned into Banks of America, Star Bucks or Duane Reades. My favorite Newsstand is now a shoe store for infants. The West End, where Burroughs, Ginsberg & Kerouac use to drink, now has flushing toilets, over priced beer and fake food posing as "Cuban gourmet."
None of this makes sense anymore. All the mad ones are gone. I'm surrounded by baby carriages and righteous assholes with too much money and time spent on trying to turn the entire city into a gated Crate & Barrel hell.
The ones that are already gone I already miss. The ones here, Jeremy and Jessica, my sweet Pieface, Dame Gross, Ace and Sam, Misha, The crew at Synaesthetic Theatre and our work, I will miss too.
There's not much left here.
It's rather unsettling when one spends eight months homesick and when he finally gets home, it doesn't feel like home anymore.
This morning when I woke up I thought, maybe I'll move to Texas. What a strange thought. Lord knows why that came to mind.
clio:
dave's solo stuff is even better. really folky 