Manhattan Was My Mistress

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The moment I met her I was hooked
So alluring and seductive
Flashing her neon eyes
Singing her sirens lure
Behind an orchestra of chaos
She promised me a life
Reckless abandon
I pledged my heart
I would always stay
My Manhattan Mistress
Took my heart away
Howling like a hyena in heat
Her streets purr as though a moan
The ground beneath our feet
Rumbles and rocks us gently
She smiles from her throne
I beckon at her will
Noises fill every essence
Yet still she whispers my name
Inviting me inside her
That sweet seductive game
Lured by her voluptuous secrets
Inspired with her beautiful mysteries
Strolling moonlit avenues hand in hand
Disclosing sensual inquiries
Provoking my carnal beast
Entrancing me in her spell
My Manhattan Mistress
Loved me oh so well
She’s my concrete inamorata
Exchanging longing desires
Gyrating my internal fires
Chaotic Karmic spin
Two lust filled nocturnal silhouettes
Together dancing on a pin
But all good things they must come to an end
Packed up my emotions and moved away
Manhattan was my Mistress and
I miss her everyday

Thunder Road Trip

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Man I still remember my first motorcycle and the years my life was lived on two wheels. When I got my first Harley Sporster I had so much to learn. Life on a motorcycle is a different lifestyle, not merely a choice of ride. In the years that went by I learned how to shop light so I didn’t have to much shit to tie down with bungee chords, how to approach a red light without stopping completely, and how to dress for the particular ride of the day. Like if its getting to get cold, or if rain is in the forecast. But on my first bike trip I found my self unprepared in many ways. Being unprepared was mandatory for my naïve stoned ass back then so I planned my trip the way any self respecting weed smoking hippie would. Procrastinating. And procrastinating was something I was an expert in. If they gave an award for procrastinating I would win and send someone else to pick it up in a few weeks, I’m that good. So it was just me, a backpack of clothes, my “Motorcycle Mama” a road map, and a notion that set out on a Friday afternoon for a run up into the mountains for a weekend of two wheeled nirvana.
We began that trip from Long Island which was a great placer for riding. Jump on your scoot and head out east where traffic is sparse and other bikers are plentiful and it was motorcycle mania. Many a day spent just cruising from Massapequa to Montauk and back just for the ride. But I wanted to go on a mountain road trip. I’d been to the Catskill mountains by car many times but now that I am a two wheeled menace I wanted to think bigger. Hell I was a baddass in a leather jacket and motorcycle boots, not some wimp ass hippie in a Volkswagen anymore. Catskills? Childs play dude, I was heading up into the Adirondack Mountains. A friend told me about a place up past Amsterdam New York where there was a giant mound of earth called Jiminy Mountain in a town by the name of Castlerock not too far from Plattsburg. The mountain is uninhabited by humans and often people camp out there. True campers, with tents and shit. I wasn’t planning on roughing it that much, there’s a motel close to Castlerock and that’s where we would be staying. Then we could make a full day trip up the mountain the next morning, stopping off at the halfway point to a place called Cricket Falls. Normally the ride took about five and a half hours and I was stoked.
I’ve heard it said that getting there is half the fun and on this point I must disagree. It started out quite awesome, circumventing traffic jams in between lanes. Not a tactic I would recommend now that I am a seasoned rider, but when I saw the long line of cars all with the same notion, to get the fuck out of town for the weekend, it was just far too tempting. I slowly crossed the Throggs Neck Bridge in illegal but effective fashion, and once past all the tri city congestion the real adventure begins. With my girlfriend on back we breezed across the Tappan Zee Bridge and were on our way up to the country. As we crossed over into Rockland County the first bad omen appeared on the horizon. The sky was darkening up ahead and not because the sun was going down. It looked as though there may be a storm up ahead and the darkness had an evil grin. We continued up The New York State Thru-way an that’s when it began. It was a mere drizzle but it made me realize something quite important to a motorcycle rider. I had no raingear, no windsheild, and my backpack was unprotected from the oncoming onslaught of raindrops.
Raindrops can be so romantic, Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head, I saw her sitting in the rain, raindrops falling on her, Oh it must be raindrops, so many raindrops, sweet romantic raindrops. If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops. Cute little innocent raindrops. But when you’re traveling at 65plus MPH out in the open those raindrops band together like a soggy convention of bullies and while some slap the shit out of your face, hands, and torso, the others form aquatic conspiracies and loiter wherever they can because they’re bent on soaking one right trough to the bone. The rain was fast, wet, and hard because in a matter of seconds we were both drenched and uncomfortable. As if that weren’t bad enough many of the raindrops that missed the all out assault on us directly gathered on the road in front of us to extract as much traction as possible from the two tires. Lesson, riding in the rain is dangerous, and always pack raingear. Too late for that I had to get creative.
We stopped at the first rest stop available. “Two cups of hot coffee and two large garbage bags please.” The waitress looked confused at first but as soon as she saw the puddles forming under our soaked bodies she got it. We sat down sipped our coffee and began to dry off. After five minutes the waitress came back with two large plastic garbage bags meant for the jumbo trash cans in the kitchen, “Here ya go honey, this aughta keep ya dry for a bit. How far ya headed?” I took the bags and thanked her, “We’re headin’ up to Jiminy Mountain in Castlerock.” She gave us a worried glance, “This ain’t gonna be near enough honey, lemme see if I can talk the chef into two more bags for ya’s”. She disappeared and as we finished our coffees she returned with two more bags, “Here ya go Hon, good luck now.” and with a wink she left earning herself a five dollar tip for two cups of coffee.
“Why did you leave her five dollars JT? And what are we gonna do pick up garbage along the way? You were flirting with her weren‘t you?” Note to self, never travel with a jealous girlfriend. “I wasn’t flirting with her I was thanking her, she gave us some protection from the rain. We can cut holes in the bags and wear them like raincoats.” Satisfied but still suspicious of me flirting she relented and we put the plastic bag raincoats on before gassing up and headed back out to the thru-way. Driving on the wet road is dangerous enough, but with the big eighteen wheelers kicking the rain off their tires its twice as dangerous and ten times as annoying. I was passing them and they didn’t like it, and before long I found myself in a game of cat and mouse, one truck passing me and getting right in front of me, me passing it only to find myself challenged by another asshole in an eighteen wheeler. I envisioned them on their fuckin’ CB radios, “Hey big buddy, we got us a wise ass biker looking to play hide and seek.” “Back atcha big buddy, lets fuck this two wheel shit to pieces, mon back. Big ten four buddy, eyeballin’ the little bastards now, taking them to the curb.”
At first it was just a pain in the ass but it rapidly escaladed to road war. I was getting more and more pissed by the minute but not much I could do, it was still raining and our garbage bags were shredding. I pulled ahead of all three of the asshole truckers and snuck into the next rest stop to top off the gas tank, have another coffee, and let the three amigos find someone else to terrorize.
Fully caffeinated, slightly rested, still soaked but freshly bagged we set back out on the road. It was a matter of minutes before another trucker started playing games with us. Joined by one other big rig I wondered if they laid in wait for us but that wasn’t possible, this was two new assholes, maybe heard the other trucks talking about us on their CB’. Now I was getting real pissed but they kept playing their game, boxing us in then taking turns passing and cutting us off. I could see them smiling as I passed them which only inflamed my already heated temper. I had enough and decided I was just gonna blow past them. The rain had slowed down and I felt like we could make a get-away. As I was passing the lead truck the dickhead driver broke the camels back. The asshole rolled down his window and flicked a cigar but at us just as we were passing. The stogie struck my breast and the red ambers scattered both sides behind me. I was livid now, and in the spirit of Easy Rider, just like in the last scene, I drove up along side his cab, waited until he turned his fat redneck face at me and stuck my middle finger out as clear as I possibly could. I didn’t want to leave any doubt that I was saying “This Fuck You is all yours!”
I felt vindicated, I felt euphoric, I felt free, free and wild like Billy in Easy Rider telling him and every other trucker fucker what I thought of them. I also felt petrified, because as I remembered the last scene Billy was shot and his bike was spread across the highway. I was petrified because I now realized that my cigar flinging nemesis would be so indignant from my salute he would be on the CB in touch with every trucker fucker for a hundred miles, telling them about some long hair hippie and his biker babe messin’ with all truckers. The stakes of this stupid game had just gotten too high. I rode as fast as I could avoiding as many trucks as possible until we reached the next rest stop, about thirty miles from Castlerock where I parked the bike in the back. We sat down and ate and drank coffee for two hours waiting for everything to blow over, the rain, the truckers, and my angry Mama.
When we finally did get back on the road, we filled the tank, talked another waitress into two more garbage bags, and set out for the last of the run. 25 miles of highway and 6 mile of local side road left, we were both exhausted and in dire need of sleep. We planned to go straight to Motel Jiminy Cricket, where they also leave the lights on, and hit up into the mountains after a good nights sleep. The rain had stopped and the ride on the highway was much safer and uneventful. The last part of our run was a six mile winding road down Osh Kosh Avenue, of Buttfuck boulevard , or lost canyon New York, where hicks are raised ala Appalachia. Not much around but nature and lots of space. We didn’t see another vehicle the entire six miles and the monotony was lulling us into complacency. I felt my girlfriends head get heavy on my back and knew she was falling asleep. On the back of a moving motorcycle!!! I tried to shake her awake twice, but then suddenly my headlight went out and my engine stalled. I popped the clutch and it started back up, but for two seconds that acted more like five minutes I had no headlight on a windy and very dark road, my Mama asleep with her head digging into my back, and a feeling like I never wanted to ride again. We got to the motel both of us awake, drenched, and exhausted. I took out the battery which was soaked and shorting out, and got a room for us and the battery where we dried out overnight.
The rest of the excursion was phenomenal, riding trails meant only for bikers and hikers and saw a huge pond at the very top of mount Jiminy, a sight only a handful of other human has ever has the pleasure to behold. We rested in a natural rock tub atop a waterfall at Cricket Creek watching the fierce water arc outward and onward into the rapids, and enhanced the enchanted excursion by convening with as well as smoking Mother Nature. Sights and sounds so remarkable and spectacular the trials and tribulations of getting here dissolved in the wind. I continued to ride for another ten years having to end my riding tenure because of injuries and responsibilities and I look back fondly on the years I rode. One year my beat up VW was shot and I rode my two wheel wonder through a difficult and harsh New York winter, complete with an ice storm and two blizzards, but I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. As far as the first mountain road trip I admit I was shitting pickles after the cigar stogie middle finger incident, but I gotta tell ya looking back it was one of the most liberating and proud moments of my life when if only for a few short minutes I stood up to a convoy of testosterone laden asshole truckers and said, FUCK YOU!

Weiner Lets It All Hang Out

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Weiner Takes Da Bait
No the real headline is not Weiner takes debate, but he was feisty as hell so if you missed it on TV I have my own re-cap here. The front runner is Christine Quinn and Weiner was in Christine’s face throughout the debate. Bill Thompson stood tall and was inching closer but Weiner measured up. Public Advocate Bill de Blasio hammered away at Weiner’s ability to represent the people of New York but he assured everyone that Weiner will stand up for all New Yorkers. Comptroller John Liu expressed concern over Anthony’s transparency to which Tony replied “I have always been transparent. Anyone can see where Weiner stands.” The stage set, on to the debate.
First Weiner’s opening statement. “My name is Anthony Weiner, no relation to Oscar Meyer Weiner, and I am running for mayor because I have swag, and as recent tweeted evidence has shown I have the balls needed to run this city. True my pole has been sagging, um, I mean I have been sagging in the poll numbers but with a little help from my constituents it’ll get it back up again. I know my past indiscretions keep popping up but just to be clear no matter how hard it gets I will not pull out. I’ll stick it out as long as I can. I intend to show New Yorkers everything I’ve got. New York City is a hard town and they need a hard mayor which is what I‘ll be when erected. Oops, I mean elected, a slight boner in my choice of words. Anyway, New York is full of danger and trust me I know danger. In fact my middle name is Danger, so vote for me, Anthony “Carlos Danger” Weiner. Thank you.
The greeting was met with a splattering. That is a splattering of applause and a few Bronx cheers. Now on to a condensed re-cap of the issues. The first subject was the stop and frisk law.
Quinn : “ I’m okay with the frisking but not the stopping, if I’m elected they will have to frisk while the random pedestrian is still moving. New York is a busy town.”
De Blasio : “My wife is black and my son is half black with a big ass afro to prove it, so it could be my son with a cops hand down his pants. No to frisking”
Thompson : “What the hell, are we truly going to allow our police officers to act like TSA agents? This is America where no one is randomly searched unless they are in a busy airport. Just like the large soda and the poop pick up law Mayor Bloomberg saw the poop on the sidewalk and overstepped again.”
Liu :“I’ve seen this epic fail in Chinatown. If they continue to act on this dumb law everybody will be Kung Fu fighting, which is a little bit frightening.
Weiner :“From the beginning I stated cops should wear cameras and I stand by that. I say frisk like nobody’s watching, but take a selfie to send to that special someone.”
On to the next issue, a viewer question, a matter of trust. directed to Weiner. “How can we trust you when we find out you continued your activity even after you were busted?”
Weiner : “I have been up front from the beginning about my personal life. I did a bad thing and I was sick. Now I keep my hand on the problem everyday and have kept it down. It has been a long time since I sent any dick picks to anyone, almost an entire month now of not sexting. You can trust me to have matters in hand and keep it in constant motion. I have been endorsed by Woody Allen, Roman Pole-ansky, Marcia Gay Hard-on, and A-Rod to name a few and I am a member of members only so I will keep my finger on the pulse. Forget my past, look at my future.
Quinn :“You can tell he’s lying by the vein bulging, and not in his neck. He can hide behind the podium but fro here I see his problem growing. Its not just about trusting Weiner to keep it in his pants though, its about lying. I have it on good source that Weiner is at least two inches smaller than his claims. If he’s gonna lie about his dick size he can’t be trusted.”
De Blasio : “Look size doesn’t matter, just ask my son. He’s a half black man with a cool afro to prove it yet he has a portion of him that is half white, mainly his power drill, and he still gets down wit da bitches.”
Thompson :“Hey look, I can drop trow with the best of them but you need to know when to hold it and when to fold it, and Weiner just don’t fold his.”
Liu :“If Weiner is erected everybody will be Kung Fu fighting, which is a little bit frightening.”

Wow they all brought their big guns to that topic, lotta hostility here, now on to the final topic, the economy, and how will they create jobs.

Thompson :“What we need in New York is to have all taxi drivers self deport, so we can hire real New Yorkers in their place. That will be a huge boost to the economy.
De Blasio: “To create jobs in the city I propose making tax laws 50% more complicated especially for the rich who will be forced to hire our creative New York accountants to better hide their money. Companies like H&R Block will thrive and hire. Also I‘m gonna ask every fast food worker to chip in one dollar each to add to the city surplus. My wife is black and my son is half black with a killer afro and he works at Mickey Dee’s. He said one dollar would not be a strain on him, especially if he can take it out of the allowance we give him.”
Weiner :“Elect me and I promise more construction of clubs like Hooters, Scores, and my new company, ’Sexts and the City’, a self text club that guarantees anonymity. There are so many young co-eds in the city that need those jobs to work their way through college. By the way, if any of you young co-eds need part time work send me a text and I’ll hook you up.”
Liu : “I propose to bring the club scene of the eighties back which stimulates the economy by creating a tourist trap of dance clubs. Once finished, much like the eighties, everybody will be Kung Fu fighting.”

That wrapped up the questions, to save time I will just recap Weiner’s final statement.
“I want to thank Eyewitness News for such penetrating questions. I have never been afraid of penetration and I am happy to wrap my head around them every chance I get. So here’s me promise in a nutsack. Oops, I mean nutshell. The people of New York deserve a mayor who is in touch with the youth, and no one had touched more youth’s than me. The economy need stimulating and no one knows stimulation better than I do. The city needs someone who isn’t afraid to show everyone they are willing to stand up and I have proof of standing up in front of anyone. New York was at one time the fornication capital of the world, and if I’m elected I promise you New York will get fucked royally. Please vote for me, Anthony “Carlos Danger” Weiner. I’ll always be just a phone number away.

Is That A Rabid Rat On The Sidewalk Or Are You Just Ready To Attack Me

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The Answer My Friend, Is Blowin’ In The Wind

I was living and working in New York City as a line cook at a Midtown restaurant. It was a hot summer night an after busting my ass all night I was ready to get fired up at a happening club on the lower east side around the corner from CGBG’s. All night long I had been slicing, dicing, chopping, sautéing and frying while engaging in screaming matches with the expeditor who being French had the advantage of cursing me out with words I didn’t understand. I was some sort of “petty rast decayed-a-rrrrayso contingawn de merrrda” or some weird shit with cool “R” tongue rolls which a co-worker tells me means I am a sort of gay syphilis encrusted piece of shit. Those French, so descriptive, gotta love em for making insults sound so nice.. To be honest his French words flowed so sweetly to me like he was yelling “you sweet American hunk of a man your chopped onions could make a French women cry,” but it is what it is. Anyway, I was tired and ready to get amped up and find a lover that won’t drive me crazy. Unless of course that lover drives me crazy in bed.
At any rate, I left the 43rd street restaurant and since I didn’t make a ton of money slinging sauté pans for a living I chose to travel by foot. Besides, it was a nice summer night and I had some time to kill with not much happening in the city till around midnight. I walked the way most New Yorkers do, transverseing the streets. That is to say we walk in the path of least resistance negotiating the traffic. When cars prevent me from continuing south I head east a block or two until its clear again. This oddly normal way of walking led me directly into the path of Herald Square, a tiny little park where 6thAve and Broadway converge around 34th street. Herald Square is more of a triangle (an obtuse one for you math nerds) and I was prepared to go through this small triangular park when something caught me eye. Underneath the unoccupied benches played a bastion of rats all running and jumping right out there in the open, not afraid of a thing. At first the hippie in me thought “How cute, little rodents playing red rover or something” until a jolt of restaurant reality hit me. Rats are mortal enemies of both mice and men, especially when they choose to dine in the restaurant you work in.
That said, I decided I would ignore their usual enemy combatant status and indulge in a little herbal enhancement. This way I could amuse myself by watching them play for a little while. They just seemed like they were having so much fun and like I said, time to kill. Looking around like I was casing the street for a robbery attempt I carefully scanned the area for any blue suited “peoples friend” law enforcement officers who for whatever reason believed catching someone committing the heinous crime of getting high was keeping the rest of the world safe. The last thing the world should fear is a mellow stoned hippie and this weed was so good I would be stoned and mellow just lighting up. Not seeing any cops around I fired up a joint and enjoyed the Big Apple Rat Circus for a few minutes. They were quite agile, jumping over each other in games of leap-rat, or tag, or whatever rat games they play. I thought I may have even seen a few of them smiling, but like I said, it was primo weed. After I had taken three hits my memory bank played a rather unnecessary trick on me and withdrew the memory of the movie “Willard” which caused a shiver to reverberate from my prized Frye boots up to my red, white, and blue bandana. Suddenly the playful little rats once again became the ruthless menaces attempting to take over Manhattan one sewer at a time that I knew they were. Freaked out a tad and effected with PTSD (Pot Tokers Stress Disorder) I chose to walk the long way around Herald Square.
Around the park and on to the far side of 6th avenue I ventured avoiding those nasty disease carrying bastards. Now the memory of their game playing freaked me out, but what a gorgeous evening it was. Perfect summer weather, people out and about everywhere, and with the ratscapades now forgotten I put a big smile on my face as I continued on my journey to the hip new club. Up ahead about a city block away I saw something moving in the center of the sidewalk but couldn’t make out exactly what it was. As I got closer it became apparent that it was a sick animal and it may even be a rat. My stoned memory bank was still open so I made another withdrawal this time from much further back. Many years ago when I lived with my parents on Long Island I came home drunk one night only to find a rabid raccoon hissing and threatening me as I tried to sneak in the back door. Frightened and high I was not about to engage in battle with this masked bandit of a rodent that was foaming at the mouth. Begrudgingly I had to knock on the front door and wake my parents up because, well because the fucking thing was rabid! So I was busted for coming home not only late, but three, maybe even four or five sheets to the wind whatever the hell that means.
I digress, suffice is to say the memory of a very sick and dangerous Rocky Raccoon hissing and trying to scratch my eyes out or kill me weighed heavy on my mind as I sized up the sick animal ahead. I was convinced now that directly in my path ahead it was a rabid rat looking for something to attack. The moment of truth was approaching.
Time to summon up some composure. I looked around quick and there were a number of people on the East side of 6th avenue strolling casually totally unaware I was about to be confronted by this sick menace. I reckon I could have just crossed the street and warn people of the dangerous vermin but I didn’t want to look like a wuss. I’m not a whiney suburban boy anymore, I’m living and working in the big city. I am a New Yorker now God dammit and we fear nothing! I took a deep breath and headed straight towards the viscous killer preparing to kick that little fucker all the way across the sidewalk . I was fully aware of the other people around milling about and I was certain most of them could see me. Not willing to have them think I am anything less a fearless New Yorker I forged ahead ready willing and able to defend myself from King Rabid Rat. The very second he was at my feet a slight wind picked up as I reached my right foot back ready to put the full weight of my Frye boot into this sick rodents body it lunged at me. With full force I unleashed a Bruce Lee style kick and made a direct hit. Unfortunately as I looked down to watch the rat fly across the pavement I realized I had just kicked the shit out of a plastic bag that was blowing in an updraft from the subway grate. Oh yea, I put everything I had into kicking that bag and it made an obscenely loud whoosh which I was certain had caught the ear eye and attention of everyone within a three or four block radius.
Being a New Yorker now of course I had to save face. I had nearly lost my balance so I used that to my advantage and spun around, jumped up and did a two and a half spin, came down snapping my finger giving two arm twirls, did an about face move right into a strut/walk the rest of the way down the block repeating “We bad, we bad” like Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder.
I had done my best to save myself from a potentially embarrassing situation yet I heard some chuckles in the distance. When I think back I gotta admit it must have looked funny as Hell. Thing is, I’m not sure if they were laughing at the ridiculous attempt at a dance move from a stoned hippie, a stoned hippie freak on his way to Bellevue for a psychiatric assessment, or the fact that some stoned hippie just got busted for kicking the shit out of a defenseless plastic bag.