I got a nice shout-out on EV Grieve about my night out with the Chillmaster, check it out here: EV Grieve.
One thing I’ve been meaning to start featuring here on MAD is New York Diners. As noted at Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York, this is another of many things slowly vanishing in New York. I thought I should start documenting the ones left before they turn into a Starbucks or a Chipotle. I had to work tonight, so I thought the first Diner I would feature here at MAD would be my neighborhood diner, The Hollywood Diner. I moved into my apartment on 16th street in 1998 and have been going to the Hollywood ever since I’ve moved in. I’m not sure how long its been on the block, but I know its been there quite a while. It’s friendly, the waiters, hostesses and counter workers are all friendly and the food is great with tons of selections. And it’s open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. And it’s just a half a block from where I live. So let's go already!
It's just 14 blocks from where I work, but I've got overtime money, so we'll take a cab and arrive in style.
And we're off!
And here we are at the Hollywood Diner. As you can see, there's outside dining, but it's a little chilly out so let's go inside.
Here's the main dining room...
But I think we'll sit at the counter tonight.
Florencio is the host tonight and he happily serves up an Amstel Light. Cheers and beers!
Okay, I'm all settled in and it's time to order.
Of course since it's the Hollywood Diner, there's a few celebrity sandwiches on the menu. My favorite is the Al Pacino. Attica!
The service is great here and before you know it, the food starts arriving.
I started out with a cup of Matzo Ball soup. I loaded it up with pepper and it was delicious!
And here's the main course, a grilled cheese sandwich. I think that's the perfect diner dinner, matzo ball soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. The grilled cheese is rye bread and cheddar cheese.
And it was delicious!
The ceiling of the Hollywood Diner has a nice mural of clouds on it.
A photo of Elvis hangs on the front wall.
They love Lucy in here.
See!
Speaking of Al Pacino, here he is as Scarface next to 007.
And no self-respecting Hollywood Diner would be complete without a picture of Marilyn Monroe hanging on the wall.
And finally...cake! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
-------------------------------- Bonus Link! My friends Karen and Jon from Grade “A” Fancy have been asked to be part of the reading series, Drink, Think. If you’re in the area June 15th, you should go cheer them on. Check out the information here: Drink[dot]Think.
I know we haven’t had a midnight movie in a couple weeks and I promise next Friday to screen the long-awaited “Fugitive Girls,” but I’ve got a big weekend lined up with plans at night and a ton of shit to do each day, so tonight’s going to be a bit of a quickity, blickity blog.
I’ve been on Twitter for a couple years now, but never really got into it until the last couple weeks. Now I’m having a lot of fun on there and wasting way too much time on it. I always promote my blog on there, but I also try to put some funny stuff on there. And it’s a real challenge because you’ve only got 140 characters to work with. And so now, I present, some of my favorite tweets. (Note: When you see the @symbol and someone else’s Twitter name, that means I’m responding to their tweet, the # symbol is called a hashtag and it’s a reference as to what you’re tweeting about.)
My Favorite Monkee The Monkees have always been one of my favorite bands. Their whole story is pretty amazing. After extensive interviews and auditions, Michael Nesmith, Mickey Dolenz, Peter Tork and Davy Jones were put together to be The Monkees for a new TV show that was pitched as a weekly, wacky American version of the The Beatles film, “Help.” The show was a smash success and every episode had The Monkees singing a couple of songs back in those pre-MTV days. It was a genius marketing tool and soon the Monkees were as popular as The Beatles. The show would go on to win two Emmy awards. Some people sniff that they weren’t a real band, but that’s not true at all. Both Michael Nesmith and Peter Tork were accomplished musicians before they became Monkees and Mickey Dolenz and Davy Jones were actors with musical backgrounds. If you want to hear The Monkess as a true band all you have to do is listen to the Headquarters album, outside of the occasional bass (played by producer Chip Douglas) and horns, they played every note and it’s a great album. Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork and Mickey Dolenz all wrote songs that were included on that album. Michael Nesmith was my favorite Monkee and that got me into trouble when it came time for me to be confirmed in the Catholic Church as a young child.
When I was in the fourth grade the year was 1967 and both my brother Jim and I were huge Monkee fans and never missed their show. We bought their 45’s (with a picture sleeve when available) and were proud, card-carrying members of The Monkees fan club. That year my class was scheduled to be confirmed in the spring. It’s funny, I can’t remember getting confirmed, but I do remember the fuss and furor that my selection of a confirmation name brought about.
The grade school I attended back then was named Holy Trinity. Our family lived in Louisville, Kentucky at the time and my teacher’s name was Sister Jude. In my twelve year run of attending Catholic schools I always divide the nuns up into two categories: “Nice” is the first category and “Batshit Crazy” is the second. Sister Jude fell into the Nice category. She never hit anyone (as opposed to other nuns that would kick the living shit out of you for looking crosseyed at a gnat) and only raised her voice when she was really provoked by a student. I got along with her okay and she was a good teacher. It’s hard for me to guess what her age was, because she always had her black and white nun costume on. Her entire nun body was covered shoulder to toe in black and white robes and she wore a black and white type hood over her head so you couldn’t even see her hair. I always wondered if nuns were secretly bald and I used to try to imagine them without their hood revealing a shiny bald noggin. The thought and imagining process repulsed me, but like one can’t help looking at a gruesome car crash with burning bodies and severed limbs flying amongst the shattered glass and mangled steel, I couldn’t stop thinking about bald nuns. Even to this day I’ll while away a quarter of an hour imagining bald nuns. It’s one of the many curses that I can’t shake, despite a year of weekly therapy in my early twenties.
Anyway, as it came time to be confirmed, we were assigned a homework assignment to pick a name of a saint for a confirmation name and a reason why you chose that saint. After school that day I went home and found a book about saints in our family bookcase. It was handily shelved next to our Encyclopedia Britannica Set, the old-school version of Google. I took it over to the couch in our family room and flipped through the pages till I found what I was looking for: St. Michael. And St. Michael wasn’t just an ordinary saint, he was a freaking archangel! He was like a general in the angel world, beautiful! As you can guess, I chose the name Michael, not so much for the saintly qualities, but because Michael Nesmith was my favorite Monkee.
That night our family was gathered around our kitchen table eating and talking. Our dinner was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn. The table was an oblong wooden table and my mom and dad sat at either end and I sat on one side next to my brother Jim. My brother Tom and sister Terry sat on the other side. I’m the youngest, in case you’re wondering. There was a lull in the conversation, so I chimed in with, “I’ve decided what my confirmation name is going to be.”
“That’s great!” My mom replied. “What name did you choose?”
“Michael!” I excitedly answered. I always liked being the center of attention at the dinner table and the spotlight was shining directly upon me.
“Why’d you pick, Michael?” My brother Tom asked.
“Because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee,” I happily explained.
Both my brothers and my sister broke out laughing and my parents shot confused looks at each other and at me.
“I don’t think you should be picking your confirmation name based on your favorite Monkee,” my mom told me while half-laughing.
“Sister Jude said we could pick our own name and St. Michael is an archangel!” I said in my defense.
“I think it’s a great way to pick a confirmation name,” my brother Jim threw out in my defense. He always looked out for me.
My mom gave my dad a “what are we going to do with him” look. This wasn’t the first time I had seen that look and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be the last time I’d see it in my lifetime.
My dad just shook his head and said, “Michael’s okay for your confirmation name,” and dinner went on as scheduled. I think he just wanted to get it over with so he could have another piece of meatloaf, which was fine by me.
My brother Jim and I shared a room and we would talk into the night long after the lights had gone out about everything from school, to other kids we hated, to music.
“So are you going to tell Sister Jude you picked your confirmation name because of Michael Nesmith?” Jim asked in the darkness of our bedroom while everyone else was asleep in the household.
“Yeah,” I told my brother, while halfway falling asleep. “Good,” he replied. Soon we were both asleep.
Morning came too soon as it always has in my life and before I knew it I was in the classroom with my other classmates and I was sitting at my desk. I sat in the middle of the room which housed about twenty three of us. Barbara Kramer sat behind me. I had a huge crush on Barbara Kramer. She was a tiny wisp of a girl with blonde hair and big green eyes. I used to tell her jokes and draw cartoons and give them to her. Usually she’d just roll her eyes at me, but I think she liked the attention.
The morning went by and soon we were eating lunch in the school lunch room where there were long tables and chairs and of course that pungent odor that permeates from all grade school lunchrooms. Kind of a smorgasbord of smells ranging from Lysol, to bad milk, to vomit and back to Lysol again. I don’t remember what we had for lunch, but I’m sure I hated it. I was a picky eater back then and hated most of the lunches and would have to choke them down as you had to eat everything on your plate. My stomach is starting to turn, so let’s move on.
After lunch and a short recess we were back in the classroom seated at our desks and Sister Jude announced that we were to reveal which saint we chose for our confirmation name and why we chose it. She started at the front of the class and would call the person’s name out and the person had to stand up, name the saint and give the reason why they had chosen that particular saint.
As they went down the first row of students, everybody had the same answer, which was, “I chose St. Blahdeblah because he’s the patron saint of Blah.”
Every single kid! How boring. One girl did break out something original. Her name was Cindy Berkman and she said she picked St. Agatha because that was the name of her mother. The whole thing was boring the ever-loving shit out of me and soon I drifted off into a daydream. I was rudely snapped out of it a few minutes later by Sister Jude.
“Marty, I’ve told you not to daydream in class, now stand up and tell us which saint you chose and why,” she ordered out to me in a curt voice.
I came to and looked around and everybody was staring at me. I stood up and looked directly into Sister Jude’s eyes and said, “I chose St. Michael because he’s an archangel and because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee.”
It took about two seconds and all the kids were laughing at me (certainly not with me) and a couple of them were calling me stupid and a jerk. Normally under those circumstances I’d have been embarrassed, but this time I was just pissed off. Their answers sucked, at least mine was original. And speaking of pissed, Sister Jude wasn’t looking too happy with my answer.
She told everyone to quiet down and said to me, “Marty, that’s a not a proper reason to choose your confirmation name.”
“Why not, Sister?” I asked back. I really didn’t get why that couldn’t be a reason and as an adult, I still don’t. In fact it still pisses me off that those assholes didn’t see the originality for the reason of my choice of a confirmation name.
And then she uttered the four words that I hated hearing from an adult when I was a kid. “Because I said so.”
She then told me to go out in the hallway and stand near the coats and think of a better reason as to why I chose St. Michael. I happily marched out and stood by the coats. I never understood why standing in the hallway by the coats was a form of punishment. Personally, I liked it better out by the coats than inside the classroom. I enjoyed looking at the different brands of coats my classmates wore. It was kind of like window shopping without the window. And there was no pressure to buy anything, which is always a plus. I was looking at a yellow raincoat when Margaret Smythe came out in the hallway. I hated her, she was the teacher’s pet and always volunteered to do any stupid little chore that Sister Jude needed done. I’m sure she volunteered for this duty. She had bright red fuzzy hair and was covered in freckles, she actually kind of frightened me. She looked like a cross between a troll doll and a bag of Cheetos Corn Puffs.
“Sister says you have to come back in now,” she dutifully announced and walked back in to the classroom.
I hated to leave the tranquility of the coats and the empty hallway, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I walked back in and Sister Jude told me to stand by my desk. I did as I was told.
“Did you think of another reason why you chose, St. Michael, Marty?” Sister Jude asked. She was halfway smiling at me, but it didn’t last long. “No,” I defiantly said. “I picked St. Michael because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee.”
This time there was no laughter but Tommy King who sat to the left of me looked over and said, “You’re going to hell for saying that!”
“Good,” I said back to him, “that’s where I want to go!”
That little statement shocked him and the rest of the class. Everything got quiet and all the kids were looking at me like I was a little devil-child. I thought it was kind of funny and was pleased with myself for saying it.
Sister Jude broke the silence.
“Okay, both Tommy and Marty are staying after school today,” she announced. “And Marty I want you to apologize to this class for your behavior this afternoon and for that last statement!”
“I apologize for my behavior,” I said. My right arm was behind me and I crossed my fingers behind my back. I was hoping that Barbara Kramer would see it.
Sister told me to sit down and asked Barbara to tell the class who she picked. I don’t remember the saint, but she too went the route of the patron saint routine. That was disappointing to say the least. I decided that maybe I wouldn’t continue to draw cartoons for her anymore.
After the saint fiasco, it was time for English and Sister Jude was writing something on the blackboard.
Barbara tapped my left shoulder and whispered, “Hey.”
I turned around and faced her while Sister Jude was writing on the blackboard and she leaned in and whispered ever-so quietly so the other kids couldn’t hear, “I think you’re the silliest boy I’ve ever known.”
She was smiling at me and I took it as a compliment and I just said one word. “Thanks.” Our eyes interlocked and we stared into each other for probably twenty seconds, but in all the times I’ve remembered this, and its been plenty, it seemed like an eternity. Once we both looked away my stomach went into knots and I felt like I was going to throw up. I immediately turned away and stared at my desk and wondered what I was feeling.
Years later I realized that Barbara Kramer was the first girl I ever fell in love with. I often wonder what has happened to her and what she’s doing these days. She’s probably on facebook announcing to her 737 friends that she’s having Mexican food for dinner.
Bonus Photo! MAD pal, Ruben Sleurink sent in this photo of the Mars Bar all the way from the Netherlands. He found it on James and Karla Murray’s website, check it out here: James and Karla Murray. Thanks Ruben, it reminds me that Easter is almost here, I need to start saving up for pizza!
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Bonus Video! Jerry Rio sent in a link to a cool New York Documentary he did. You can view it right here: Urban Eye: Part 1.
Usually on Tuesday’s, I walk home and write a short story. That didn’t happen yesterday, because I had other plans. So I decided to write one tonight, when I get home. The weather was hellish today, rain, freezing rain and more rain. I haven’t been out since, so let’s see what’s happening outside.
Goddamn, it's cold and rainy and rotten out here, glad I'm going home tonight.
Random street art alert!
Good old Spa Bell, the daughter of Ma. Okay, coming up, "Brother David Glover." But first, a word from our sponsor.
Brother David Glover When I was growing up I really hated school. I hated the way they tried to make you conform, I hated the desks, I hated the lockers (I was always forgetting the stupid combination), I hated a lot of my teachers and I really hated the smell of the lunch room. But of all the things I targeted my teenage hatred and angst at during my school years, none surpassed the blinding hatred I still hold in my heart for one teacher: Brother David Glover.
The high school I attended was a Catholic high school named Bergan. I’m not a religious person now and wasn’t back then either (I’m not knocking it, whatever gets you through the night, it’s just not my cup of tea.) But having said that, I do believe it was a modern miracle that I finally graduated from high school. My one goal in life back then was just to be done with school and move the fuck on with my life. But when I almost got to the finish line, with graduation cap firmly in place, there was one asshole waiting to pull the rug right out from under my feet: Brother David Glover.
I was really excited to get my senior year out of the way and finally graduate and begin my post-school life. The schedule for students at Bergan ran on what was called a “mod” system and no, it wasn’t based on the Small Faces touring schedule. To this day I really don’t know or care what it was all about, but the short story is that you could make your own schedule and apart from classes you had to take there were other electives you could choose from, but you weren’t required to take them. If you took a lot of the required classes your first three years, by the time senior year came, you could have a pretty light schedule and kind of coast through the year. A reward for three years of hard work. And that’s the way I played it. One of the few classes you had to take all four years was religion. You also had to pass all four years or you couldn’t graduate. And I think by now you can guess who my religion teacher was my senior year. Yes, that’s right: Brother David Glover. In addition to the regular teachers at Bergan, there were also “Brothers” who taught there. I never really cared enough to research as to what a “Brother” was or what duties or activities they pursued. I don’t know if they still have them today, but back then, they were kind of like junior priests. They didn’t wear a costume like a priest, but you addressed them as “Brother.” Maybe today you can call them, “Bro.” Anyway, my senior religion teacher was Brother Glover and there was something about this guy that really made my skin crawl backwards and gave me a major dose of the creeps.
“Slithery” is the best word I can come up with to describe his demeanor. He was a quiet man. The kind of man who never makes a peep until they discover the heads of the entire Maple Street Boy Scout troop in his refrigerator, neatly stacked on top of one another. He had slightly long, straw-like brown hair and a wiry moustache that was only about halfway grown in. He kind of looked like a psycho version of Gene Wilder. Sometimes I’d see him riding a bike around Peoria and he would have a black beret on his head, kind of like a Jesus-loving mix of the Wicked Witch of the West and Pepe Le Pew. That’s a vision, I’ll likely never get out of my head, and one that tortures me to this day. From day one I didn’t like him and he sure as shit didn’t like me either. Back then I and most of my friends were smoking pot morning, noon and night. Religion class was right after lunch, I think about three days a week and I can remember sneaking outside to smoke a joint before most of the classes. On the odd days I wasn’t high on pot, I was probably zonked out on acid or mushrooms. Hey, it was 1976, what can I tell you?
Two of my best friends in high school were in that class with me, Tim Hennessey and Lee Ann Schwindenhammer and we always sat next to each other and kind of made a mockery of the whole proceedings. And, I’m not bragging about this (Tim is still a great friend and reads this blog and I think he’ll verify it), but I was the one that truly put the word, “mock” in back in mockery in that class. I know it’s shocking news, but I was a real wise-ass and troublemaker back then. Brother Glover and I clashed immediately. I can’t recall what started our private little war, but I’m sad to say when it was all over and the battlefield had been cleared, he had won.
As I said, myself, Tim and Lee Ann all sat next to each other in the class. And we’d all clown around. One of my favorite things to do was to sneak a dollar bill out of Lee Ann’s purse and draw all over it with a magic marker, rendering it useless for anything other than framing. Sometimes I’d turn George Washington into Hitler with four menacing swastikas in the corners and the next day maybe I’d turn him into Bozo the Clown in a sea of daisies. We’d all laugh at the money-ruining proceedings and Brother Glover would watch us, but he’d never say anything. That’s one of the many things I hated about this guy. He was kind of a hippie Brother and let it be known that he wasn’t into punishments or “laying the law down,” but I knew our shenanigans really bugged the living daylights out of him and I made it my goal to make him crack that year and scream at me. Anything to break that phony pacifist veneer of his, because I knew in my gut he was living a lie. He wasn’t a true pacifist, I could see it in his eyes and I don’t like liars.
Most days he’d pass out mimeographed sheets of paper to all of us. I don’t know what was on them because as soon as he would hand the paper to me, I’d squash it into a tight little ball and throw it back in his face. Tim, Lee Ann and the other kids would nervously laugh, but he never said a word. And this went on for the entire year. He’d hand me the paper—boom, back in his face. He never acknowledged it, but I do remember a slight twitch developing in his right eye after about four months.
Another thing I liked to do, was put my hand up in the air and when he’d call my name out to see what I wanted, my response was to say, “What?”
“You had your hand up, is there something you wanted to say,” Brother Glover would ask in his Peter Lorre-like creep-a-zoid voice that sounded just like velvet that had been marinated in cat urine for a fortnight or two. If velvet could talk that is.
“No, just giving my arm a little air,” I’d calmly reply. The other kids would laugh and Brother Glover would give me a look. It’s hard to explain the look he would give me. I’ve never encountered one like it since and I hope I never do again. It wouldn’t last long, maybe 17 seconds or so, but it was one of pure, burning hatred. And it was exactly that look that proved he wasn’t a true pacifist.
That’s what I especially hated about Brother Glover, the fact that he hated my fucking guts and I know if he could’ve killed me, tortured me or done anything to make my existence a horrible and horrifying one, he’d have done it. But he couldn’t without blowing his pacifist “Brother” charade and it was clear, that this was the only type of “work” that this psycho was capable of. Without his “Brotherhood,” he’d probably be homeless, sleeping in a gutter of his own piss while clinging on to that goddamn precious beret for the rest of his stinking life.
And true, I hated him as well, but I didn’t wish him any harm, I just wanted him out of my life for good. I didn’t want to be around him, so I taunted him to let him know it. At least I was being honest. Plus I was usually stoned to the bejesus belt and so I really shouldn’t have been held accountable for my actions. And so the year wore on. I’d go to Brother Glover’s religion class, draw on Lee Ann’s dollar bills, yuk it up with Tim and throw mimeographed wads of paper at Brother Glover’s twitching, silent face of hate. This went on until about a week before school was over. Graduation was within the reach of my greedy little mitts. It was like a carrot dangling in front of a starving bunny rabbit. Freedom was in the air and it was indeed a sweet aroma. I’ve never liked uniforms, but I was more than happy to don that cap and gown for a couple hours and finally be released from high school hell. One thing was about to stop all that from happening, though: Brother David Glover.
With only a day or two left in the school year, I found myself in the principal’s office and it’s funny, I can’t even recall the principal’s name, now. I think it might have been Brother Mark or something, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I was told I had achieved something no other student in Bergan’s fine history had accomplished: I had flunked religion.
Those words echoed in my head and bounced around my brain like a pinball pinging around at the speed of sound.
I had flunked religion. I wasn’t going to graduate. FUCK! I felt like Billy in the movie, “Midnight Express,” when he finds out his sentence in the Turkish jail had been switched to life. Gecmis olsun. May it pass quickly.
To be honest, I don’t know why I hadn’t see this coming. I hadn’t done any homework all year, I taunted Brother Glover unmercilessly and I had used his face for target practice with my mimeograph paper balls. I felt sick but I soon learned there was a way out.
I was told to show up at school that Saturday at ten in the morning and report to the room where Brother Glover’s class was held and I’d be given a special test. If I passed it, my grade would be elevated to a D and I could graduate. It dawned on me later that they didn’t want me around there for another year either, so they devised a way out for me.
I didn’t want to take the stupid test, especially on a Saturday morning. I worked after school and on weekends at a drug store and I knew they’d be pissed that I’d be taking the morning off. Plus it would be costing me money, since I wouldn’t be getting paid. But you can’t put a price on freedom, so at 10 am sharp, I reported to Brother Glover’s classroom.
I walked to the room and stopped in the open doorway. There, alone in the room sat Brother David Glover at his desk. The morning sun was shining in through the window. I stood there for around 30 long seconds of silence. The two of us just stared at each other. Finally the silence was broken.
“Come in,” Brother Glover said in that shrill, spine-tingling voice of his.
Like a man walking his last lonely mile to the hanging post, I slowly entered the room and walked over to his battleship-gray metallic desk. No further words were to be spoken. He just held up a sheet of paper and I took it and walked to a desk in the front of the classroom. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, so I just surrendered. What else could I do?
I sat down and looked at the paper. There were questions on it and it was a mimeographed piece of paper. I looked up and Brother Glover was staring at me. A faint smile was on his face. It took every ounce of control that I had in me not to wad that mimeographed piece of paper up into a ball and shove it right down his scrawny chicken-like throat. I took a deep breath and I looked back at the paper and read the first question.
“Do you believe in God?” it read.
“Yes, I believe in God,” I wrote in the answer area.
Next question. “Do you believe that God is an all-knowing and honest God?” it read.
“Yes,” I wrote in the answer area, “I believe that God is honest and all-knowing.”
All total there was about twelve questions like this. You’d have to have been the world’s biggest idiot not to be able to pass it. I didn't necessarily believe in all my answers, I just wrote what they wanted me to write. And that was the whole point of it. They had me doing what they wanted me to do and there was fuck-all I could do about it. It was really a pathetic feeling for me, but I had to graduate and get out of that place.
I finished it in about five to ten minutes and walked up and put it on his desk. He looked it over and just nodded and smiled at me. I couldn’t stand to look at his creepy-ass face and my eyes darted to his desk. There in the right corner of his gray desktop sat that fucking black beret. My blood ran cold. I spun around and walked as fast as I could out of there. When I got outside, I ran to my car and floored it out of the parking lot. Sometimes in life you enter battles you can’t possibly win. This was one of them. Brother David Glover knew from day one that he held the winning hand in our year long game of poker. I was too stoned and drunk on my success of making a mockery out of his class to realize this until it was too late. He won and I lost. That’s all there is to it. I was taught in life that if you’re honestly defeated, you take it like a man and move on to the next challenge and try to do a little better. My parents taught me that and they are good people.
I never saw Brother David Glover again in my life. But if our paths ever do cross again, I hope there’s a big, honking stack of mimeographed paper nearby.He won't know what fucking hit him.
Elizabeth Taylor died yesterday. One of my favorite movies of all time is, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff,” starring herself and her husband at the time, Richard Burton. The movie mirrored their own rocky relationship (they were married and divorced twice) and they both turn in great performances. Here’s my five favorite pieces of dialogue between George (Richard Burton) and Martha (Elizabeth Taylor.)
Martha: I swear, if you existed, I'd divorce you.
George: Martha, in my mind you're buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose, it's much quieter.
Martha: You make me puke. George: That wasn't a very nice thing to say, Martha.
Martha: [derogatorily, to George] Hey, swamp! Hey swampy! George: Yes, Martha? Can I get you something? Martha: Ah, well, sure. You can, um, light my cigarette, if you're of a mind to. George: No. There are limits. I mean, a man can put up with only so much without he descends a rung or two on the old evolutionary ladder, which is up your line. Now, I will hold your hand when it's dark and you're afraid of the boogeyman and I will tote your gin bottles out after midnight so no one can see but I will not light your cigarette. And that, as they say, is that. Martha: Jesus.
Martha: Well, you're going bald. George: So are you. --------------------------
Neon Lights/My Favorite Concert @11:09 pm Chelsea I thought tonight I’d take pictures of neon lights on the way home and then write about my favorite concert in my life. I wrote about this once in a MySpace blog (anybody remember MySpace?) so I apologize if you’ve read it before. But I’m going to write it fresh tonight. I like re-writing stories, you always remember something different than the first time you wrote it. Anyway let’s look for neon, Leon.
We'll take a stroll down 7th Avenue towards my home base and fortress of solitude.
I've noticed a lot of deli's have three line neon signs. Kind of like deli haiku. Except they don't worry about the whole five, seven, five thingy.
More deli haiku.Sandwiches, bagels, coffee. Simple and to the point.
Nice! They've taken deli haiku to a higher level and done it in a sweeping circular motion. Impressive!
Oh, geez. I hate to be critical, but Chinese Food, do you have to insert your phone number in your version of deli haiku? It's so...commercial. If you just want to advertise, please stay away from the deli haiku style.
When you're ready to leave, this place will literally give you the boot! I'm killing myself over here, I smell ya!
This place is right next door and I don't know, they're kind of trying a little too hard. "While U Wait" and "Same Day Service," just spell neon redundancy to me.
Food groups are always represented in the world of neon. Pizza!
Love the steam coming off of the chicken!
Hello Burger!
And a bottle of Negra Modelo to wash it all down with.
Hey Papaya King? You seeing this over here? Live and learn, my friend!
And Sleepy's lives up to her name. The neon here is shut down for the night, they close early...hey, do you think she's sleeping with the Papaya King? Careful Papaya King, Sleepy's husband is 1-800-MATTRESS. He claims they leave off the final "S" for savings, but I think it's a code for shotgun. Watch out, King, you don't want to get your hot dog blown off!
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The Papaya Dialogues!
And speaking of the Papaya King, our conversation continues at Twitter. When I came home tonight, there was a Tweet from the Papaya King waiting for me. Here it is:
It's nice that he likes the blog, but on he's got to try a little harder. Here's my reply:
Stay tuned for further Papaya Dialogues with the Papaya King here at MAD. Now onto the weekly Tuesday Night Short Story. Enjoy!
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My Favorite Concert In the summer of 1979 I moved into an apartment in Indianapolis, Indiana from my hometown of Peoria, Illinois. I was 21-years-old and I had taken a job with a Safety Products company and would be selling safety products there. That was my “territory.” A couple weeks after settling in, my brother Jim came to see me for a weekend and I had tickets for the two of us to go see Cheap Trick in concert.
Cheap Trick has always been one of my favorite bands and I was psyched to go. The concert was on a Saturday and my brother showed up on Friday. I can’t remember what we did that Friday night, but I’m sure it involved drinking and if I remember correctly I think we were doing speed as well. And I’m not glamorizing or recommending booze or drugs, but in my defense, I was 21-years-old, it was 1979 and I was a complete mess and an idiot at the time. I’m happy to say I’m not so much of a mess anymore.
Anyway, the fateful night came and we went to a bar before the show and had many drinks. Then we went to a liquor store and Jim got a bottle of Jack Daniels and I got a bottle of Southern Comfort for the show. We piled back into my car and drove to the arena where the concert was being held. The seating was “festival seating” meaning first come, first served. There was a throng of kids piled up at the door and it was turning into an ugly mess. (About six months later, 11 people were trampled to death at a Who concert and that put an end to “festival seating.”)
We stashed our bottles inside of our jackets (nobody searched you back then and nobody really cared what you brought in as long as you weren’t obvious about it walking past, “security”) and wormed our way into the crowd. After about twenty minutes being pushed, jostled and being way closer to this smelly fat guy than I ever wanted to be, the doors were flung open. I remember feeling like I wasn’t even in control of my movements, my legs and body just jerked along with the mass movement of the crowd. We found seats off to the side of the stage that weren’t too bad and sat down. Jim was on the aisle and I was seated to his right. As soon as we sat down two kids came bounding up to the aisle and pointed at the two seats next to us.
“Those seats taken?” One of them asked.
“Nope,” I replied, “knock yourself out, Ringo.”
I don’t know why, but when I called him Ringo, Jim and I both cracked up. We got up, let the two kids in and we all settled in our seats. Soon the entire arena was one big marijuana cloud and people were pulling out bottles and cans of beer. Security guards looked the other way, as long as you weren’t killing anyone. These were rent-a-cops making minimum wage and all they wanted was to get the show over and collect their dough. Unless you hassled them, they pretty much left you alone.
After about a half an hour the house lights went off and people started hooting and hollering and the first band came out. I can’t remember the name of them, but they were a low-level Southern rock band who had a minor hit at the time. They were horrible and nobody was really listening. It was then that we sat down and pulled out our booze. We each had bought a fifth of our particular brand. I know it sounds like a lot, but my brother and I were always of the mindset that it is far better to have way extra, than not enough if you can swing it. There’s nothing worse than running out, especially if you’re all cranked out on some sort of drug like speed or acid. I have many sorrowful memories of being gooned out of my gourd on one thing or another and opening the refrigerator to one of the most horrific sights in the world: One lone beer. And you knew you’d be up climbing the walls for at least four more hours. Sure, there were a few all night convenience stores in Peoria, but sometimes it would be a real chore to navigate there and pull off the purchase without going directly to jail. Anyway, that’s why we always over-bought if our wallets permitted.
As I had a belt out of my bottle of Southern Comfort I glanced to my right and the two kids were staring at Jim and I. One of them kind of looked like a lankier version of Beaver Cleaver and the other had braces and patches of zits all over his face. They both had hair down to their shoulders and couldn’t have been over 16-years-old.
I leaned over to Jim and said, “Watch this.”
Then I leaned into the Beaver Cleaver look-a-like and said, “You want a slug?” I held the bottle out for him to grab.
He smiled and looked at his friend and said, “Sure!”
Pretty soon the four of us were passing the bottles back and forth. Right after Cheap Trick hit the stage to a thundering welcome, my brother lit up a joint, which our new found pals were happy to indulge in. Soon they were pretty well out of their minds. Everybody was on their feet and Cheap Trick was putting on a great show, as they always do. About twenty minutes into the set, Rick Nielson banged out the familiar opening chords to their anthemic song, “Surrender.” Everybody was on their feet clapping and singing. My next memory of this show always plays out in slow motion, because that’s the way it seemed to happen that night. Rick Nielson had just started his solo on his black and white checkered guitar. Beaver Cleaver let out a whoop, jumped up in the air and fell down on me. I grabbed him before he fell into his seat.
“You okay?” I screamed at him.
“Yeah, I’m fucking great!” He slurred back.
I wasn’t so sure, he didn’t look too good. And that’s when it happened. I think to prove to me that he was fine, he stood up straight, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Rock...”
I think the next two words he wanted to shout were, “and roll,” but the next thing you know, his hands flew down to his stomach and instead of words, a steady stream of vile and violent vomit came spewing out of his pie hole. All over the woman if front of us.
She let out a scream and her boyfriend looked at her and froze for a second. He was a big guy, with short hair and the both of them were dressed a little too nicely for your standard 1979 Cheap Trick concert. In fact, my brother was a little nervous the guy was cop or a narc when they first got in their seats. We relaxed when someone passed him a joint and he took a hit off of it. After staring at his girlfriend and assesing the situation, he turned around and stared daggers at Beaver and his buddy. I grabbed Beaver and kind of pushed him out towards the aisle and yelled one word.
“Run!”
He took off with his friend close behind. The cop-looking guy grabbed his girlfriend and they hightailed it out of there. I looked at my brother and we started laughing our fucking asses off. We continued to laugh all through the concert and afterwards we went to a bar and told the story to anyone who would listen to it and even those that wouldn’t: "The tale of the teen that couldn’t puke straight."
I’ve told that story thousands of times and I never get tired of telling it. I always wonder what that kid is doing today. I’d like to buy him a beer for making that Cheap Trick concert my favorite concert of all time.
Some Things I Did Before Work Today Checked my email. I got an email from the band Night Ranger announcing, “Pre-sale tickets for the 2011 Eclipse Tour.” Really, Night Ranger? Pre-saletickets? Shouldn’t you just be worried about selling just plain old tickets? You are Night Ranger after all. Listened to Cheap Trick’s first album. Had a craving for M & M’s. Massaged and rubbed my itchy eyeballs.
The Donut Pub @11:07 pm Chelsea Okay, last night we found out that sometimes no destination can be an okay place indeed. But tonight I have a place to go to and I know it’ll be open, because it never closes. One of my fears doing the 365 blog last year was that I would have to work late some night and all the bars would be closed. Well, I had an ace up my sleeve and that card was the Donut Pub on 14th Street in Chelsea that's open 24 hours. It’s a “pub” so technically I wouldn’t have been out of bounds. Well, I never had to play that card, so tonight I’m flipping it on the table. It’s off to the Donut Pub we go.
Another shitty, rainy night out here. Blah.
Fuck you Dunkin' Donuts, I'm going to a real, LOCAL, donut shop.
This is a festive block in Chelsea, it's always lit up. We're almost there.
And here we are, The Donut Pub! I love their neon signage.
Just like the sign says, everything is baked here fresh.
Some muffins on display in the front window.
And since it's such a rotten rainy night, there's plenty of seats at the marble-topped bar.
The selection dwindles a little at night, but still a nice looking bunch of donuts and pastries.
And there's cookies too. I think they have the best black and white in town. But we're here for a donut tonight, so I ordered the marble glazed.
And this gentlemen brought it along with the diet Pepsi I ordered. If you're curious why I'm not drinking coffee, there's a story explaining it after the photos.
I see all...with the donut eye!
Delicious and fresh!
Some of the choices on the menu near the ceiling.
Another view of the bar.
Here's a painting in the back area of the Donut Pub. It's a cool painting, but I think somebody slipped a hit of acid into the painters jelly donut.
You can get your very own Donut Pub coffee mug right here.
I've never seen the donut cake, but have always been intrigued by the marvelous concept.
Here's an article from the Daily News about when Dunkin' Donuts moved in just a few doors down. Too bad the Donut Pub kicked that chain's ass all the way off the block! Everybody stayed loyal to the Pub and I was proud of my neighborhood for ignoring a chain.
A long shot of the marble bar.
There's a marble railing to set your donut down and lean on, if the bar is filled up.
Okay, its out the door...
And back into the rainy night. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
------------------------------- Coffee Talk
I don’t drink coffee. I never have and I never will. In fact I’ve only had one sip of java my whole life and that is truly a painful memory, but one I’ll share with you.
I think I had just turned 12-years-old and I remember sitting at the breakfast table with my family. I was drinking grape juice and my mom was making breakfast for everyone. All of a sudden my dad turned to me and said, “You’re getting to be a young man now, why don’t you have a cup of coffee?”
It felt nice to be singled out and I was pleased my dad thought of me as a young man. So I happily trotted over to the kitchen cupboard, got a coffee cup and poured coffee into it from the shiny, stainless steel pot on the kitchen counter.
“Blow on it a little, so you don’t burn your mouth,” My mom instructed.
I cocked my head to the left, rolled my eyeball’s towards heaven and all it allows and said, “Duh!” By the way, this was decades before Charlie Sheen made it the catchphrase of the moment. And I am in no way claiming to have invented, “Duh!” I’m just throwing that out there for the record.
So I blew on the mysterious, steaming, inky-black liquid, put the cup to my lips and I took a small sip. It took about one and a half seconds for the taste to kick in and when it did I ran to the sink to spit that foul shit out of my mouth.
Everybody laughed and my mom asked what was wrong.
“Coffee tastes horrible!” I said right before I rinsed my mouth out with water.
Once again my family laughed at me and my dad tried to explain coffee to me.
“You’ve got to acquire a taste for coffee,” he explained. “If you drink it every day, you’ll learn to like it.”
“I’m not going to, I’ll never drink coffee again,” I defiantly shot back.
My dad just wearily shook his head and said, “Fine, do whatever you want to do.”
I went back to my grape juice and grabbed the comics page out of the newspaper pile on the table. I turned to Beetle Bailey to get that horrific moment out of my head. I can’t remember the plot of that day’s strip, but it probably involved Beetle Bailey loafing and Sarge beating the shit out of the hapless Private. I’ve always wished that Beetle Bailey would grab an M-16 rifle and spray that fucking lardass Sarge with a liberal dose of “friendly fire.” Anyway, I digress, back to coffee.
I’ve never understood, “acquiring a taste to like something.” I guess if you ate mud every day it might eventually become palatable, but why if you don’t like it in the first place? I’ve had people give me attitude when I tell them I don’t drink coffee. Somebody once actually said to me, “You can’t be a real New Yorker if you don’t drink coffee.” And this person lives in Staten Island. I’m not even going to go there. Staten Island, that is!
Hey, if you like coffee, great, have a pot of it. Go swim in a pond of that shit and knock yourself right the fuck out. But quit trying to ram that foul fluid down my gullet and stop looking at me like I’m crazier than three fiddlers playing unstringed violins when I say, “No, thanks, I hate coffee, I never drink it and I never will.” If I need a caffeine boost, I’ll have a diet Mountain Dew, please and thank you.
Oh, and I’ve had people say to me (in superior tones, no less), “I bet you didn’t like beer the first time you drank that!”
And you know what? I didn’t. I’m still not that hog-wild over the taste of beer. I’d much prefer a cold lemonade over a cold beer, if we’re just talking taste. But beer has one little, teensy-weensy thing going for it: If you drink a lot of it you get really fucked up. If you drink a lot of coffee you just get edgy and your nervous system goes all Barney Fife on your ass.
So beer trumps coffee any old day of the week. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a review to write. Time for a diet Mountain Dew. -------------------------------
Review A Dunkin’ Donuts had the sheer audacity to set up shop just doors away from the Donut Pub a few years ago and got its ass kicked in by the Pub and now it’s shuttered. Score one for a local merchant.
The Donut Pub has been on the block for over 40 years and is one of the best donut huts in Manhattan. The place is sparkling clean and there’s almost always a seat at the bar to relax and enjoy the calm ambiance and fresh food that awaits. The staff is friendly and the crowd is mostly locals from the neighborhood, but newbies are always welcome and treated as warmly as the coffee that’s poured alongside the tasty, circular treats. I’ve heard that the java here is first-rate, but, ahem, I’ve never had any.
Donuts are the star of the show here and they’ve got pretty much everything covered here. Different varieties of old fashioned, donut rings, filled donuts, pastries, buns, muffins and twists are all on display behind the counter. In addition to sweet, there’s also savory with a nice selection of bagels, soups and nine different sandwiches including: chicken salad, ham & swiss, turkey and a ham, bacon and egg sandwich on a fresh roll.
Stop by and enjoy a slice of old school New York via a freshly frosted chocolate donut.
Chelsea Papaya @11:23 pm Chelsea On Wednesdays I go out and find late night workers to take photos of. So far I’ve gone to Penn Station and took photos of people in action and last week I covered people selling food from food carts on the street. Tonight’s is going to be a little different. The other night while walking home I looked over and noticed that there’s a psychic in a building who was still open at 11pm. I’ve only been to a psychic once since I’ve lived here and that was for my “99 Beers” and admittedly I did it for a goof and a story. Tonight I’m actually curious to meet someone who makes their living by being a psychic. I don’t know if this psychic will let me take photos, if not I’ll have to wing it and do something else. I could’ve called, but then that would take all the fun out of it. Let’s go, I bet she already knows we’re on our way.
Okay, here's the place I was going to go. I called before I left work and then at the last minute I asked if I could take photos for my blog and she said no. She's up on top of this building let's go see her sign.
It's really windy out and her sign is blown over. Wouldn't you think she'd know this? And whoops, I accidentally wiped out her phone number. No pictures, no free advertising for you!
Luckily, last night on my way home when I was crossing over on 23rd Street, I saw another psychic's store front sign and they were open late. Let's check it out, but I don't have a good feeling about this.
Okay, here we are at psychic number two. Let's see if we can pull this off.
Okay, I buzzed the buzzer and some guy sounded annoyed and said they were closed. Here's a little psychic hint for you people, if you don't want people ringing your buzzer, TURN YOUR FUCKING SIGN OFF! I knew this wasn't going to go good...hey, maybe I'm a psychic. Wait...I see a vision...in my future...
A hot dog!
There's a Chelsea Papaya on the corner! I know I said I was going to only cover these places on Mondays, but what the hell, this new blog is all about improvising, so let's go check it out.
Like all good Papaya stands, this one never closes. The bad news is there's no beer here.
Here's the front window, let's go see who's in there.
Look at this vision of loveliness in the window! Let's go in and say hi.
Her name's Tiffany and she stopped by for a quick snack. She was not only super-cute, but super-nice. Nice to meet you Tiffany!
Before we get in line, let's check out some of the signage in here.
They have shrimp in here, I don't know if any other Papaya offers this.
They have corn dogs here, but since there's no beer...
I'm going to go with the specialty of the house, the all beef hot dog for just $1.50.
Abdul is the gentleman behind the counter and he readies the dog and slathers some mustard on it.
And baboom! Here it is in all its Papaya glory.
Let's walk over to the eating area and try it out for size.
It looks just like the vision I had, amazing!
And the dog is gone. Delicious. Let's take another look around before we leave.
Ketchup and mustard, side by side, the Papaya's version of Ebony and Ivory.
Here's the papaya vats for their drinks. You know in all my years of eating at Papaya joints, I've never had a papaya drink, I'll have to try one at the next stop.
Okay, one last glace at the neon dog in the window...
And it's out into the night we go. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Papaya Rating The Chelsea Papaya is a nice Papaya stand, and the hot dog there was delicious. The staff were friendly and there were some nice people milling around. No loud drunks were in here and Charlie Sheen is on the other side of the country so everyone felt at ease in there, even though it was after hours. I’ll rate this one above the Hell’s Kitchen location because that one is closed now, but below the Penn Station on because the Penn Station one has beer. So, here’s my Papaya order so far: 3. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya because it’s not there anymore. 2. Chelsea Papaya, it’s clean, people were nice in there, but there’s no beer. 1. Penn Station Papaya...they’ve got beer!
Stay tuned to see who wins in the ratings of the Papaya Wars only here on MAD! Chelsea Papaya 171 W 23rd St.(between 6th and 7th Ave.) 212-352-9060
MAD commenter Jaws has been M.I.A a good portion of this week. It seems some hackers hacked his computer and infected it with a nasty virus. Jaws is back and sent in this piece of art demonstrating what he'd like to do to those nasty old hackers! Welcome back, Jaws!
Walking Home After Work/Mr. Bard @12:20 am Chelsea A lot of people have dogs in New York. And most of these people live in apartments, so they must walk their dogs. You see people out at all hours walking their pooches, so I thought I’d try and get some after dark photos of New Yorker’s out and about walking the dog.
Okay, full disclosure here. While it sounds like the introduction to these are written right before I walk out the door of my night job, a lot of times I write them in advance. I had the dogwalker idea last night and wrote the introduction today before I came in to work. Well, it turns out I had to work late and it's after midnight, I'm beat after working over 12 hours and it's rainy and shitty out here. But that's the beauty of this blog as opposed to the 365. A year ago I would've had to go to a bar and whooped it up and while that sounds like fun, it's not when you feel like shit, which is precisely how I feel right now. So I've decided to snap a few photos on my way home and then write a story for this in lieu of a lot of photos. Since tonight I was going to take pictures of pets, I think I'll write about the only pet I had during my adult life. But first, a few photos.
Holy shitballs, I almost stepped in this! That would've freaked me out.
Holy smokes...oh wait, I used that last night...never mind. Let's move on.
Ha! Good luck getting a cab on a night like this! Glad I live within walking distance.
Well, let's go in to this deli and I'll show you exactly what I'm drinking.
THIS is what I'm drinking. Oh, and thanks for asking!
Okay, a couple soggy blocks and I'll go home and write my story. This is another thing I like about this blog, I get to write more. I didn't write much last year doing the 365 blog, because I was so beat all the time, so it's nice to write some short stories again. The tale will be right below this when I finish it. Till then, goodnight everybody and I'll see you tomorrow after dark.
Mr. Bard
Growing up my family had a variety of dogs as pets, but since I’ve been on my own, I only had one pet. It was a bird I named, Mr. Bard. He was a green and grey cockatiel and a great little pet and friend. I bought him from a woman in 1988 who was a friend of a friend. She raised birds to sell as pets and I bought the cockatiel from her. I named the bird, Mr. Bard, after a neighbor we had when I was about five-years-old.
We moved to Louisvile, Kentucky when I was five and there was an old guy who lived across the street. He was retired and loved to work in his yard and garden. He had white hair and kind of looked like the guy who played Perry White on the old Superman show. My older brother Jim and I used to go and help him garden and do yard work. He had Parkinson’s disease and he was in a constant state of shakiness and this fascinated my brother and I. I remember once eating some corn with a spoon and shaking it all over my plate. After watching me do this repeatedly I remember my mom asking me what I was doing.
“I’m playing a game called, “Mr. Bard,” I explained.
I remember my mom laughing and telling me that it wasn’t funny all at the same time. I think that’s when I first discovered sick humor and I’ve always appreciated Mr. Bard for allowing me to laugh at the dark moments of life. So I thought it was the perfect name for my new bird.
We settled in well together. I bought him a huge cage and all kinds of toys and things to eat. And that first night I discovered that we had one thing in common, we both loved beer!
After I got him settled in to his cage, I took him back out and walked him around my apartment and showed him around. The cool thing about Mr. Bard was that the woman I bought him from hand-trained him, so he wouldn’t fly around when he was out of his cage. He loved to ride on my shoulder, pirate style when I was walking around, but if I was sitting in a chair or reading a magazine or book lying down, he’d just walk around, either on me or nearby. It was kind of like having a tiny little feathered dog. The first night I had him I went to the refrigerator and popped open a can of Budweiser. The popping noise intrigued him and he walked down my arm and up to my wrist and was looking at the can. I took a sip brought it back down and he stuck his beak into the rim and lapped up a little of the beer. I swear by the end of the night and after about eight beers, he was kind of staggering, so I put him in his cage and put a sheet over it and let him sleep it off.
I got up the next morning, took off the sheet and he was sitting there on his swing. He woke up, looked around and immediately swooped down to his water and took a nice long drink. I think he had cotton mouth. After he was done drinking he started chirping like crazy and I took him out of his cage and let him ride around on my shoulder.
The next day I had to go to work. I worked the third shift back then and had to be to work at 11:00 pm. I didn’t want to put the sheet on the cage, because I wanted him to have the same hours as me, so I left the lights on and put him in his cage and when I put on my jacket he must’ve sensed I was leaving and he went nuts. He was hanging on to the side of his cage and he started squawking like crazy. He did this the day before when I left, but I was hoping he’d get used to being alone, it didn’t look like this was the case.
“Shut up, I’ll be back in about nine hours,” I said to him.
He just kept going nuts, so I walked out of my apartment and locked the door. I stood there and he continued to sqawk and caw for over five minutes. I had to go to work, but I was afraid if he kept that up all night my neighbors would start to complain.
I went to work that night and got back home around 7:30 in the morning. I lived on the second floor and as soon as I opened up the door I could hear him squawking.
“Fuck,” I said to myself and ran up the stairs. I opened the door to his cage, threw it open and he was hanging in the same spot as when I left him. He was making all kinds of noise, I ran to his cage and threw open the door and stuck my hand in and he hopped on my finger.
“You gotta knock this shit off, I’m going to get complaints and then I’ll have to throw your ass out of here,” I told him. He didn’t seem the slight bit fazed, so I went and got a beer. I swear when I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the can, he let out a happy chirp. This bird brain was already a booze-hound! The two of us drank beer and I watched the Today Show and listened to some music. About one in the afternoon, both of us were half-stewed and tired. I put him in his cage, put a sheet over it, turned out the lights and went to bed. That evening I got up, ate dinner and fucked around till it was time to go to work. I was hoping Mr. Bard wouldn’t pitch a fit again, but the same fucking thing happened.
This time he knew for sure I was leaving so he battled me on going back into his cage. He flew away from me and landed up on a light hanging from the ceiling. He was staring down at me and I know he was thinking, “Tough luck asshole, I can fly and you can’t.”
I could’ve had his wings clipped, but he liked to fly around the apartment occasionally and I thought that would be an unnatural and mean thing to do to him. I didn’t want him flying around loose when I was gone though. There’d be bird shit all over the apartment when I got home. Then I thought of a way to trick him.
“Okay, fuck it, I won’t go to work, let’s see how you like it when I run out of bird food and I can’t afford to buy anymore for you to eat,” I said to him taking off my jacket and throwing it on the couch. He perked up a little when I did that. Then I went to the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator and walked out with a can of beer. He saw the can and flew right down to my arm. I grabbed him and put him in his cage and he went nuts and did the hanging on the side bit while squawking up a storm. This happened every night and the couple that lived next door never complained. I was amazed, but relieved.
I had had Mr. Bard for about two weeks when I ran into Caroline, one half of the couple who lived next door to me. I didn’t see her or her husband Robert very often because we kept different hours. They were early-risers and I think went to bed between 10 pm and midnight, so we were on opposite clocks. They were kind of straight-laced people, but we got along fine. I didn’t have people over a lot, but if I did I always told them to knock on the door if it was too loud and they never did. Anyway, it was a Saturday night around nine in the evening and I was leaving to go meet some friends. Mr. Bard was going through his squawking routine as I locked the door.
“Hey, stranger, when do I get to meet your bird?” A voice rang out in the hallway. It was Caroline and she was carrying a bag of groceries.
I said hi and then said, “I hope his squawking isn’t driving you two nuts, he goes crazy when I leave, he doesn’t like to be alone,” I explained as she set the bag on the ground.
She laughed and said, “It’s the nuttiest thing, we can hear him chirping when you leave, but as soon as you’re out of the building he stops. Then in the morning about five minutes before you come home, he starts up again. Somehow he knows the time of morning when you come home.”
“That little fucker,” I said, “I was actually worried it was bugging the shit out of you guys, but you were being nice and not saying anything about it. I was also worried about him and that he was hanging on the side of his cage going nuts for nine hours every night!”
Caroline laughed and said, “Believe me, if he did that all through the night, you’d have heard from us. We’re always up at night when you leave and when he starts his morning thing, we’re having our coffee, It makes us laugh.”
I always thought that it was nuts that he knew when I was coming home. We settled in nicely together and he was a great pet and beer drinking buddy. But five years later I decided to move to New York. There is a way to have a bird sent somewhere, but cockatiels are indoor birds and they can easily catch a cold if outside and that leads to pneumonia and that’s how a lot of them die. Plus my apartment in New York was tiny and there was no way to fit the huge cage in there. It would be too much of a hassle to have him there, I hated to think about giving him away, but the only other alternative was to take him to a vet and have him take that last flight into the sky via a lethal injection, and there was no way I was doing that.
I had some resumes being printed at a local print shop and I went to go pick them up. I knew the manager, Don and told him about the move to New York. I also told him about the Mr. Bard situation. This caught his interest.
“My dad lives out in the country and he’s got about six birds, all in different cages,” Don told me. “He might want it, are you giving him away?”
This sounded perfect. I told him I was not only giving him away, but his dad could have the cage for free. I told him I had paid over a 70 bucks for it, but I wanted it to go with Mr. Bard. Don said his dad would be real interested. Then I told Don he was hand-trained and you could keep him out of his cage. That did it. Don said his dad always wanted a bird that you could let out of his cage, he told me to hang on and he called him right then and there. Don talked to him and when he hung up he said his dad would take Mr. Bard.
Two months later I was about a week away from moving and Don drove out to my apartment. The day had come, it was time to take Mr. Bard to his new home. I had bought a little cage for him to travel in. Don had a pickup truck and we could put his large cage in the back. I had his food and toys packed up in a grocery bag. Don came in and took the cage and the bag out to the truck. Then he came back to my place.
“Okay, we better go,” Don said.
“Fuck, he’s going to flip out when I put him in there,” I told Don as I walked over to the tiny cage. After a bit of a struggle I got Mr. Bard into the cage and he was going nuts thrashing around and making noises like I never heard him make. I put a towel over the cage to cover him up. In the five years I had him, he had never left my apartment. This was going to be like taking him to a new world. And so far he wasn’t happy.
“Let’s go,” I said to Don, “this isn’t going to be a good day.”
And it wasn’t. Don’s dad lived out in the sticks and it took us around 45 minutes to get there, with Mr. Bard going batshit crazy the whole way. I was really afraid he was going to hurt himself. Finally we got there. I took Mr. Bard inside, met Don’s dad and immediately took Mr. Bard out of the cage. He flew up to my shoulder and was hiding behind my head. He made a huffing noise when he was scared and he was huffing and shaking. I put my hand up and he instinctively climbed up on it. I brought him around and was petting the top of his head. He always loved that.
“This is your new home, Mr. Bard, you’re going to love it here,” I told him as he settled down. After a few minutes of looking around, he stopped shaking and seemed to be okay. Then Don, his dad and I took him into the room where the other birds were in cages. When we got in there I took Mr. Bard up to a cage that housed two love birds and they chirped when they saw him. I wish I had a film of Mr. Bard looking at them. He turned his head sideways and looked at them like he was thinking, “Who the fuck is this?”
We stayed about an hour and Mr. Bard really took to Don’s dad. I instructed his dad on how to put his finger touching Mr. Bard’s claws and he’d hop on. I showed him how to pet the top of his head and Mr. Bard looked like he was enjoying all the attention. Every now and again he’d fly over to me as if to say, “Where the fuck is the beer in this joint?”
After about an hour it was time to go. Mr. Bard was sitting on Don’s dad’s shoulder, and I thanked Don’s dad and said goodbye to Mr. Bard. As Don and I walked to the door, Mr. Bard flew over to my shoulder.
“No, you’re staying here, Mr. Bard,” I said to him and walked back to Don’s dad, who took him again.
I told his dad to pet his head and turn around so I could leave. They turned around but Mr. Bard got loose and soon was back on my shoulder. He let out a chirp as if to say, “What the fuck is going on here?” Jesus, this was like leaving a kid at the orphanage and then trying to leave while he’s tugging on your pant leg.
“I’m going to have to put him in his cage,” I said walking over to his cage in the corner of the room where we set it up. Immediately he started squawking and I said to him, “Look, I gotta go, you’re going to like it here, I promise.” I put him in his cage and he jumped up on his swing and he just looked at me. I was amazed he wasn’t going nuts. Maybe it was because Don’s dad was there and there were the other birds, he wasn’t alone. Maybe he sensed I really had to leave him there.
“Bye Mr. Bard,” I said and Don and I walked out the door to his pickup truck. We got in and started down the road.
“That wasn’t easy, was it?” Don asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I told him and turned on the radio.
Two weeks later I was living in New York. I had job interviews scheduled at People magazine and Entertainment Weekly. Plus I had already scored a freelance writing assignment with a weekly paper called, NY Weekly. I was feeling good about things and decided to call Don to see how Mr. Bard was doing. I had called him before I left and found out the first two days he was there he was kind of listless and wasn’t eating. Then on the third day he was eating and Don’s dad was having a blast with him. I was glad his dad was taking him out of the cage a lot. I didn’t want to give him to someone that would leave him in the cage for a long period of time.
I talked to Don and had to laugh at what he told me. He said Mr. Bard had developed a morning ritual at his dad’s house. Every morning Don’s dad would let Mr. Bard out of his cage and Mr. Bard would fly to the top of the other bird cages, where the birds couldn’t fly free and would stand on top, chirping and stretching out his wings as if to say, “Hey Motherfuckers, I’m free and you’re not!”
Ha ha ha! I loved it. Mr. Bard was the king of the fucking hill! Then he told me one more thing.
“My dad changed his name,” Don revealed to me. “He hated the name Mr. Bard.”
I have to admit, I was a little pissed off.
“But that’s the name he answers to, he won’t know another name,” I said to Don.
“No, he answers to the new name too,” Don said. It sounded like he was stifling laughter.
I didn’t think that was possible. It would be like giving a new name to a dog who’s answered to the same name for over five years.
“So what’s his new name?” I asked flatly.
Don laughed and said, “Marty.”
Ha ha ha! That was perfect. Marty is close enough sounding to Bard, that Mr. Bard probably didn’t notice the difference. He became a Marty and I became a New Yorker. Sometimes thing work out in life and this was one of those times.
I got a nice shout-out on EV Grieve about my night out with the Chillmaster, check it out here: EV Grieve.
It's just 14 blocks from where I work, but I've got overtime money, so we'll take a cab and arrive in style.
And we're off!
And here we are at the Hollywood Diner. As you can see, there's outside dining, but it's a little chilly out so let's go inside.
Here's the main dining room...
But I think we'll sit at the counter tonight.
Florencio is the host tonight and he happily serves up an Amstel Light. Cheers and beers!
Okay, I'm all settled in and it's time to order.
Of course since it's the Hollywood Diner, there's a few celebrity sandwiches on the menu. My favorite is the Al Pacino. Attica!
The service is great here and before you know it, the food starts arriving.
I started out with a cup of Matzo Ball soup. I loaded it up with pepper and it was delicious!
And here's the main course, a grilled cheese sandwich. I think that's the perfect diner dinner, matzo ball soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. The grilled cheese is rye bread and cheddar cheese.
And it was delicious!
The ceiling of the Hollywood Diner has a nice mural of clouds on it.
A photo of Elvis hangs on the front wall.
They love Lucy in here.
See!
Speaking of Al Pacino, here he is as Scarface next to 007.
And no self-respecting Hollywood Diner would be complete without a picture of Marilyn Monroe hanging on the wall.
And finally...cake! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Hollywood Diner
Five Hollywood Icons
Marilyn Monroe
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