A Treatise on the Blues, by Horace

"Si uis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi."
If you wanna sing the blues, you gotta know the blues; you can't talk the talk if you've never walked the walk.

'nuff said.

I which I inadvertently stigmatise an artist who is probably perfectly competent.

Whilst having breakfast thus morning at the summer-verb place, I overheard the following conversation between two gay couples. They were obviously connected with the arts scene and were debating the artistic merits, or lack thereof, of a fellow traveler. "Oh!", said one, "he's such a poseur; the only large-scale work he's ever done was painting 'See Rock City' on the side of a barn." I'm afraid at that at that very moment the brakes failed on my appropriate-social-interaction machine and I blurted out, "but in the South, barn-painting is a perfectly legitimate style; it's called 'mangerism'". All four of them stared at me for a moment because, well, the whole failed-brake social interaction thing. Then they laughed; "mangerism! That's perfect! When any one asks, we'll just say he's a mangerist! No one but us will get it! They then started to riff on this, saying that the artist in question was going through his "red period" and that his medium was "al fresco", etc., etc,.

I think I may have created a monster, so to the artist in question, I apologise deeply for maligning your work.

Unless you really are crap, in which case, get it up ya.

Sent from my HTC OOHSNAP!™, a Windows® phone from a Soho loft and don't try to understand my genius, because it's beyond you and I am destined to not be appreciated during my lifetime™

More problem solving.

I bury my pain in the bottom of a parfait glass.

Sent from my HTC PURE™, a Windows Mint Cookie Crunch® phone from AT&T

Two Bits

I got a haircut & shave at this place. today. Don't let it's small size fool you- it's even smaller inside. And very old school; Bobby Darrin on the radio and the usual cast of local charactors you imagine you would find in such an establishment, and never do. My haircut was good, but my shave was really first rate- maybe the best I've ever had. And I have had a lot of straight razor shaves in barber shops (I even use a straight razor day-to-day). This was gangster movie hot-towel perfection by a guy who was so passionate about his work, he had a barber's pole tattooed on his forearm. This was a place that uses Clubman and Lucky Tiger like they have never gone out of style ('cuz they haven't, not here). The only thing missing was a shoulder massage with one of those electric massagers that straps to your hand. And speaking of hands, maybe a manicure by a gum-chewing gun moll. Yeah... My only complaint is that I was constantly looking out the window for the muscle that I knew was coming to wack me. Knowhutimsayin?

Look, Ma, I'm on top of the world...

Sent from my HTC STYLIN'™, a Wiseguy® phone from Jersey

Shirtless Fat Man™ update

On the porch this morning were TWO shirtless fat men™.

If it is a farm, it is a successful one.

Et in Hades ego.

In the distance, two swans with their cygnets.
Even at the Inn of Infinite Sadness, there is beauty, if you look.

There's just not much, and what there is, lies outside the pomerium.

Sent from my HTC CYGNUS™, a Windows® phone that mates for life from AT&T

Small Comforts

I'm having a late dinner at the diner. When I walk in, the teen-something counter dude seats me (in an almost empty restaurant) right next to three tables of post-date bright young things, who are self-absorbingly nattering about matters that won't matter ten years from now in a most stentorian manner. When my waitress (who I've had before) comes to take my order, she looks over at the loudsters and says to me, "this isn't Thanksgiving". I shoot her a questioning look and she continues, "...so you don't have to eat at the children's table- would you like to move to somewhere a bit more quiet?"
I gratefully accepted.
Thank you, kind waitress, thank you.

Sent from my HTC PUREQUIET™, a Windows® phone from the other side of the restaurant.

On the Bed of Infinte Sadness.

What cheers me up is that they really don't care that there are no sheets or pillows; as long as I'm here with them, all is right with the world. (And my my reply to anyone who would suggest that statement is reciprocally true is... La la la, I've got my fingers in my ears, I can't hear you, la la la!) I guess that's the point; this while, like anything, like everything, is only temporary. And I can handle anything, for a (little) while.

Spero meliora, indeed.

Sent from my HTC PURE™, a Windows® phone from AT&T

A girl, wise beyond her years.

I am eating breakfast at The Hampton Maid. It's upscale compared to most of the brunch eateries around here, and it appears to cater to the crowd that uses "summer" as a verb; I'm glad I wore my clean and ironed Hawaiian shirt. Next to me is one of those verb-using families; Mom, Dad, boy and girl. Their converstaion is end-of-summer talk: packing, school, the logistics of rentry to autumnal life. Dad looks distracted, as if all is settled and he is already back at the office; "we shouldn't have too much trouble...", the rest of that thought dieing on the vine. Mom looks harassed; she knows that "we" means her, as it has all summer, and it's wearing thin. The boy breaks in, like a baseball through a window; "...but I don't want to stop summer, I want to have FUN." His slightly older sister replies, in a voice that is equally calm and exasperated, "but it HAS to end- to make room for all the beginings and NEW fun". I am amazed, not so much at the thought (which, while pretty bright for someone her age, is hardly original), but at the firmess and faith with which she says this. For her, this isn't insight; it's axiomatic. Wow, not even hit puberty, and she understands the wheel of life, better than I do.

I have been philosophically pwned by an eleven-year-old girl. 

Who was eating Fruit Loops.

Gardez la foi, young lady, gardez la foi.


Sent from my HTC PURE™, a Windows® phone from AT&T

Happier Times, part 2.

The boys in the bathtub (coolest place in the flat) during the heatwave in NYC last month. 98 degrees and 90% humidity. With no air-conditioning. And yes, those were happier times.

Sent from my HTC PURE™, a Windows® phone from AT&T

Gritty New York Realism

Honestly, I'm not having a go at New York, but why does it seem that every restaurant table within ten-thousand furlongs, whether cheap diner or posh nosh, is covered with a sticky film like it has never been properly cleaned? Not even once?

Sent from my HTC GRIME™, a Windows® phone from the Island.

Problem Solved

Sent from my HTC PURE™, a Windows® phone from AT&T

The Environs of the Inn of Infinite Sadness: a photo essay.

"Area Unsafe"

"Not Responsible"

"Hello Dolly"

           

---

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

   Down to a sunless sea.

....

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.  

...

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

Sent from my HTC DULCIMER™, a Windows® man from Porlock.

No Comment

I can see that people are reading this blog; why does no one comment, even to say that it's sub-optimal?

If I am a prick, do I not bleed?

All the world loves a lover- even my cats.

This rather dark and blurry photo is of Smudge and Hobbes intently listening to the couple in the next room enthusiastically having sex.

Rock on... Oh, just forget it.

Sent from my HTC PUREXTACY™, a Whoopie® phone from AT&A

Smoke 'em if you got 'em: a photo essay on the Drive-Thru Smoke Shops of the Shinnecock Nation.

All of these establishments are adjacent to each other (in the order depicted) on a stretch of road just outside of Southhampton. They appear to be owned and run by members of the Shinnecock Nation. If you pause to contemplate it, this is deliciously symbolic, if not outright ironic on multiple levels.

Smoke on, Shinnecock Nation, smoke on.

Sent from my HTC PUREIRONY™, a cancer-causing Windows® peace-pipe from NAT&T (geddit?)

Maybe I should be worried?

One of the shirtless fatmen™ is singing "Jamie's got a gun" outside my window.

Surprisingly well.

Meatballs (and worse) for breakfast.

I am having the breakfast buffet at Friendly's® (home of the not-suggestive-at-all Happy Ending® sundae). The buffet has the strangest selection of anti-meridian comestibles I has ever encountered. Besides the usual eggs, bacon, pancakes, etc., the preprandial panoply includes:
Meatballs in marinara sauce.
Chicken stir-fry.
Fried mozzarella sticks.
 
And...

Wait for it...

Assorted sushi.

I asked the waitress about this unusual selection and, thinking that I was complaining (I wasn't, just a bit perplexed), became a bit defensive- "hey, lots of folks like meatballs for breakfast" and who was I to question her knowledge of local grazing traditions? I reassured her that I wasn't complaining, just curious. Especially about the sushi. "Yeah, that is a bit weird. The owner gets it from the sushi bar down the road- I think it's what's left over from last night." But who eats sushi for breakfast? "Oh, hipsters from Southhampton; they think it's decadent or ironic or something". Sure enough, there was a small crowd of trilby-bedecked young men and women sashaying 'round the sashimi, reeking of smugness and last night's PBR.

Sometimes, I am convinced that there must be a looking-glass nearby that I accidently stumbled through.

Sent from my HTC WTF?, an alternate universal Windows® phone from the bowels of hell.

Naming names, redux.

Evidently, Shinnecock Bay is very close to Mecox Bay.

My judgement stands.

Sent from my HTC Phallus™, a Penis-obsessed® phone from Long Island.

Understanding my place in the world.

I had lunch here today; a hot dog and a Yoo-Hoo. Good hot dog. The stand is run by a personable retired guy who really enjoys what he does. He probably adds more real value to the world than all the organologists on earth, combined.

Rock on, Hot Dog Guy, rock on.

Sent from my HTC PONDERINGTHAT™, a Windows® phone with sauerkraut and mustard (catsup is forbidden!) from AT&T

Presented without comment (almost).

This is the post office for the nearby town of Speonk, which is, of course, located on Shinnecock Bay.

Is it just me, or was every town on Long Island named by a dyslexic pervert obsessed with suggestive place names?. (I'm lookin' at you, Sag Harbor.)

Sent from my HTC LINGNAM™, a Windows® phallus from AT&T

Ashtray update.

On the way out to my car tonight, I noticed the black ashtray had left the microwave and was now on the refrigerator. Later, when I came back, it was now on the rustic coffee table on the porch. Holy crap! The ashtrays are migrating north!

Well, at least that's away from my room- no ashtray zombie apocalypse for me.

Happy Ending

I am at Friendly's™ Restaurant getting a happy ending™.

It's an ice cream sundae.

Really, that's what it's called. Why, what did you think I meant?


Sent from my HTC PERVERT™, a Windows® phone from AT&T

Rain

It is pouring down rain here at TIOIS. I can hear the people at the private beach club next door (on which my window looks out upon) scurrying and complaining that the rain is ruining their big almost-the-end-of-the-season party.

Yo, Sushi!

It never fails to make me laugh, hearing a guy with a thick Brooklyn accent order sushi.

Sent from my HTC TEKKA-MAKI™, a Windows® phone from Kikkoman

Happier times

A photo of the boys chilaxin' (what a truly excretable word) in a drawer at my last abode, the world's dirtiest apartment. Never thought I would miss that place. But I guess that the filth you know is always better than the filth you don't.

Sent from my HTC PLAGUE™, a disease-ridden Windows® phone from the middle ages.

The Ashtrays of the Inn of Infinite Sadness: a Photo Essay.

N.B. These are all different ashtrays.

Still life with ashtray.

 

This refrigerator works and is filled with PBR. Un-ironically. 

This microwave does not work and is filled with the tortured souls of 10,000 prepackaged meals.

Notice the zen rock garden in the background.

Notice that this ashtray seems relatively unused, no doubt due to the close proximity of the larger, flush-able ashtray which never needs emptying.

Rock on, industrial plastic ashtrays, rock on.

A Very Belated First Post

As most of you have probably guessed by now, I have moved from my small, dirty and depressing apartment in upper Manhattan to even smaller, dirtier and even more depressing room in a beachfront "inn" in the Hamptons. Now normally the idea of a beachfront property in this part of the world would evoke images of Gatsby-esque luxury or at least charming rusticity. Yeah, Homey don't play that. While the properties on either side of here gleam like a pair of well-oiled butt cheeks on the beach, this place in between is definitely like, well, you get the picture. I have never been to a hostelry where I've actually had to seriously negotiate to get a roll of toilet paper. There are no towels or bedding, so I am sleeping on a bare mattress. At least I have a towel from my last place. Sand and grime cover everything. The windows are permanently open 3 1/2 inches, rain or shine, of which we've had both in large quantities this last week. You can see a picture the place above that I stole from the website. My room is in the building on the right, upstairs left and back. It should be noted that this photograph is several years old and lacks the garbage and nonworking major appliances that now litter the grounds, adding to its charm. I have to save my most effusive non-praise for the one bathroom that all the rooms share, even those in the other building twenty feet away. For the sake of those with weak stomachs, i won't go into too much detail, but I will say that I have never before had to hold my breath while taking a shower.

I call it "The Inn of Infinite Sadness" not because I'm particularly unhappy here, but rather because there is a blanket of melancholy that swathes the place. Everyone here is a bit of a character, in a Runyonesque/beach bum kind of way. I have already described the coterie of fat men that guard the decaying couches on the porch. There is also a maintenance man who appears to do no maintenance whatsoever, even by the admission of the owner. There is a hippie who sells jewelry at one of the markets around here, who has rabbits, a cat and a small dog in one room. The room below mine. To be fair, I can only smell it at night. And the day. The owner is a hoarder: the entire main building and one of the rooms in mine, is filled with assorted junk, mostly old radio parts. On his website, this is described as a "museum". I like to think I know a little something about such matters, and can safely say that if the objects displayed are in imminent danger of collapsing and causing grievous bodily harm, it is not a museum. Still, it's a better museum than the MIM...

What doesn't strong me makes me killer...

The Little Duck

Abandoned on a park bench.

Rock on, little duck, rock on.

Sent from my HTC DUCK™, a Windows® phone from AT&T

Huey Lewis and the News

So I'm here in Southampton (Long Island, not the home port of the Titanic), buying a sandwich (pastrami on rye with mustard and dill pickle, thanks for asking) and I notice that Huey Lewis and the News are playing at the theatre across the street. So I go to my car and get my clipboard where I keep all of my move-related paperwork and walk into the side door of the venue. Nothing suggests that you belong somewhere you don't like an official-looking clipboard. As I walk in somebody yells "hey Rich" (I think) "does this stay here or back in the trailer?" Rich, who could be my long-lost twin (Mom?) hollers back "here!" as I walk torward the back and find a seat. I proceed to eat my sandwich in the semi-darkness whilst occasionally looking at my clip board, the better to create the illusion I belong. It probably doesn't hurt that I'm wearing a black t-shirt (the universal uniforn of the roadie) with "Rickenbacker" on it (thanks John) The sound check is almost done and all of the band except for Mr Lewis is on stage. Surprisingly, it's quite quiet- no noodling. Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder- busted! "Are you in charge?" asks a man wearing mint green golf shorts. "You wan't Rich" I reply, "he's down there on stage". His reply (which I assume was some variation on "thanks") is drowned out by the band starting to play, sans Huey. I don't recognise the song. Now HL&tN is not really my cup of tea, but it it is obvious that the band is really tight and they put on a good show. A guy walks on stage and the band stops. It's Mr Lewis. The band launches into "Heart of Rock and Roll" and gies it laldy, as they say back home. It sounds purt-y damn good. I finish my sandwich (also PDG) and head toward the exit. Before I leave, I happen to make eye contact with his Lewisness. I wave my clipboard in appeciation for the dinner music, and he nods back (I think he did, it could have been his blues-singer face).

Rock on, Big Huey Lewis, Rock on.

Sent from my HL&tN PURE™, a Windows 95® phone from AT&T

People-watching at the Riverhead Diner & Grill

We tend to spend a lot of time trying to appear different (read more confident/sopisticated/intelligent/stylish, etc) than we are, but I am always amazed how we give ourselves away and expose our inner selves with almost every thing we say and do. Our whole life can be read on our faces and heard in the sound of our voice- nevermind the words. Our inexperience, pain, anger, hopelessness- it's all there to see. We hide nothing, but pretend no one can see our regal nakedness.

So, a note to the doofus stting across from me at the diner; SHUT UP! She likes you- really likes you. It's obvious from her body language; leaning in, repeatedly matching your body postition, playing with her hair- she is even doing that thing where she puts her glass next to yours when you put it back after drinking. But, as you keep droning in and on about YOU, I can see a steady decline in her interest. Dude, she seems nice and it's obvious she wants you to succeed. Hell, I want you succeed. Unfortunately, right now you are sucking seed. Don't blow it, it's only a coffee date; surely you can be suave for 20 minutes?

Sigh.

Sent from my HTC PURGATORY™, a Windows® phone from ATAT

F@#k a Duck

Damn, that's a big duck. Built the same year the electric guitar was invented. 

Rock on, big duck, rock on.

Sent from my HTC PUTRID™, a Windows® phone tha never worked properly from AT&T

Only on Long Island...

...could matzo ball soup be served un-ironically with veal piccatta.

Sent from my HTC (Hate This Crappy. phone) PUKE™, a semi-functional Windows® phone from AT&T

Maybe it's some kind of farm or something...

I have now been here at TIOIS for three days. And every morning, when I get up and go out to the long porch that fronts the two buildings, the first thing I have seen a is really overweight (much larger than myself, and I'm not small) shirtless, slightly sun-burned man wearing dirty cargo shorts sitting on one of the many disintegrating couches and smoking what appears to be a joint. What is really strange though, is that every day, it's been a different man.

A thought.

A weld is often stronger than the metal was previous to breaking. This gives me hope (I hope).

Sent from my HTC PURECRAP™, a poorly designed Windows® phone from AT&T that they should be grealy ashamed of.

Sigh.

Looks like I have to fire this thing up again.