leftenglishinnewyork.com

A Note on US cults

“75 million years ago there was an evil galactic leader called Xenu, who controlled seven planets in our sector. Each one was overpopulated by about 178 billion people, which worried Xenu, so he decided to solve the problem by calling everyone in for income tax inspections, injecting them all with glycol and alcohol to knock them out, put them in DC8 planes with rocket motors, and shipped them to Earth, which back then was called Teegeeack, where they were stacked around the bases of volcanoes. These volcanoes were then detonated by H-bombs, releasing everybody’s souls (called a “thetan” in this story), which were then sucked up by giant electronic traps. They were packaged and sent to a large cinema, where they were shown 3D motion pictures that implanted a false idea about life, including things like the devil, god, heaven and hell…that sort of thing. These souls were then released back into the world, where they roamed aimlessly for years, until the first humans provided them with bodies to inhabit, which they clung to. Xenu, thankfully, was eventually captured by the good forces in the universe, and put in a mountain on one of the planets, where he is trapped by a force-field powered by an eternal battery.”

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Travelogue From Portugal

- found this, writing about what I had written on my last night in Portugal.

To place you where I am now, writing this, it is facing a white, papered hotel wall covered in faint zigzags. It is stained, with evidence of smoke, dust, shoe scrapes, and next to the table upon which my computer rests, slight chipping. Next to the computer lies Exile and the Kingdom by Albert Camus, my wallet, my hotel room key. This is on top of a horrible red, blue, yellow, purple and orange striped and flowered tablecloth barely large enough to cover the table itself.

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Going to a Crack Den With Bongo

I’ve tried to write this story many times, and it never seems to work. It sounds so stupid on paper. We were about fourteen. My friend and I went to go and get some fish and chips at my local chippy, and while waiting for the food to fry we met a guy outside, a dealer. He was an old guy, Eastern European, huge, thick glasses over his eyes, a walking stick, gold rings, a large brown coat. He wanted to sell us something and we agreed. First he said he had it on him, then that we should go just around the corner, and then that we should follow him. He called himself “Maagu.”

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Girls Carrying Condoms, Smart or Slutty?

- For Consider Magazine, Michigan, Spring 2009

When I used to go out on the prowl, I’d put one elbow on the bar, heave my chest up, and then try to enact the pose of Michelangelo’s David. But as I’ve aged, I’ve been forced to be more precise. Now, instead of going for everything in heels, I try to figure out, “Does it look like she’s carrying a condom?”

Okay, that’s a joke. But there are male-centric words for that kind of behavior: “womanizer,” “letch,” or “Italian,” for example. Still, “Girls carrying condoms, smart or slutty?” is a regrettable choice of words. It is loaded with connotations from a time when patriarchal, misogynistic language and chauvinistic rationale went unquestioned. However, given this conceptual landscape, I would have to argue that carrying condoms meets the definition of “slutty.”

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Letter to Ralph Nader

- written on Monday, November 10, 2008

Dear Mr Nader,

I am an undergraduate at The New School in New York. I’m old enough to remember the reasons why my mother voted for you in 2000 and voted for you myself in 2004, but realized that by the time the 2008 elections came about, although I have been keeping up on the elections, I didn’t know much about your race.

On Election Day I interviewed 100 people at six different voting booths, all over Manhattan, to see what NYC’s educated elite knew about the election alternatives. I asked them questions just as they left from voting. Ten thought you might have been on the list. Three of those knew what party you were standing for. One had voted for you, but his vote was a protest vote against McCain and Obama. I did not meet a single person who could tell me something positive about you, even though (almost) everyone I know shares your beliefs.

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Balham

Edgar Finkleditch pauses from his daily strut down the Balham high-street shopping mile, to find himself staring into the large, fancy mirror in an antique dealer’s window.  “Fantastic,” he mutters, not to the two ladies who avoid him on their way past, but to the world in general.  He continues his walk — a confident and welcoming swing — with his thin arms swaying gracefully this way and that, and his pierced lips drawn out into a thin but genuine smile.  It is a sunny day.

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Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog

- My first article for Our Town

“Darwin!” shouted his owner, Alicia Bralove, as for the fifth time in five minutes her 15” beagle tried to hump my leg. For a champion show dog, Darwin seemed to pay little attention to his name, continuing until physically removed. “He’s disciplined by his trainer,” Bralove apologized, “but when I see him I just melt.”

Almost one year ago Beagle-Mania swept the nation after another hound, Uno, became the first beagle to be crowned winner of the renowned Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show in front of a capacity crowd at Madison Square Garden.

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Ghandi, Death and the Queen

1

Gandhi pushed his glasses up his nose and walked towards the water fountain. The asphalt was soft, the sun warm, and he needed a drink. The reflection, of course, still showed the people burning and smoking and having same-sex relationships and watching r-rated movies and playing Taboo. It was refreshing. His hands spilled more onto the floor than into his mouth. Still, there was more than enough to go around.

Picking up his robes, he walked over to the slide. The escalator was working. The golden chute was perfect. The velvet ball-pit at the bottom simply heavenly. He giggled and pushed his glasses back up his nose every time.

He held up his little bell, and gave it a shake. Everybody turned to listen, although Noah, unconscious, continued to spin on the roundabout. The smell of wine and urine floated on the breeze.

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Richard E. Newman, Perfecting the art of Restoration

- Republished without the permission of Our Town

EAST SIDER RICHARD NEWMAN CREATES A NEW LIFE FOR DAMAGED RUGS, ONE KNOT AT A TIME

Hidden away in a small Upper East Side apartment, every inch of which is covered by some aspect of his work, is one of the world’s leading rug restorers, Richard E. Newman. Collectors from all over the world have been bringing rugs to him for hand washing and restoration since 1979.

To attain a 16th-century look using modern wool is no small feat.

“Although some people might argue with this,” he said, “there are probably less than five people in the world who can do what I do.”

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A Plutonian Snore

- for class. Finally my professor had given us something that wasn’t terrible to read, Edgar Allen’s poem, Lenore.

Fed up upon an evening dreary, for my mind a question queries,
O’er a tidal wave of aging prose and poems bound to bore—
While I noodled, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As if some winged desire came flapping, slapping me awake once more.
“’Tis a subterfuge,” I muttered, “a dream wrest from my phrenic core—
Only this and nothing more.

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New York on a Bike

I’ve ridden my bike along the Grand Union canal, through England and Wales, on the London to Brighton bike ride and from Calais to Genoa, but a 9 ½ hour bike ride with a friend in New York was more incisive than all of those put together.

I live on the Upper East Side, an area with more near-dead old ladies and cobwebs than any other area of Manhattan. There are a lot of clothes shops (for example, the shop on the corner sells extremely fashionable maternity dresses), high-priced delis, art and antiques shops, picture framers, restaurants, cafés and bars, but no place to buy an affordable drink. Old people, rich people, beggars, rich kids, pampered puppies, Mexican delivery boys… you get the idea.

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Playing John Smith

After thanksgiving theater, a.k.a. a family event, I went to play pool. At about 1:30am an “open” player, one who likes to drink and gamble at the same time, asked me for a game. For those who don’t know, his rank puts him about four or five levels above me. I told him I only wanted to play for $20 and he said he wouldn’t play for less than $100 a set. We settled at $75. I found a “backer” who put up $50 on my $25, so we had enough for one set. He gave me a poor handicap (2 games in a race to seven), well below what I would usually expect — perhaps 4 in a race to 9. I was not expected to win.

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A Long Weekend

Thursday
Went to my bar, drank enough to get me tipsy for the ride to the Czec beer garden. Forgot to bring a photo id so the bouncer wouldn’t let me in. I even tried a bribe. Needless to say, with cheap beer, litre glasses, over two hundred people (including many of my friends, some of whom were improvising on their instruments), and a warm, Bavarian atmosphere, I was a little annoyed. I walked around the side, scaled the wire mesh fence surrounding the playground next to it (there’s a fantastic juxtaposition of adult/child playgrounds), got onto the corrugated iron roof, jumped down into the garden to the surprise of many of it’s patrons, and walked over to my friends who were glad that I was fit to consume golden beverages at will. Of course, I’d not gotten away with it. One of my friends said “shit, Nick, I think you’re in trouble,” so I downed my drink, stubbed out my fag, and got up, hands held high, saying “alright, alright, you got me.”

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Goldfingers

- Don’t know where the idea came from to write this, but I stumbled across it recently, hidden away.

Goldfingers

…Images of floating over sun-drenched vineyards simmer out as Jim becomes reacquainted with his eyelids. They are closed, and they ache like the last time he drank through a bottle. One eye opens, then the other, and there she is, the Louisiana farm girl, slouched against the wall of the small NY apartment, a discarded hand cocked at the wrist, hanging over he knee. Cracks of orange light signal daybreak, settling here and there amongst the layers of dust, wood-chippings, fabric, and smoke. Her brooding silence compels him to overcome the many pillows between him and his cigarette case. He lets one drop on the floor, then tucks a second gently in between two of her long, slender fingers. She almost doesn’t notice.

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I got Punched in the Head

- From my diary, 9th July, 2006

I got punched in the head by a guy because I insinuated that his girlfriend was a prostitute. Ok. Perhaps that was deserved. However, my hands were on my handlebars, I was sitting on my bike seat, and I was totally defenceless. Then, when I got the police involved (I wanted an apology) they accused me of being racist, and I was lost for words. Finally, the cop said that he couldn’t press charges unless I was bruised. Now I’m bruised, but I wasn’t then.

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Today I Didn’t do Much

- The reason why New York and billiards make for a good day.

Today I didn’t do much.

I knew from the moment I woke up, around midday,  that I wasn’t going to do anything. I was incredibly sweaty. I had left the fan off.

My phone rang. I knew it was Nuno, but I wasn’t sure why. He probably wanted to have lunch. “Hey, dude, what’s up?” was the question, but by the tone in his voice I knew there would be more. He didn’t just want something, he expected something. Turns out I’d forgotten his gig at the Blue Note today, which was on at 2:30. I was in motion.

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Dated Wed, April 11th, 2007

- A little edited to cut down, I also talked about my commercial for Centrum (saying I was now a success).

On Christmas Eve, started going out with a beautiful, nice, and caring girl, who I heartlessly dumped a couple of days ago. This was linked with the fact that I’m so busy at the moment, and that I’m a “douche-bag.”

My life is now homework and working at Eastside Billiards. I’ve been teaching a few lessons, doing even fewer parties (trick shots and organizing tournaments), running the league (and playing in it), and bartending. I’m a terrible bartender, forgetful not only about what the customer just ordered, but also how to make the drinks. I keep a “cheat-sheet” in the back room, and tell the customers I’m going back there to fetch ice, then sneak a peek at how to make Manhattans, Long Island Iced Teas, and Dirty Martinis.

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What you can do for an A

- I wrote this while doing a poetry class at the New School. I love an American education.

The following I wrote in about ten minutes. My professor must have met Will, because she gave me an A. If anyone out there is struggling for grades, do Liberal Arts degree in the States. You literally cannot go wrong.

I killed my brother

I killed my brother
By pushing
A very small, pointed piece of metal into
A gap in his head. Fantastic.

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Another one I just found

- I know I’m not supposed to be repeating a lot of content on a blog (hits, etc), but I thought this was too good to let go:

Customers at Work

Three customers, there before my shift started, around 9:30. They’re playing on one of the middle tables, although most people choose the ones around the edges. One was an unremarkable grey-haired man, in shape for his sixties, sounds southern, drinking Jack on the rocks. David. The two women were drinking chardonnay. One was a brunette, tall, packed tight into a skirt and tights, her hair bunched around her head like a mango split down the middle to expose a tyrannosaur. She was powerful, held her body very aggressively, and you could see the guys she spoke to (including the thirty-something “player” players who are part of my late-night crowd) scratching behind their ears.

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A Mouse Died

- I just found this on an old website of mine. Actually, I’d completely forgotten I even had another website, so this came as quite a surprise. Anyway, here you go:

Tonight I lost a friend and I feel ill

Tonight, while doing research for my final poetry submission, I noticed a little mouse creep up beside me. It died, slowly, and inspired the following poetry. I first wrote sixteen separate poems, but have combined them here to form one with sixteen parts.

A mouse creeped up to me this evening,
And sat on the carpet until I looked at it.
I do not know if it is a boy or a girl
But what I do know is that it is small and cute,
And that it sat there for a while, cleaning itself.

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