Easter bonnet, Block Island, 2017

Egg hunt, Block Island, 2017
Often, we're in Block Island for Easter. But this year with the holidays (yes, tonight begins Pesach) coming early, the houses aren't opened up yet.
   So the scene is happening in Providence, with egg dying today (below) (am I wrong or do these look like organic vegetable dyes?) and my sister's Pagan Easter celebration in Massachusetts on Sunday. I will noncelebrate in NY.
    I am assuming you know all about rabbits and eggs and fertility and rebirth and Spring, so I won't explain any of that again. Hippety hop!

Eggs, Good Friday, Providence 2018


buy now for summer!

Some of you—I know who you are—do not look at Facebook. And so, for those who are not up to date, Hannah is selling her "tiny house." Let's face it, her family isn't that tiny and she just bought a new, rather large house. The piece of land Tiny sits on is also for sale. So now you know.


claudia's book city

Books for girls

Books for boys
I don't even want to think about  how many books I have in all my houses. But right here in the living room in  NY I have too many. I have been cleaning and reshelving them for a couple days, sneezing my head off and wondering why I am keeping them.
   My daughter never had a taste for Bomba the Jungle Boy or Robin Hood or the Five Little Peppers or Wind in the Willows. It seems likely that my grandchildren will be more interested in Ricky Ricotta and His Mighty Robot or videos than my antique children's books. But what treasures!
    I also found first editions of The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, 20,000 Leagues under the Sea and The Autobiography of Alice. B. Toklas with photographs by Man Ray.
    All of which will wind up in the dumpster if I don't do something with them.
    I do think I will dispense with 1898 complete set of Rudyard Kipling's works, likewise the Dickens set and the Robert Louis Stevenson set. Sigh. People don't like sets any more. They didn't when I acquired these.
  And this is just one bookcase in NY. Any takers? 


the difference a day makes

 Two years ago this month, Bear's house, while not in the best possible shape, still stood on its concrete pad. Then last April a seven-foot wall of water swept through town and that was it for Bear's house, though somehow his truck survived. Word is that Bear is encamped up the hill on Randy Marlow's property and that his cousins, who had a trailer on the concrete pad where his house used to be, were gifted a derelict house in town. The library has reopened, but otherwise nothing much has been reopened or restored. The cafe, or as old-timers know it, "the Store," across the street from me is for sale for $22,000, including river access. Beautiful building. Would make a great studio. Needs work!


spring is sprung

"Like something a demon would eat"

 When shad roe arrives at Citarella, I know that spring is here, snow or no. Shad, like salmon, travel up rivers to spawn. In the Northeast this happens at about the same time the shad bush blooms, though if the one is named after the other, I have no idea. In any case, the roe is a delicacy only available for a period of weeks in the spring. The author of the recipe I used this year says that the roe sac "looks like something a demon would eat." Yes, it looks icky. But her simple recipe, sauteing with garlic and parsley, is delicious.
The actual eggs are no thing of beauty either.


they do windows

 After all, they are All About Windows. Despite the remains of the snow they came out and switched out all the glass in the apartment (well, except for the two sashes that broke in the truck). I've been putting the apartment back together. The cowboy boots and toe shoes are history, the chairs are elsewhere, and I'm not really sure what I'm going to use to screen my doings from the neighbors in the kitchen.
    Everything was really nicer with no glass at all (above), only wind holes, which I believe to be the derivation of the word "windows." I can see clearly now.
This picture is called "Find the Rotten Banana."


snow days

It snowed and snowed and snowed. Big puffy wet flakes. At the beginning they melted as they hit the ground, but it started piling up. The sanitation department was on it, and today it is all starting to melt. Spring? Well, look for it in about a month. Or next week.


love bug

 I received these texts the other night. Then a bunch of phone calls from the same number. I thought it was a prank text and blocked the caller.
    Then I felt kind of bad. What if there really was a Vanessa? But he didn't have the right number for her? Should I tell him?
    Nah. Dude's an asshole ("I apologized, didn't I?") who wants to talk to love bug about getting his commercial driver's license. Let him twist in the wind.


spring cleaning

This is Before
This is after

Yes, I know my shower is too small. It is still too small. All I did was paint, not renovate and replumb. But it's definitely home improvement. I have dwindling hopes of having dude come back to paint the standpipe.
   On Thursday All About Glass is meant to come and switch out all my window sashes here at the apartment. On Wednesday 12-16 inches of snow are meant to visit New York. So I don't know whether All About Glass is going to be all about working in those conditions. We'll see. Meanwhile I have to move everything in  case. And once that's done, I won't have to wash windows this spring!
   Happy Spring! Happy birthday, Adam!


same old same old

Leprechaun Hannah saw in her neighborhood in Providence.
 OK. I know I always post this and no one but me thinks it's funny.
 Maybe it's funnier if you're drunk? Not sure. Also not sure who Denis Leary is (I should google him up), but he has the Irish gift of storytelling. Let some Riverdance jig be your soundtrack. Oh, or the Pogues. Here you go again.
  So I did google him up, and he's a comedian behind some show called Rescue Me. The story is apparently originally from New York Mag.

Green Day by Denis Leary:

First things first: There are many Irish-Americans in this country who celebrate St. Patrick's Day in a quiet and sober manner, perhaps heading off to work with a muted-olive tie or a small emerald pin as their nod to the day's events. There are also those who go to the 7 a.m. mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral and consider the day a prayerful tribute to the patron saint of all things green. There are still others who awaken the morning of March 17 and carry on as if it were just another 24 hours— no drinking, no fighting, no puking.

I don't know any of these people.

Therefore, this piece will be about the red-blooded, hard-boiled, hammerheaded souls who patrol the St. Patrick's Day arena as if it were life's last call.

If you consider the image of a working-class Mick named Fitzy caterwauling down Fifth Avenue wearing a kelly-green plastic derby, well oiled on whiskey and slurring his words, an offensive and demeaning stereotype, then call the Irish Anti-Defamation League (IDLE) right now. I think the number is 1-800-NO-FITZY.

I've spent several hundred official and unofficial St. Patrick's Day celebrations in New York City over the years, and the calm, bespectacled intellectual Irishman clutching his copy of Finnegan's Wake is a rare sight indeed. Unless he's passed out around 3:15 a.m. in the back booth at McQuigan's Pub.

No, March 17 is not for the squeamish. It's for the thirsty masses. Those young rebels willing to shout and scream about their Irish blood, the chosen few who will toss raw eggs into open cab windows, the banshees who only want (as House of Pain so eloquently put it) to "get off their feet and jump around." That's what St. Patrick's Day is all about. Doing incredibly stupid things while under the influence of alcohol and wearing neon-green clothing.

Herewith, a guide to spending the day in the Big Apple. This is what I'll probably be doing this year.

9:00 a.m.
Meet best friend Sully at Greek diner for traditional Irish-American breakfast of wet toast, runny eggs, cold home fries, bitter black coffee, three cigarettes, and the sports page. Curse the Knicks. Marvel at Pat Riley's hair.

9:30 a.m.
Corner of Ninth and 39th. Ring Fitzy's buzzer 23 times. On the twenty-fourth try, he buzzes us up. Find him naked on the living-room floor surrounded by empty Bud Tall Boys and an open can of paint. His entire body, including his hair, is green.

10:00 a.m.
Arrive at the corner of 51st and Fifth and take our places for the parade. Sully steals three cans of Molson out of some Italian guy's cooler. Fitzy tosses a half-eaten green hot dog into the middle of the Staten Island Marching Men's Choir.

10:14 a.m.
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. "****in' typical," Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy.

11:05 a.m.
The Francis Mulcahy School of Irish Step Dancing pauses right in front of us and runs through a rigamarole of jigs and reels. Fitzy bops out into the street and joins them by doing a variation on the twist. Two cops promptly escort him back to the curb. Ends up one of them (Blaney) is Sully's second cousin. All charges dropped. I steal a few more beers out of the cooler. We toast the NYPD.

12:02 p.m.
The Italian guy accuses us of raiding his stash. Waves his fists in the air. Sully punches him on the neck. Fitzy pulls out a lighter and starts to melt the cooler. Two more cops show up. So happens, one of them (O'Keefe) is Fitzy's dad's old neighbor from Brooklyn. Tells the Italian guy to "Move it along, pal, this ain't Columbus Day." Brawl breaks out between Irish and Italian bystanders. We throw several punches, grab the cooler, and split.

12:06 p.m.
Drop into St. Patrick's Cathedral for a quick gander at the Lord. Crack
open a couple of beers. Sully and I debate the merits of a short confession. Sully's argument -- "In a half hour, at the bar at Paddy Reilly's it's gonna be standin'-room only" -- wins out over mine, which involves Eternal Damnation. We opt for a fast Our Father, five bucks in the poor box, and a brief round of candle-lighting. Fitzy, meanwhile, steals a sip of Holy Water.

12:17 p.m.
In the cab downtown, our driver, one Adjid Sakeel, expresses his opinion that the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization should be allowed to march in the parade. Fitzy -- his large green mug plugged right into the pay slot -- begs to differ: "They awready got their own parade downtown inna Village. We don't go down there, so why should they come uptown ta ours?" Adjid says, "Because this is America."

"No it ain't," counters Fitzy. "This is New York City. It's a whole different ball game." The argument ends with Fitzy barking like a dog and Adjid veering all over Second Avenue. We get out at 29th Street. I give Adjid a $3 tip and the cooler.

12:22 p.m.
Stop in at Paddy Reilly's for a few pops. Several rounds of green beer and whiskey. Rogues March -- a local band made up of guys who used to know members of the Pogues -- bash through a loud, boisterous show. The lead singer -- Joe Hurley -- stretches his voice to the point of aneurysm. We toast the IRA. We toast the cease-fire. We toast the pope. Fitzy pukes.

4:27 p.m.
Stop in at Molly Malone's Pub for a few more pops. Eat several slices of green pizza made by Sweeney the bartender's wife. She's Italian. We drink green champagne and vodka. Sweeney calls JFK the greatest man who ever lived. Fitzy calls Mario Cuomo a fag. Mrs. Sweeney kicks Fitzy. Sully pukes.

About a Quarter Past Eight
Over at the Emerald Inn, we drink green Guinness and recite dialogue from The Quiet Man verbatim. The Stogues -- a local band made up of guys who used to know the mother of one of the guys in the Pogues -- play "Danny Boy," and Fitzy starts to cry, green tears streaming down his puffy green cheeks. As Sully and I pat Fitzy on the back, the lead singer passes out.

Sometime After Ten
Head over to a Blarney Stone, where we order a drink called the Shane
MacGowan -- three ounces of vodka, four ounces of gin, six ounces of Irish whiskey, a teaspoon of something that smells like turpentine, and half a beer. You gotta down it in two slugs. Makes you spout poetic musings with a tongue so thick only Shane could understand. The problem is -- he ain't here. Fitzy stuffs an entire green bagel in his mouth, swallows it almost whole, downs his MacGowan, and says, "Now this is the life!"

That Same Night
Stop in at Siné. Place holds only 75 people, 72 of whom look like they just stepped off the boat. People without green cards drinking green beer. We're in time to see another local band (really local, since they live in the cellar) take the stage. Call themselves the Fogues. Made up of guys who used to be friends with guys who once bought a round for the guys who used to roadie for the Stogues. During "Thousands Are Sailing," the guitar player leaps up into the air and stays there. For what seems like a long time. His head is stuck in the ceiling; he gets a standing ovation. The lead singer asks if there's a carpenter in the house. There is. Thirty-three of them, to be exact.

The fact that we're in the Dublin House is news to all three of us. But it's printed right there on the matches. And the wall. And the back of the bouncer's T-shirt. As my old man used to say: "Wherever the hell you go, there you ****in' are."

Later Still
The thing about painting yourself green is this: It's a great symbolic way to show your support of the Old Country and your family tree, but it's a terrible way to go out drinking. Mostly because your friends can't tell when you're about to puke. The point is, we didn't see it coming when Fitzy leaned over an Englishman named Trevor -- who was explaining his support of the peace process in Ireland -- and let blow. The hot dog, the pizza, the bagel -- they made a comeback even Travolta woulda been proud of. And set off a brawl the likes of which we may never see again. Seventeen Englishmen, 27 Micks, and a side order of Hispanic, African-American, and Polish guys. When the cops show up (Carelli, Tiveiros, Jackson, etc.) none of them is related to Fitzy or Sully, so they just pack the whole melting pot in the back of a couple of paddy wagons (just for the sake of historical irony, I guess) and drop us off downtown. I share a cell with Fitzy and a Puerto Rican plumber named Bob
. He says the cell gives him "déjà-vu" because he had the same one after the Puerto Rican Day Parade last year.

The Next Morning
I wake up to the sound of Mickey Mantle repeatedly pounding a Louisville Slugger across the side of my face. I make a count of my few remaining brain cells -- eight and holding. Bob's droning on about pipe wrenches and putty knives when they come to take us to court. Ends up the judge (McSwiggin) is not only a fifth cousin of Fitzy's mom but also happened to be in Dublin House last night when the hot dog hit the fan. He thinks the Englishman, the queen, and the United Kingdom had it coming. All charges dropped. (That should be the motto above the entrance to the Irish Embassy.) We tell the judge about Sully, and fifteen minutes later, me, Sully, Fitzy, and Bob are sitting in P.J. Clarke's chugging Bloody Marys and discussing the merits of indoor plumbing -- copper pipe vs. plastic. Fitzy says he likes plastic: "It's more modern. And it don't look shiny." Sully and I make up our minds. Bob -- turning a light shade of burnt sienna -- pukes.


queen of life

Bobbi Baker Burrows was the Queen of LIFE magazine. The conscience, the historian, the fixer and the heart. She died after a long, terrible illness. It was within days of the death of her best friend from LIFE, Ann Morrell.
A few of us foregathered in the closest restaurant to the Bath House where the memorial event was to be held. (Eleven A, if anyone cares. It was very pleasant.)

The event itself was uge. It gook place at Alyssa Adam's beautiful Bathhouse Studio. Check it out. And buy it if you have $20 million. I was so busy taking pix of the slide show and drinking margueritas and greeting old friends that I failed to take pix of those old friends. Whoops! But it was pretty dark. The picture was made by  Bill Eppridge. Yes, the same fellow that took the picture when Bobby Kennedy was shot. We were visiting "Woodstock" 25 years after the event for a story.

The party put on by Bobbi's husband Russell Burrows and their kids James and Sarah was fabulous in the old Time Inc. fashion. We wept our way through their speeches.

It was a beautiful thing. So many friends. So many good memories. So much history.
I am sorry that I haven't been posting. I have been writing and having Internet issues at the same time (sigh). Verizon dude coming Tuesday. Til then it's Hotspot City.


Chien-Chi Chang poses beside his pictures at the Magum "Home" exhibit.

Copy explaining the Home show at Milk Gallery.

Gil prepares to declare his art evening over.


old friends

Feisty Ferrato

Prone Paula
Insatiable Ivy