Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise…

Kate and Alex, having survived the wedding and skipped the reception, were back home together on the couch, Neil Young: Greatest Hits on the stereo, air conditioner going full blast. She packed a bowl and inhaled deeply, the flame from the lighter curving over the edge and practically into the shaft, and passed it on.

“Well, that was not the greatest time of my life!” Kate said.

“Ah, young doomed love,” Alex said. “Makes the heart go pitter-pat, doesn’t it?”

“Seriously,” Kate said. “I mean, I like them? But really, there’s nothing there.”

“This wedding was…..helpless, helpless, heeeelllllllpless,” Alex sang along with the chorus. “Nothing there. And those vows! ‘Oh, I’m so glad God brought us together!’ Um, no, a bottle of Cuervo and a slippery condom brought you together, hon.”

“BAAHHH!” Kate said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Purity is a many splendored thing,” Alex said. “And believe me, I’m not at all slamming genuine faith. But I know the bride all too well, and let’s just say that her Jesus has a lot of blind spots.”

“Her own personal Jesus, as it were,” Kate said.

“Yep,” Alex said. “You should see the psalms all over her Facebook wall. Which psalm is ‘Get thee obliterated and pregnant whilst thy boyfriend is on a business trip and thy will still be more righteous’ again?”

But only love can break your heart,
Better be sure, right from the start

“Great point, Neil Young!” Kate said. “So their whole marriage is built on a suspect platform of holy matrimony? I’m shocked! What about the sanctity of marriage?”

“Man, this stuff is good,” Alex said, holding in a toke. “Yeah, this marriage is about as sanctified as a Kardashian wedding. Meanwhile, some of our best friends can’t legally marry. How fucked is that?”

“Don’t let Old Frothy Santorum hear you say that!” Kate said. “Agreed, though. It was a nice church, at least. I really liked the chandelier and the window.”

“Yeah, we should do that in here!” Alex said. “I can imagine the slant of afternoon light coming in.”

“That would be kind of a reverse Amish all-seeing-eye,” Kate said. “A peephole for Jesus!”

“Shit, you’re right!” Alex said. “I’d melt in a pool of sinful mush.”

“Wouldn’t want to mess up the rug,” Kate said.

“I guess the light slants wherever you want it to, Jesus window or not,” Alex said. “And it still keeps me searching for a heart of gold…”

The afternoon went on, and Kate and Alex talked, smoked and drifted in and out of naps while new marriage bloomed, old love was shoved under the rug and the world spun on a slanted axis.

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She was meant to be a shadow. Nothing more than looming black across my light. That’s all she was and all she’ll ever be.

I first saw her in winter. Back table against the wall. She was pure, raven-haired seduction. Alone, reading an early afternoon edition of the Herald Tribune. I came in without my hat, and the snow in my hair melted and ran down my neck, onto my collar and down the small of my back, and there she was. Instant sensory association. I wanted to marry her on the spot, but I couldn’t even say hello to her.

The winter went on and on, and I always hoped for snow, so I could feel the drips down my back and thus feel her. She almost always got the same table, and I almost always got the same table, one in the middle where I could sneak glances at her all lunch. I always came alone, hoping she’d see me and catch on and say yes. Hoping she’d come over and make me the happiest lug in the cafeteria and the world. But she never did.

Summer came, and sometimes I would take an ice cube and hold it on my neck, so I could feel the drips down my back and thus feel her. We both kept the same tables and the same routines. And she still never noticed me.

And she never would. Her star could never hang so low. So every day she’d eat alone and bus her tray alone and go back to her office alone. And every day I’d eat alone and watch her alone and go back to my life alone. Just another lonesome guy, madly in love with a shadow.

And then she was gone. Just…gone, off to another job or another city or another life with her man. Like she never existed, and never sent her shadow across my path. Like she never took my heart and made it gasp. Like…nothing there.

Like the shadow she was…

“So they call this all Back of the Yards neighborhood now. Know what they called it when I was your age? Union Stockyard, was called. Where we sittin’ right now, would have been ankle deep in hog blood or suddenly caught between two locomotive cars!”

Joe Lutkowski and his grandson-to-be Rich Goldman were sitting on Joe’s porch drinking Old Style and thumbing through photo albums. Except for a few Sox games, Rich had never been to the South Side, and Joe didn’t get out too far too often lately. But the two families had spent a wonderful day together gallivanting around Chicago and getting to know each other. It was a beautiful night and the Goldman’s had gathered at the Lutkowski’s for cake and ice cream. Rich flipped to a picture of train tracks and industrial buildings.

“Tell me about this one,” Rich said.

“Ah!” Joe said. “This is where I worked! Was brakeman for Chicago & North Western Railroad. Lined switches and made sure signals worked. Twenty years, worked at 40th Street yards, until they shut whole thing down in early 70s. Trains I worked on carried pigs away from slaughterhouses. Was stink like you wouldn’t believe!”

“I can’t imagine!” Rich said. “So this entire neighborhood was train tracks and slaughterhouses?”

“Ja, was all train yard and stock yard,” Joe said. “Hog butcher of world, Chicago was! Hard to imagine now, but was all different. You know Millennium Park downtown?”

“Yeah, with the Frank Gehry bandstand and the Cloud Gate statue!” Rich said.

“Ja,” Joe said. “Was Illinois Central tracks for years, then nothing. Abandoned tracks. Big change all over Chicago!”

“I barely remember the tracks being there,” Rich said. “I can’t picture trains actually going back and forth through the park!”

“Was different time!” Joe said. “I don’t mean bad now, but was different.”

“Hi, grandpa!” Joe’s granddaughter Casey came out on the porch and gave him a big kiss. “Have you scared my man away yet?”

“We get along just fine, ha?!” Joe said, holding up his beer for a clink with Rich’s. “Am showing Chicago I knew when I was young. Is boring story from crazy old man, ja?!”

“I’m loving it,” Rich said, holding up his beer for a clink with Joe’s. “Tell me more…”

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Tim and Shaien weren’t particularly Catholic, or particularly anything. But when in Rome, or in this case New Orleans…

They were on the sitting balcony of the honeymoon suite of the Creole Gardens, making the most of Fat Tuesday with beignets, king cake and a pitcher of Hurricanes. The B&B was just off the French Quarter, allowing the young couple pockets of quiet in between waves of Mardi Gras revelers, and they were greatly enjoying their own private festivities.

The evening was warm, comparatively speaking, the gentle breeze an intoxicating perfume of Cajun and Creole cooking, flowers, horse leavings and the salt of the gulf. The atmosphere was heavy with the usual Mardi Gras enchantment, of course, but there was something else.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Shaien asked.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Tim said. “You feeling it?”

“I’m feeling…something,” Shaien said. “Something kind of …dark. Like …voodoo and mystery. It’s kind of eerie.”

“Now that you mention it…” Tim said.

They were quiet for a few minutes.

“Like, I can almost hear ghosts whispering from the past,” Shaien said. “It’s almost like some spectral presence has kind of wafted over me. I know it’s nothing…..but…..”

“I do believe in powers that are beyond us,” Tim said. “Obviously I’m not very religious, but yeah, I’m spiritual. And I believe in spirits of all religions, including voodoo. So yeah, there’s something here. Some…kind of presence.”

“So you think there’s something out there?” Shaien asked.

“Yeah,” Tim said, taking a pull from his drink.

“Do you think there’s something here?” Shaien asked.

“Yeah,” Tim said. “I’m not sure what. But there’s something …or someone… here.”

“Whooooooohhhhoooooo!” Shaien said, breaking the spell. They pulled their chairs together and held each other a little tighter than usual.

Later they fell into an unsettled sleep, with more questions arising than answers as the night went on.

The first summer-feeling weekend of the year had arrived, and seemingly all of Brooklyn was out soaking it in. The lawns of Prospect Park were filled with picnickers, flying Frisbees and sun worshipers, and the paths of the Botanical Gardens were mobbed with promenaders spilling out to the farmers market on Grand Army Plaza. It was a glorious weekend to be alive in any corner of the borough.

On that Sunday, as always, the line outside Tom’s Restaurant snaked around the corner. The owner, as always, walked the line, handing out cookies and greeting his customers-to-be.

“My friends!” he said to Ray and Clem. “Thank you so much for coming on this beeuteeful day!” He handed them both cookies, clasped their hands and forearms and moved along the line. Ray gnawed off a cookie in one bite, adjusted his shades against the blinding sun and pointed up to the sign above the window.

“This isn’t it,” Ray said. “You know that, right?” He stood back a little, lit an American Spirit and waited for Clem to ask what he meant.

“What do you mean?” Clem asked.

“This isn’t the Tom’s Diner from the Suzanne Vega song,” Ray said. “Most people think it is, but nope. I know a guy knows someone that used to do publicity for her, and he got the real story. Her Tom’s Diner is the one on Broadway in Morningside Heights, by Columbia.”

Ray actually read that in an article somewhere, but close enough. Finally seated, he ordered a Chocolate Egg Cream and Clem ordered a Cherry Lime Rickey, both of which were the best in the world.

“Oh yeah, I know that one!” Clem said. “They used the exterior for the café on Seinfeld!”

Ray was slightly taken aback at having his command of the conversation breached, but he handled it deftly by changing the subject.

“Oh, have you seen the ‘Hipster Trap’ poster?” he said. “It was on Laughing Squid, I think. Hilarious. It’s a bear trap, with a PBR, a pair of Ray-Bans and a pack of American Spirits. Friggin’ riot.”

“That’s a scream,” Clem said. “Tools of the trade for tools, right?”

“Damn straight,” Ray said. “Buncha wankers. ‘Oh, look at me! I’m ever so hip and ironic!’”

“’Yeah, look at my seventy-five-dollar Pabst tee!’” Clem said. “It looks original!”

“Damn, that reminds me: we’re out of beer!” Ray said. “Let’s pick up some Brooklyn. And some PBRs, in case we score!”

They sippedd their drinks, ordered BLTs, got beer and smokes at the bodega and headed back out into a beautiful Sunday.

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Awards Day! I’ve been kindly nominated for two awards!

From morezennow the One Lovely Blog Award, and from Jeannette Monohan the Kreativ Blogger Award.

In accepting both awards, I’m also passing on both awards to the following:

1. Red Ten kids and still enough time for such a wicked sense of humor
2. Sarah More and more delicious by the week
3. Pure Complex A little of this, a little of that, a lot of awesome
4. Alexandra Corinth This girl bears some watching
5. Ashley Noelle She can write! And she can take pictures that inspire me!
6. All About Lemon Another little-bit-of-everything gal with a good mix of everything

And I must also list a few random factoids about myself. I can’t think of anything new, and it’s time to write! So here are my Versatile Blogger Award answers (yeah, not very versatile of me. D’oh)

1. I have been blessed and cursed with not mere perfect pitch, but absolute pitch. Flush the terlet and I can tell you what key it’s in and transcribe and play it.
2. My band was once offered a gig opening for Nada Surf, but we were already booked that night. We were once also un-booked in favor of Jennifer Love Hewett. Let’s not talk about that.
3. When I was 10 I won an art contest and appeared on the local PBS affiliate with Big Bird during Sesame Street.
4. I know every word of It’s a Wonderful Life and frequently piss off those attempting to watch it with me by reciting along.
5. I am three degrees of separation removed from Michael Jackson (worked a few shows with Gary Cherone, who was in Van Halen with Edward, who played on Beat It)
6. Most of my stories on this site were written in between 10 minutes and a few hours, often at work (shh) or on the way to or from.
7. I am fluent in no languages.

Thank you, and check ‘em all out!

It took forever, or so it felt. It always seemed like hours on the 7 from Grand Central, even though it was only eighteen stops. You were on an endless journey to a place called Flushing, and by the time you stepped off the train at Willet’s Point, you were already thinking of humping your way back.

Willet’s Point, Flushing, Queens. The Valley of the Ashes immortalized by Fitzgerald in Gatsby. Used to be the city dump, and when they built Shea Stadium, the rubbish of the city was still smoldering underground.

And the stadium was a crumbling, decaying dump on top of the dump. Flaking paint, nasty bathrooms, exposed pipes and exposed ramps that dropped off hundreds of feet to death by concrete. If you were sitting in the upper deck, you were going to be holding on to your sun-scorched arm rest for dear life, as the pitch down to the field was enough to make you feel like you were about to tumble and roll off the face of the earth.

But it was OUR dump and OUR Amazin’ Mets.

It was a kids game played by grown men seemingly cast from an episode of Fraggle Rock: Davey and Mex and The Straw, Nails and The Kid and, fachrissakes, Mookie. And there was joy in their game, and the unspoken swagger that says you will NOT beat us today.

You showed up early for batting practice. You sat in the blazing sun and gladly felt like passing out from the heat trapped in the not-fully-enclosed Shea stadium. Your seat was only a few hundred feet below the flight path of LaGuardia, close enough to be able to read the numbers on the wing. Pilots approaching the runway used to gun their engines so they could hear themselves on the radio play-by-play. And you loved the noise and the atmosphere because it was New York and it was Shea and the Mets and it was where you wanted to be.

It was 1986, and it was THE year. 108-54, smoked Philly by 21 1/2, beat Houston in 16 unforgetable playoff innings, Game 6, Buckner. The greatest team having the greatest season playing in the greatest dump in the greatest city in the world.

It was worth the longest subway ride ever, and so much more.

RIP, Kid

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Ann was starting to get pissed as she stood in front of the AC unit trying to get it off of the ARCTIC BLAST setting. She and Melissa didn’t get much sleep, between the cold and rattling of the air conditioner and anticipation of the homestretch of their trip.

The morning, grey and muted, flicked across the carpet in thin shafts of light as Ann bumped into the heavy motel curtains. She rolled the immense 1970s climate control dial, pressed buttons, punched the panel. Eventually she gave up and went back to the bed. Melissa had pushed the comforter to the floor, and was lying with the sheets pulled up to her chin.

“I would get starkers for you, but it’s too fucking cold in here!” she said. She made a show of her shivering and chattering teeth.

Ann held up her arm, which was a relief map of goose bumps.

“I’ll forgive you,” she said. “This time. We need warming coffee! Wanna stop at the coffee shop for some Route 66 Americana, or would you rather fuel up when we fuel up?”

“Hmmm…” Melissa said. “When will we ever be here again? Let’s linger for a few minutes.”

“Let’s!” Ann said. “And if I happen to see a sombrero or some other form of dumb-ass local ware in the gift shop, and if it happens to end up in the car, weeellll….”

“Yeah, don’t make me change my mind before we even get home!” Melissa said.

300 miles to go. Ann and Melissa were starting the day in a frigid, run down New Mexico motel room, and they would end it at the beginning of their new life together. They lingered at the door before returning the key, knowing that this was a moment they would both remember for a long time. The last miles before home. Then they got in the car, turned up the heat and hit the gas.

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It was a dime a dream and a dozen to be had on those young nights, when we didn’t have anything to worry about and holding hands on the coaster was enough for the rest of our lives. Stifling F Train to Stillwell Ave and to Surf Ave and magical salt-breeze relief, and days that would stretch out with no end, until the night came and the lights danced and hearts soared.

It was all we knew and all we needed and all I want…

The autopsy reports never made it into the paper, so nobody knew exactly how a 5 ½ ft. tall, insanely heavy bucket of KFC came to rest on a weed-strewn sidewalk far from its sign pole. But since there weren’t any jobs in or under the bucket, nobody cared much, either. It was a curiosity for a while; something to speculate about while walking quickly to somewhere else. After a while it became a non-sequitur part of the landscape: Pop-art without the art, or the pop.

For Judd and Sonia, it was a place to make out on their way to or from drinking until her parents got home from work. And on the Valentine’s Day of their junior year, it became the spot where they officially became a couple.

Judd was a nervous wreck all day as he held the promise ring he swiped from Spencer’s in his sweaty palm. He knew everything would go well, but he just wanted to get the romance out of the way so they could get back to messing around, as a for-real couple. He practiced his lines internally all day during class. Finally school let out.

Judd and Sonia met up and started along the path to her house. When they got to the bucket, he pulled them over.

“Um…uh, Sonia?” Judd said. “Uh…there’s something I’ve wa..wanted to ask you.”

Sonia gasped, feeling the air rush out of her stomach. Judd got down on his right knee and pulled out the ring.

“I was wondering if…if you’d….y’know…go out with m-me?” Judd said, sliding the ring on with his shaking, boiling hand.

“Of course!” Sonia said. She pulled Judd up off the sidewalk, shoved him against the old rotating chicken bucket and planted a kiss on her new man that shook rust flakes off the lid. After she let Judd surface for air, Sonia gave Judd her class ring, which he put on his necklace. He then pulled out a slightly melted Hershey’s Kiss and gave it to his new girl. Formalities out of the way, they continued to her house, stopping off at Durgin’s Market first to swipe a few 40s.

Romantic? Not really. But romance is what you make of it, and the KFC bucket proved to be just romantic enough. It was not in the city plan, and it wasn’t around long enough to be a permanent installment. But for a few weeks one winter, a fallen piece of fast food advertising became a landmark along the path to young love.

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