Wholesale
I wonder what Kafka would think of Costco. Would he call it Kafkaesque? The Staten Island Costco on Richmond Ave. is typical of the chain. It’s an immense, windowless building surrounded by a treacherous parking lot. Inside, a labyrinthine series of large steel racks with exposed piping and countless rows of soul-siphoning fluorescent lighting hanging from the ceiling. You can’t get in without a card. You can’t leave without getting searched.
Tonight I accompanied my parents on their biannual trip to Costco, so I could help them haul mammoth items from the store to the car and from the car to the house. We filled up two carts: chicken cutlets, a leg of lamb, cleaning products, personal hygiene items, an assortment of fruits, roughly all of the Sweet N’ Low ever produced and a box of oatmeal cookies, of which I’ve already eaten three (delicious).
We brought our carts to the checkout area, the most angst-inspiring area of any Costco. It seems that less space is allotted for checkout at a Costco than what you’d find at a regular supermarket, which is extremely vexing considering that Costcos offer customers shopping carts so large that they come equipped to seat two babies.
A school of carts swam aimlessly in the poorly defined checkout aisles. The claustrophobia hit one lady pretty hard. She was wearing blue sweatpants and her children were writhing around on the floor. She accused a young couple, remarkable for holding just a couple items, of cutting her in line. I gave her credit for being able to discern there were lines at all. She kept yelling, her children continued to fidget on the floor. Eventually a woman from a different line, overhearing the commotion, invited the couple to cut in front of her.
The woman in sweatpants continued raving. I stared at the lights and wondered what it would be like to be a cockroach.
Milk of Magnesia
I think I fell asleep on the ferry. At the very least, I was in that semi-lucid state between sleeping and waking. I was keenly sensitive to the lapping tide of the New York Bay, and the couple $4 whiskey shot/Genesee beer combos I had at International Bar toward the end of the night were splashing around uncomfortably in unison with the water. I thought I was going to hurl.
Once the boat docked, I zombie-walked through the terminal and up the ramp to the bus. The S51 is the most direct route; and thanks to the usual bus driver, it’s lightning fast. At 4 a.m., the usual driver is a man, seemingly 35-40, with a barbell piercing in his right eyebrow. He gets the hybrid bus moving, too. The bus doesn’t stop, as much as it pauses at each stop as we rocket down Bay Street. Red lights are merely suggestions.
But last night, the driver was different: a matronly woman. She drove at a careful speed and came to gentle, courteous stops. Most remarkably, she announced upcoming stops over the loudspeaker with a cheerful voice. When it came to my stop, she asked me, “Is here good, or do you want me to move up?” As if she knew where I lived. “As far up as you can go,” I said, and she took me all the way up to the corner. I thanked her, and so did my stomach.
Polk 3
The people I work with at the polling place are becoming extended family. They’re people who are familiar, and whose company I enjoy, and I only see them about once or twice a year—on the major holidays. I catch up with my real family in late December and my election family on the first Tuesday in November. They’re actually the first people I wish a happy holidays. Just like family, I’m involved in their squabbles.
The River Styx
I have a ferry wait time limit: never more than a half-hour. In the salad days before the end of summer, I’d hop off the N at Rector Street and belly up to the bar at Ulysses for a drink or two to kill time before the next boat. Nowadays, If I have to wait an hour for the boat to dock at Whitehall, I’ll just continue into Brooklyn and transfer to the S53 at 86th Street.
This is the dreariest of trips, especially in the wee hours. I have to transfer to the R at 59th Street in Brooklyn, and there’s no telling how long it’ll take for the R, relegated to meager Bay Ridge shuttle status at that time of night, to show up. The only bright spot is that the delis on 86th are still open, and they make a mean sandwich.
Last night, the N had dropped me off with 35 minutes to spare. This time, open air won out over a late night trolling the tunnels. I walked upstairs to sit on the patio behind the neon Staten Island Ferry sign. I like to watch the ferry come in at night. It seems to emerge out of nowhere when it swings around Governor’s Island. I opened the side doors of the terminal and saw a couple sitting on a bench—a man and a woman. I thought the man looked like Lou Reed from behind. When I took my seat on the neighboring bench, I realized the man was David Johansen from the New York Dolls.
Coming up on 3:30 a.m., Lower Manhattan was even quieter than usual, but I couldn’t make out their conversation. (I’m a chronic eavesdropper. I’m not as ashamed of it as I should be.) The lady had long black hair and a nice laugh, which she flashed often during their dialogue. Thought I couldn’t make out what he was saying, Johansen’s voice had a vampiric tone—dark and hollow. Between drags of his cigarette, the only word that rang clear was “fascists.”
I entered the ferry alongside them. As soon as I got on the boat, I turned on the ramp and headed downstairs so I could stand outside. When I did so, I was facing Johansen and his lady. She was smiling as she propped him up; he wore amber sunglasses and had the pallor of the walking dead.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
icanseenewyorkcityfrommyhouse:
ICSNYCFMH Official Club Anthem*
Major Lazer - Keep It Goin’ Louder ft. Nina Sky & Ricky Blaze
*If we were the sort to frequent clubs**. But more importantly this marries our marginal counter-culture legitimacy to our deeply rooted New Jersey (and outer borough) bloodlines. Also, it’s really nice to see Nina Sky getting work.
**Then again, if they were to start playing this at Luna or Hunka Bunka or Hell Will Swallow This Dance Floor One Day, I might go.
I get the feeling that if I started bumping this out of some unnecessarily large, copiously sub-woofered (I made it up) car stereo while rolling down Forest Ave. on a weekend night, I’d be sort of like the Pied Piper.
My first car was a Plymouth Turismo. I bought it from a friend of my sister’s for a couple hundred bucks. He didn’t take very good care of it, but it started up, even in the cold, without requiring any sort of ritual beforehand, as was the case with most of my friends’ shitty ’80s Dodges/Plymouths. Everyone I knew at the time had a similar car. My sister’s lousy ‘80-something Dodge Aries K required the driver to start it up, let it stall, then start it up again while pumping the gas pedal to get it going; and it sounded like an old coffee urn once it did.
The stern march of time had turned my Turismo into a somber shade of maroon. Its interior was a dull beige. I wonder what she looked like when she came off the line. The Turismo was an awkwardly designed car that was lost somewhere between sports car and hatchback. However, in the right light, I thought it looked sort of like a Delorean.
She wasn’t much for driving either. The poor misshapen brute was not long for the world. I wondered if each trip would be her last. One day, I was on my way to work at the comic book store in the Staten Island Mall (once located where a uniform shop now stands). It had just started raining, and I was approaching a traffic light on Richmond Hill Road, just around the corner from the parking light. I pulled into the turning lane and applied the brake.
It soon occurred to me that I was going to hit the car in front of me. I couldn’t have been doing more than 15 mph, but the old Turismo just wouldn’t stop. To this day, I’m sure that the car had had enough. She wanted to die. I made solid contact with the white Toyota in front of me. The other driver and I emerged unscathed, and we inspected both cars: hers had a small scrape on the bumper; on mine, the entire front grill—headlights and all—had fallen off. Later, I discovered that the large plastic piece was fastened on to the car with wire hangers.
The white Toyota drove away, and I was left to push the Turismo off to the side of the road. I never drove her again, but the sad part is I don’t remember her name.
Russian Archive at Alice Austen House
Please join us for a sunset garden party to celebrate Russian Archive by Donald Weber at the Alice Austen House Museum.
Saturday Sept. 26 from 4:00-8:00 p.m.
Refreshments by the Bubble Lounge NYC.
Bring a picnic, a blanket, sit by the water, and enjoy one of the last few days to relax outside.
I liked what I saw of Weber’s work online. I’m really looking forward to this.
Sweet Tooth #1 by Jeff Lemire
on sale today only at your local comic books shop!
Picked this up today. It looks promising. First issue for just a dollar!
I bought it at Comic Book Jones on Forest Ave., which might be the nicest comic book shop I’ve ever been in. It’s only about a year or two old. Hardwood floors, cool employees, free coffee, lounge chairs. Since when did buying comics become so comfortable? What happened to the apathetic, misanthropic, socially inept nerd manning a messy counter? Oh, that’s right, I haven’t worked at a comic book store in years.
Muggle Me This
Sunday night I figured I’d go see the new Harry Potter movie. I’m getting increasingly hooked on these films. I loved The Half Blood Prince—almost as much as the new Star Trek. It’s getting to the point where I might have to start reading the books. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.
I went by myself around 11:30 p.m. If I’m going to a movie by myself, I try to pick the latest show possible. When I approached the ticket kiosk, I said, “One for Harry Potter, please.” And the young lady behind the bulletproof glass said, “Just one?”
It wasn’t what she said, but how she said it. Just one. Those two words were heavily weighted. They were almost an indictment. Just one. As if it were strange for a 32-year-old man, unshaven and balding, to want a ticket to see a movie about teenage wizards without first being coerced by a child, younger sibling or significant other. I just love magic, lady. I even used to play the card game.
Cease Fire
When I was young, my street sounded like a war zone on Independence Day. The kids down the block would set off a 4,000-shot bandolier of Thunder Bombs just after breakfast, followed by a barrage of Blockbusters, M80s and whatever else packed sizeable boom.
By evening, the entire street was abuzz with everything from whistling bottle rockets to pro-style mortars that set off showers of colorful sparks deep in the night sky. It’s early, but right now, all I hear are chirping birds and a few passing cars. That’s fine by me. I may even get out of bed eventually.
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