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In the spirit of Alice In Wonderland (which I will not be seeing), I recommend the book, One Pill Makes You Smaller by Lisa Dierbeck.
This is from a review I wrote circa 2003: When mystery pills were still a mystery and the drugs were cool. You know, people popped Quaaludes and weren’t zapped out on generic antidepressants. ONE PILL smacks of originality— a tale of Alice & Wonderland gone freaky in New York. It’s probably hard to capture the seventies drug culture without having been constantly played on little yellow dolls, Peruvian flake and sheets of acid. Guess what? The author convinces and so does the story. Physically mature Alice (a mere 11 years old) escapes her Aunt’s perved-out boyfriend Rabbit and spends time at a deserted summer camp with a touchy-feely blow dealer and two twin girls (remember the Shining?). Things get pretty freaky. The characters glide on autopilot in these pages of counterculture peppered with Houses of Holy albums, shimmering rock stars, mental institutions, and the high-high platform shoes. The book’s cover has this waxy, leathery NICO or David Bowie thing going on; a she-man wearing those rimless aviators that might conjure up a Warhol image. Maybe. Who knows? This is what I do know: it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find books this cool. Makes you wish you could come up with this shit on your own. Hey, should you want some supplemental material, go rent Jan Svankmajer’s Alice. Sleep with your light on; little girls in pink gowns are scary.
(1: B Sushi Bar Chicago, Cafe El Portal New York City, A List 2006 STL, an envelope from ABB, Deadly Squire tag, Bohemia Beer, Body Worlds 3, Original invitation to the Spring Street Block Party, Foam Free in 03′ brainchild of Mike Poindexter, Tara Om Card)
Bonus: I Loved New York related piece: Trucker Hats.
(Kate Donnelly + Jen Bekman @ John Glassie’s “Bicycles Locked to Poles” May 10 – June 11, 2005 Jen Bekman Gallery. Location: 6 Spring Street. Koa Pen/a JS Woods product; gift from Jimbo. New York Times Magazine tear sheet of all things aNYthing and subsequent trends.
(Pink lady magazine tear sheet, sleeping book postcard from West Village shop, Kerry Kane publicity business card, Vogue insert, Ocean Pacific retail tag, Sweet and Viscous NYC postcard, Surf and Sea Hawaii sticker.)
(Keith Richards + Mick Jagger– New York Times Magazine. Prayer card, Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini (B: July 15, 1850 D: December 22, 1917. Canonized: July 7, 1946)
(1: color photo of Julie Weingrad in Israel (oops, Greece!). To Class, a poem by Julie Weingrad to Kate Donnelly, 1997)
(2: Rabbit art sticker by Pat Conlon, Intrepid Royalty a poem by KBD, Sophia Coppola in part in stripes, AOL IM from Kate to brother in his Phish days.
(New York Times; Royal Tenenbaum list; New York Times Magazine; Ecstasy cover (remember it was the craze peeps!) Polaroid; Tarka and Jimbo by KBD)
Tarka related pieces: Stepping Out on Spring Street Alone + Lovely New York and Tarka.
(Wash banner found on the floor of Madison Square Garden after Pearl Jam concert, July 9,2003, my pricey operation bill + Chargill postcard.)
Because I have no voice this week and cough a song of something lungless, I’m peeking into my old collage + inspiration books from 1998-2006.
Charlize Theron; Vogue Magazine, Maratime Hotel Coaster, NYC, Cuba postcard compliments Cafe Habana and Fire Truck postcard Nicky Hotstamps.
Dear New, New York:
You are officially breaking my heart. Your vacant, lights-out face further documents the nature of what I’m searching to understand in my site ilovednewyork, primarily about what has always made New York special is slowly dying.
Things are looking bleak (and bleaker) on Bleecker Street or rather Marc Jacobs Row (take that Jane Jacobs) where the once great, beloved Biography Bookshop last stood–a final independent utopia. The same Bleecker Street where Paris Commune (pre-Bank Street), and Miracle Grill with many a gossip-fueled brunch now sits empty. A few blocks over, where just last week, Baby Buddha closed to high rents.
The bright, red signs of RIPCO lift prime real estate to its peak level. As AKP points out, RIP stands for Rest In Peace, so it makes sense the demise of small mom and pop shops, landmark institutions and the fabric of what I knew as New York, is held in such esteem by a real estate firm.
Back in 1998, I hit the streets of New York out of curiosity. I looked for vibrant energy. People. Life. Humor. FOOD. I wandered the streets because I liked the possibilities and not knowing who I might bump into down the block. Everything is so predictable now. The closings of great places feel organized, in the vein of a rally, thanks for your 30-year patronage, and finally we cannot afford our rent but nice knowing you varietal.
Down citizens! DOWN! Banks replace Chinese restaurants, nuevo riche restaurants (and greedy landlords) kick pioneers like Florent to the floor, Ralph Lauren and Marc Jacobs row sits prominently on Bleeker. A slutty, burlesque tried to take over the shuttered Little Charlies Clam House. Go figure. A few blocks north, NoLita’s on life support. A long ago adios to Find Outlet, Nancy Koltes and the chic Tracey Feith–memories in the corner of my mind. Yo, Rice needs to relocate. Move away decades old Me Kong. Don’t call us, we’ll call you Kitchen Club. You too, Chibi. Sorry El Teddy’s , your kitsch just didn’t fit into Tribeca’s architectural scheme.
New York doesn’t just break the hearts of the little guys…it’s those bigger names too. Chanterelle we loved your food but ’tis a bad economic climate and you just couldn’t hang nor could Café des Artiste or Tavern on the Green. Family run bodegas have lost to Walgreens or that third Duane Reade in a mile radius. Boutique hotels spreading like wild fire, something like those pop up shops with latest Gucci sneakers. A new wave of rich hip-funks and faux B-to-C plus celebrity siblings are weed-whacking what’s left of downtown with Indochine wanna-be establishments in a new Max’s Kansas City format. Ho-hum. Fashion trend alert: The Bowery goes wide spread panic with of apparel lines showing up at Macy’s…it’s true Montauk’s own “The End” and “Ditch Plains” are California-based Hollister shirts, which conveniently took over the DKNY Emblem on Broadway and Houston. The Liquor Store is n0w a J.Crew production currently showcasing Bowery Pants and Ludlow Suits. Man, those savvy marketing kids are having a blast.
On the LARGE scale! Bloomberg x3. Gay marriage… on the back burner AGAIN um, heartbreak. Historical graffiti and what’s left of artistic tags erased by the city’s own Anti Graffiti Squad. Wait, this is NEW YORK! Isn’t it? Wasn’t it? At least the Yankees won the World Series. I just couldn’t afford to see it… live.
I see it but I don’t get it. Now as a visitor, I’m walking past the same Mall of America I desperately attempt to escape. New York was once escape. Now it’s gentrified vanilla ice cream.
Bloomberg has done a nice job with the parks and cleaning things up (my golden retriever voted for him twice.) I feel warm and safe and fuzzy. During the process, the Mayor’s managed to move out the hoopla and creative vibes which shook the city. My friends have moved away, only a few remain not because they wanted to because they had to. The greatest city in the world which was once so achievable with hard work and a bit of luck is moving further out of my grasp. The city that never sleeps turns its lights off early. Just like those darkened shops along Bleecker Street. Marc Jacobs; are you opening a library too? A post office? A bar serving frothy MJ beverages with plastic cherry keychains?
Hello world, I started talking to you while spending more time in a trendy boutique hotel room over streets I used to love. Am I worthy? Sure the view was better and the HDTV rocks…yet I felt isolated. Funny, I never felt alone in a city like New York. And while I’m a cynic, it breaks my heart this New, New York with its empty buildings and storefronts is what now exists.
RIPCO, I know you’re just doing your job, but you break my heart.
New York, mostly, I just miss you.
LCD Soundsystem…please take it away “New York I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down.”
Like good ole’ English Tarka sings in a favorite song, Lovely New York (please, please have a listen here), I’m easily able to retrace my steps on the best linear block in New York City. Period. I’ve walked it a million times.
image: fashionista
My walk is a walk over a long period of my time in New York. It’s a walk with ghosts. It’s still a nice walk.
I kick off at the New Museum perched a top the Bowery before I make my way onto Spring. I hit the After Nature exhibit and opt for the stairs. It feels good to walk. I feel much excitement even as I’m out of breath climbing….climbing forever along the steep concrete steps. The building smells new and white. I count the stairs as I curve around. You see, I need the exercise and elevators always make me feel awkward. I’m wheezing by the time I’m reach the top. Boy…am I out of shape or what? This particular exhibit hangs a large taxidermied horse sawed right at the head with its long tail in my face.
The irony.
I’m the ass.
Maurizio Cattelan, Untitled, 2007.
I finally arrive on Spring Street, passing Jay Maisel’s (190 Bowery) massive photo house/studio. I smile. I love the fact he hasn’t sold out; it’s 35,000 square feet of an old Germania bank building and proudly maintains its wear and tear. Good for him. I catch the bus boy (one of Jimbo’s new guys) hosing off the sidewalk in front of Sweet and Vicious (5 Spring) and zigzag across the street to visit Jen Bekman (6 Spring) and her perfectly astute gallery. Hey, I just passed where I used to dwell (someone else has the 5th floor apartment). Yo, Nicky Fresh. Looks the same except for a new paint job. My attention turns as the loud guy barks from across the street, the one that hangs out the window-smoking butts all day. I once watched him lower a bucket to collect …something. So I visit next door, the natty bespoke shop, Duncan Quinn (8 Spring). The Beatles music (Help!) is playing loud and it smells like pricey cologne. I almost buy a hankie or a bright tie (from good ole’ Teddy) for “my man” but I still hold the money tight.
ahhh...good day mates at DQ.
Walking…past Wylie Law (hey, Wylie) and the Vig (12 Spring–no love lost here) SANS the one time I made Rory and Robin join me (on a mission). I glance over at the old Horse Stables where the inventor used to live (he kept the place as ratty as Maisel) with lit candles in each window. Long story short…he sold out to Rubert Murdoch’s kid who in turn sold out to a developer who came up with the Candle Building (11 Spring) which just sold for $26 million (originally $40 large).
It’s lunchtime and I sneak into Bread (20 Spring) before the rush, the annoying tatooed guy and fashion chicks arrive. I sit at the white tiled bar and order the “Special Salad” with mesclun cherry tomatoes olives fennel Sicilian tuna and avocado in house dressing. It is indeed special. I leave just as a Louis Vitton bag plops down by my Chuck Taylors. Back on the road again. I pick up two packs of my favorite anti-oxidant Superpac vitamins from the corner Bodega (Spring + Mott). Back outside, I notice the line getting long at Lombardi’s and think of the fun times with Kerry drinking a Heineken and eating a pie (with olives). Gee, I miss delivery. Wow. My mouth is watering and I’m full. Still, it’s good NOT to be in that line. I detest lines. Soon, the designer ice cream shop with the Vespa will own another line. I don’t like that side of the block.
The kids scream and play outside at the DeSalvio Playground. The Chinese guys play chess. The pigeons look for scraps. The garbage stinks. I think I hear birds chirping. An older man is working on his Tai chi. Good for him. He’ll live to be 100.
I wave to the bartender (Michelle hasn’t arrived yet) at48 Spring, now that’s a landmark. The Spring Lounge (aka Shark Bar) where I met my (now) husband seven years (and some change) ago. He would now say ”Spring Street is dead…”. NO it’s NOT, I counter. Well, maybe you can’t go home again. (Tarka sings: “I want to go home…I just can’t go home. I want to go home.“) Stop singing. Stop thinking. Still, I love those low tables and little stools. I love the juke box, even if it’s electric now, even if the Schaffer is a dollar more. The lounge doors are open. Always tempting that Spring Lounge. My wedding picture is hanging behind the bar. Hey, there’s Vinnie watching the Yankees. Michelle must not be working today. Ho-hum. I wave again and move along.
I crave carbs. What about a slice of pizza at Pommies (Pomodoro’s )? Nah. I drop in Nails by Deca (50 Spring) for a pedicure. It will last 2 weeks and I always dig the happy ending neck massage. I cross the street to Ceci Cela for a cup of Americana. I think of Tarka again… glancing next door at Gatsbys. You know, the pub which plays all that bloody footie.
Spring Street still has its ghosts.
I’ve made it to Layafette. I’ve been on the block over 2 hours. That’s right, I haven’t left Spring Street yet. You know a street is special when you can spend an entire day kicking it. I pick up the Post and pretentious glossy magazine at the corner magazine shop which smells like rolling paper and tobacco. Outside, I smell a blast of the subway down under. Moving…always moving, I pass Kates Paperie (72 Spring); do I really need my favorite pen? I crisscross over to MoMA Design Store (86 Spring) to purchase some postcards and Muji. I love Muji. I run up to MZ Wallace (on Crosby Street). Bummer, they don’t have any of my favorite totes anymore. Oh well.
Back on Spring, the streets are bustling. I take a seat on the benches in front of Balthazar and read the paper.
I’m only forced to leave when an annoying bike messenger irks me. At first, I’m friendly but then he turns unnecessarily strange. Get off the meth, dude. I leave my Post behind for the next person who pretends to read and instead watches the people under their darkened designer shades.
I cross Broadway, making my way into Soho where retail lives. I love walking into Chanel (130 Spring) with it’s fancy bags and shoes and all that glitters. At this juncture, I might wander off the beaten path and visit Barneys Co-Op, Patagonia, Morgan Le Fay, DWR’s Tools For Living, Knoll and Adidas.
By now, it’s 4ish and I’m stopping in on my friend Kim. She just got a killer 10 minute back massage from Spa Belles (202 Spring) and I visited the Spring Street Wine Shop (187 Spring) to pick a bottle of Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse 08. I pass Aqua Grill, (210 Spring) it’s been there a long time. I always like their raw bar. Good brunch, too. I pass the fire station and those brave souls. Smack in the face to the new Trump building (I detest Trump and his gold shrines). I feel invaded but move on. I’ve almost made it to the end of Spring Street, but not before I have some suds at the Ear, a bar so old it slants not to mention you can talk horse racing with the patrons.
And, if Im lucky I’ll have a warm dinner over at Giorgione with the , Tonno con Avocado e Rugola, tuna tartar, avocado, arugula, the Tonno Alla Griglia grilled yellow fin tuna, braised green lentils, roasted tomatoes, zucchini and some of that Super Tuscan (the other KD showed me that rope). And Donna, who shared a wood oven pizza with me.
I wish I had time to walk across the West Side Highway and stroll along the path. I’m tired.
My day on Spring has come to an end…the night is fading and still yet, “I have miles to go before I sleep”.
