I’m sorry it’s taken so long to write. There is something missing. It’s ME. I’ve been gone too long. Sitting on the story. Bored. Annoyed . Bored again. Waiting for the moment to present itself. The magic “Source” promised to reveal the cinematic story of your demise. Mr X.

Last August, I read about your sign missing. Stolen!  Genius and funny too. I emailed your “band of thieves.” And, your story, promised to me for months in a clean, photoshopped package, isn’t coming. Never was. And so the moment, ever fleeting, won’t either. It never will. And, like the girls (guilty!) do these days, I favor closure.

Beatrice, you were used. Gawker NAILED you on all points. You were  a contender. At the time, you probably didn’t care. Plus, you were just a sign. Still, let’s recap the rise and fall (albeit brief)…shall we? Let’s relive your Vertigo belltower moment. You were white hot!

Beatrice: Ugh, thanks for making your name trendy for the next generation of small children. What happened? You go and get yourself CLOSED! SHUTTERED! PADLOCKED!  Those people didn’t take good care of you.  Used you. If only you had extended your arms to neighbors. Really, being to nice people is the way to go these days. It really is.

OH BOY…that fateful night, you were stripped from your holy post.  Why didn’t I think of that Beatrice?  I wake up and find you alive and well….not in some infested dumpster. You were alive! Someone was holding you. Cradling. Loving. And not Silence of the Lambs way.  You weren’t in some dark hole with a poodle and water bucket. Amazing, you looked really good in the comfort of someone’s well-organized apartment. Graphic designer? DJ? Art collector? Oh well, fantastic stereo equipment…you almost looked happy.

Still, I decided you should at least tell be able to share your story. Blame me! Like a mother, I was worried about you, Beatrice. You needed to talk.  Past is Present!

Beatrice, most of them won’t care. Your demise was a celebration to many. Those patrons; nocturnal, pale, pretentious blood sucking things…A.R.E. kidding me? Ah, yes, we are talking about you the sign, not the people. Bea! You aren’t so missed, especially by those pesky, uptight neighbors. They hated you! Outside was cold and dark. Trash and rats. Don’t you remember someone keying the 666? Ouch. And some lame white marker doodles? Sorry you didn’t get tagged with legit graffiti. Someone should have stolen the neon sign…or those nice green evergreens (easily replanted).

Ding! We’ve all high-fived the doorman. Steve! Mike!  But, oh, how your insider friends miss you, dear Beatrice, enough to steal your mighty sign (shame on the Tapas joint supposedly opening last year for not stationing at least two security guards at the door) and sell you down the river.

Here is the thing. Here is what I think.  And yes, I’m a small market little girl, but Beatrice, I came after you.  Before you were you. You were a sign on a small block in the West Village of New York City…an island. Now you are gone and it’s was an INSIDER job. Let’s have our closure.

Really, being to nice people is the way to go these days. It really is.

Sometimes, I wish I didn’t care so much about things, Bea. Still, I insisted. Yeah. We’ll give you the story.  “We are moving the sign to a safer place…” as if we’re in an X File episode. My theories?  Vampires? Chanel models?  An angry girlfriend who wants her 2K, cash preferably upfront. Get the story. Some people might think it’s interesting in a City where nothing interesting happens anymore. Someone might care. I miss your fresh roses in your tiled bathroom, your ultra low ceilings, the American flag located just behind th DJ booth, smoking in the boys room style, Sinatra playing when it was time to go, and if you patrons could muster eating after the skating rink, a snack at The Corner Bistro.

Bea, this is why you were stolen:

I wanted a piece of history, I wanted people to say, “why didn’t I think of that” I wanted to sell it to pay rent. I wanted people to see that era was OVER. I wanted people to laugh at the foolish and empty amount of time that they rubbed elbows in that den of iniquity. I had cased the joint for a while checking all the angles like it was Fort Knox or something. I was most afraid of being caught walking around the West Village with it all casual and stuff. I sat and rapped out with the guy living right above it, I was like, Yo! if I lived there three years ago I would be dead today, and told him I was planning on taking the signs. I went to  “DR” and bought a ladies screwdriver with a pink floral pattern, it was a warm dusky pre-rain kind of day. I sat at the restaurant next door and ordered a coke and some sliders, I kept going out for a cigarette and loosening the screws one at a time. When they were pried free I smiled, hid them there… then paid my bill next door and made off like a thief in the night. Which is what I was. But I was taking what I believed was mine anyway, it was just chilling in the public domain, useless. Mocking me, it had to go.

I saw those documents; on Tumblr. Oh wait, where did those pictures go?

Damn, I wish this story was more radical. But it’s not.

Dear Beatrice, catharis immediately sums up the period after you.

In the end, it seems my friends, we have a bit of a PR situation on our hands. You see, everyone is awake in a dream. So we have this Jimbo with this Jimbo who wants to make the headlines and revamp the career.

A=A=A.

We have another Jimbo in Chanel suits (make it blue, please) making certain the Save the T-shirts look okay and conducting her posse. We have the haters and the paranoid (on every corner coming to a theatre near you).

Dear Mr X:

No wonder journalism is a goner sans the Wiki Leaks folks.  Tough to score a source.  I get it, don’t hate the playa hate the game. But don’t you play to win the game?  I mean, sheeeettttt….I can’t even break the lamest West Village story in poor Beatrice’s brief history. Now I know why peeps aren’t “Winning….” I won’t blow the pots and pans and lids off anymore because the stories aren’t really stories. There is no sensation in senstationalism.

The sign isn’t missing aNYmore. It’s in someone’s living room. I hope they enjoy it. They can pass it on to their kids and their kids kids’ and talk about Connecticut and being a WASP and living the “high” life in New York in what…2008? They can talk about the good times. We’re all going to the same place.  You can be cool and act cool and work cool and high five your B stars until New York becomes a C star.  You can Twitter, take pictures (black and white), wear dark shades, break into the ole’ joint and relive your red booth world. Be a surfer (EVERYONE surfs in NYC; even the blonde PR chicks), you can eat oysters, drink gourmet coffee and do everything I did under the sun.  Keep on keepin’ on.  You can sell me down the river, because I’ve already been floated down that way…see, living in New York teaches you how to be tough.  But never to care this much. I’m not mad, just bored.

I need to write. I need a day job. I’m tired and have miles to go before I sleep.

The story with this story is there is no story.  It’s an inside job. Bah-oring. So with this I wave bye-bye baby…bye-bye Beatrice.

Does this make me feel good?  Not really. Catharis immediately sums up the period after you. But, it’s time to put this baby to bed already. I hope you are safe and sound. Sleeping like a baby. Good night.

BRI FOREVER!

– THE END.

(Photos Inside Bea : Mr X)

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