Above, pictured in my haphazardly-organized storage space, affixed to an old cassette deck I disposed of last night, are bumper stickers I bought in a German truckstop, displaying astrological signs and their commensurate sex positions.
When I type mutig into a web translator, it comes back as “courageously.” Spitzen klasse comes back as “sharpen class”. Huh.
I put my back out; I’m in ridiculous pain, and can stand up only with extreme difficulty. I hauled a lot of heavy gear up my stairs last night, by myself; I’m paying for it today. Aargh.
Yesterday I went to my manager Marty’s storage space out in darkest Weehawken and retrieved a few guitars (including the famous green Coronado) and amps in cases painted elaborately by Steve Keene. Quite beautiful, and very sad to see them holed up in this dark space on a New Jersey back street.
I emptied out my storage space–I’m in purge mode–placing half my belongings next to a garbage can on Second Avenue and Second Street. The East Village is ritzier now, but when I was a teenager in this neck of the woods, there was a culture of street furniture and abandoned goods; I once hauled a giant fuzzy orange sofa half a mile down the Bowery.
When I drove past the corner ten minutes later, someone had taken the cheap portraits of the Blessed Virgin Mary and a couple of Hindu deities that I’d thrown out and lined them lovingly against the brick exterior of Anthology Film Archives.
When I was sitting in traffic outside the Holland Tunnel, waiting to cross back into Manhattan, I saw graffiti on a truck parked on the roadside: PUNX ARE GAY. The traffic started moving again before I had a chance to take a picture of it.