1940s rotary phone. Model 302. Designed by Henry Dreyfus in the late 1930s. Reminds me of the days I was writing the Design Patents book.

After caffeine came fever
I never sit down when I do a reading. I get into it and stand and make gestures and apparently do some kind of trademark kick and am known to surf the hand through the air for emphasis. So to the audience, all you good people, I apologize. But I had to sit down. I was feeling a little woozy and warm. Clomping down Partition Street looking for a quick bite beforehand, I could not focus on store signs. My brain did not want to process information. It wanted to shut down.

I got through it, by sitting, with some kind of no doubt bizarre explanation as to why the chair. Apologies for that too. But I did get through the whole chapter. And thanks to great Southern homie and son in their red volvo, got back to Winchell's corners and my car. Could not recognize the car for a full ten seconds. Now if there is one thing a driving person does, it's instantly know their car. We imprint on them so quickly. Clearly this was not normal. I drove carefully. Slowly. The night seemed to have a reddish cast and I ignored the feeling that I was driving on Mars and just followed the plum colored road all the way to the pinkish gate.

1940s - 1950s bedtable. Perfect for being sick in bed — or better yet, just pulling a Judy Holliday and eating bon bons.

For the next 6 days I had a fever that crested somewhere past 102. Turned out to be walking pneumonia. Which means, no walk, just — collapse. How the heck it decided to settle here, who knows? There went the neighborhood. And now, for a while, I have to keep driving slow. This thing takes a long time to pack its bags and actually leave. But I swear I will not read sitting down again until I am of an age when it is appropriate and suitable.

Written and performed under the influence of caffeine, tonight

1960s coffee cups, here

Ironically my genius chiropractor healer guy who gets completely geeked out by new concepts of meridian points and eyedropfuls of shots, found out that I am not supposed to drink much coffee anymore. But tonight's theme is fine with me. There are four of us reading (all reading from upcoming forthcomings). It's great to read it out loud, a great way to test it out and see what works. If you're in Saugerties tonight, come.

LOVE! LUST! HATE! ADVENTURE! EXCELLENT FOOD! ROCK & ROLL! WOLVES! New works written under the influence of CAFFEINE.

also with
Maureen Cummins (producer of more than 30 limited edition books, Cooper Union grad, printer and bookbinder), purveyor of a printshop/studio in a turn-of-the-century warehouse in Brooklyn.

Robert Burke Warren (Texas Music, Brooklyn Parent, the Woodstock Times, vulture.com, Paste, TheRumpus.net, Fathermucker.com, RockPaperPhoto.com, Chronogram, and the Da Capo anthology The Show I ‘ll Never Forget), bassist, writer for Rosanne Cash and Wanda Jackson, played Buddy Holly in the West End musical Buddy: the Buddy Holly Story, and he's Uncle. Rock.

Scott Anderson (Prima Materia, Chronogram and more), and a scriptwriter, radio play performer and novelist.

Inquiring Minds Coffee House and Bookstore
68 Partition St., Saugerties, NY 12477
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Vanilla ice cream with butterscotch sauce

New bedding coming to the shop from the 1950s and 1960s. Delicious.

Mama Lucille

Out of eight eggs, three chicks, who will be five days old tomorrow. They are doted on by Lucille with great passion and intensity. If they flick a shaving into the water, she picks it out. If they are not pecking at the chickstarter feed fast enough, she pushes a heap of it out of the bowl at their feet. Any sense of danger and she clucks for them to hide in her wings. The grey one, or so we call it right now, likes to roost on her back.

Tipple stick

February 13, 1922. Washington, D.C. Unidentified woman demonstrates an ingenious Prohibition-era fashion accessory, the cane-flask. Courtesy Shorpy.

Last night I dreamt I was, no kidding, saying "Swordfish" at the back door of a speakeasy, wearing oxford shoes and a great big coat. And carrying a cane. Remembered where it came from: the Shorpy archives, that great treasure trove of old pix that is nearly as good as my Dad's bookcase. Nearly, but not completely.

It's not in Manhattan but it could be, with that white hex tile and the twisted leg chairs, which Mom called Candy Store chairs. They came from Great Uncle Sam and his brothers' candy store on the Lower East Side, which also doubled as a numbers parlor back in the day. In an odd coincidence, K and I realized that it is highly likely that my Great Uncle Sam and his great grandfather, an enforcer who sported brass knuckles and fedoras, may well have crossed paths. According to Uncle Sam those fellows made sure things stayed right. The one time a poor fool made the mistake of stealing the cash box, the boys across the street had it back in three hours.

Scarves and scarves and scarves and scarves

You can find there here.

A sweet dozen of the dozens of scarves. The woman who had these had doubles and triples. It was explained that she was very particular about her appearance. What would she have thought about the way they were all strewn over her wicker lounger, looking like castaways, like an aviatrix had changed about 100 times while piloting a glassless plan, and just casually unlooped, unknotted, and tossed that frisson of silk into the air.

Chicks and scarves

Not to say chicks in scarves. We do not call each other chicks anymore. Not really. Without a certain tone. But Lucille did her job and now has three chicks scooting and peeping around her and is already looking relieved. More on her later. Trying to leave her a lone a bit. Give that hen some space.

Meantime I have finally gotten to sorting through the dozens and dozens of scarves I unearthed recently. You don't really unearth scarves, or they'd be a mess. But they were all laid like a crazy, thousand petalled flower, over the arms of a chair in the upstairs of a house, and the colors were singing. Some have never been worn. Ever. Some are in triplicate. Bit by bit they are coming to the shop.

 Other hats, department of:

Editing a book-length critical essay on the artist who made this.

And this.

As usual when I am this knee-deep in editing I tend to fall in love with the subject. When the book is done, promise I'll lift the veil. But the good cousin of love is discretion. Just ask my grandmother, who had to chase her husband down with a camera to catch him with his mistress back in the day. She is also the one who coined the euphemism "time to take off the apron," which meant, leave the bastard.

Xavier's morning routine

9 a.m. 2/16/2012

Rest assured, first of all, that none of this gets into the vintage. Xavier does nowhere near the vintage. He knows not to set foot in the luncheonette, though he will linger outside, possibly jump up and look in the window (he is a dog that likes to see stuff and will stand up to do so). But none of that spit and vigor gets anywhere near the vintage.

It does get into the book if I'm not careful, though. So I'm being careful. Wolves are not like dogs. Xavier's joy is in the Play. Is in the whole tootin ritual we do. Wolves would not think it very appropriate. But Xavier does. Every day. Nine times a day if possible. Or ninety. Ninety times a day chasing a ball for all it's worth, or waiting on a sit-stay and vibrating like crazy until that release, that amazing WOW release as in WOW I CAN GO FIND THAT THING SHE JUST HID SOMEWHERE OUT THERE — that could happen ninety times a day and it would not be enough. But even twice a day, even once a day, it makes him so happy he stands like Rin Tin Tin at a photo shoot, except for all the spit and vigor in his jaws.

And I did not ask or tell him to pose for this picture. That's just how he stands when he's done. Like, yo, I could take Westminster.

Across the ocean she sails

 

 

Lucy gone broody

Lucille, lead biddie of the Olivebridge 7, was looking poorly about 5 days ago. She puffed up her nest box with a stoned look and a growl. I've had a couple of hens suffer from egg binding —  if you had an egg the size of gibraltar stuck in you, wouldn't you puff up and groan? What worked for them so they don't suffer exponentially and then die was a warm bath. I read about that. Part of me is a reader first and an experiencer second and when I was a child that meant I was always mispronouncing words (like banal) since I read them before hearing them. Thank you, Mom, for all your corrections.

The two hens who were successfully bathed out of their predicament are both more petite and tractable than Lu. With them I could also feel the telltale egg under the surface, like a mean, smooth rock. So I sunk the gals into a warm bath for 20 minutes, sang to them, put on Al Green. Both got coo-ey and half-eyed and relaxed. Some time later, out popped the egg. But Lu is a big starchy gal with a raucous caw in the face of strange dogs or people. She is the Ethel Merman of Buff Orpington hens. And there was nothing like a bump there when I felt her. Not knowing the true course of action to take, I gave her a bath anyway. Went the when in doubt, do it anyway method. She put up with Al Green and the warm water. She even put up with a follow-up mineral oil up-douche. But gave me this look, like, Idiot.

Because she was not egg bound. She was broody. She was tired of not having chicks already, of all those eggs and nothing to show for it. We have laying hens here who dutifully lay eggs for us everyday and let us steal them out of the nest to eat. More on that later: everything has a quandary in it. But I finally called someone with way mucho chicken smarts and he set me straight. So in addition to all the other additions around here (a 135 lb. Newfoundland, for starters), I am off to procure Lucille some fertilized eggs from the Chicken Whisperer. Because we do not have a rooster here anymore. This has been a pretty tranquil hen sorority since the departure of Jojo, handsome combripper maniac that he was. Soon it will all change again. There will be life in the form of peeps and adorableness. It will be easter here. Nature's way, or at least its cousin.

Lu is ready. She is back in the nest, partitioned off, looking stoned and clucking softly, only now it will mean something.  In other words Lucille got in touch with her maternal side, a lot quicker than I did. Which for about a thousand reasons, is not surprising, I admit.

Bandana, she likes.

1950s tuside in the shop

Incredibly soft cotton, probably washed a thousand times, but probably carefully, as it came from a lady who could ride a Palomino like the wind but had her judicious moments. She was known for her ability to chill butter with just a look. Worked on husbands too.

Actually it came from my friend G, source of some of the most remarkable things to come through the kitchen in a good while.