City Life

“You Ain’t No Nice Guy”

W 4th Street Courts, aka "The Cage" Tiny, but one of the toughest, most competitive courts in the city.

W 4th Street Courts, aka “The Cage.” Tiny, but one of the most competitive courts in the city with some of the greatest streetball players. Unusual because it has nets!

The post title above is one of those quotes that tattooed itself on my brain as soon as I read it–many, many years ago. It’s from The Stand, by Stephen King, earlier on in the book, before Captain Trips has completely taken over, said to the character Larry Underwood. Simple, clean, all-encompassing, and it stayed in the character’s head the way it’s stayed in mine. I love those types of characters; not nice but interesting. I will always vote for interesting, and I think that quote shaped the characters I create as much as anything else I’ve read and learned.

Last year, someone mentioned to me that “satire” is currently the kiss of death in a query. Naturally, I immediately started thinking, “what a great idea, I’d love to try satire!” Thoughts of not nice guys married the idea of satire, they honeymooned in the too-many maudlin days of nostalgic thinking I had while recuperating from my fractures, and Jack was born, he’s the protagonist in the short I’m posting today. (I think I posted back in the early days of Mrs Fringe about growing up in Brooklyn and falling asleep to the sounds of dribbling basketballs and hard popping handballs in the park across the street.)

I don’t know how other writers do it, but this is me. Bits and pieces of brain mishmash that probably don’t belong together, but in my peculiar mind they do. In some ways this is a continuation of my last post, about it being ok to reach and try new things, even suck. While part of me mourns for my quickly fading dreams of publication, another part of me sees this as an opportunity (excuse?) to stretch and try all the out of the box ideas that I’ve got without worrying whether or not it’s publishable. Marketable.

If you haven’t noticed from my other stories, I like things that are just a little raw, with jagged bits that stay with me. With any luck, two of my readers/followers do, too. Please click here for “Blacktop.”

Walk in the Park–leave your blues, take in the greens

It was such a glorious weekend here in NY, going into Central Park felt mandatory. I missed the spring blooms this year, but there’s plenty of beauty in the greenery. Unless you go deep into The Ramble, you really can’t forget you’re in the middle of the city for more than five minutes. People, the detritus of people, shadows of buildings and artfully placed pipes remind you. I don’t know about anyone else, but I kind of love that. Makes a statement. Not sure what that statement is, but I know it’s there. Yesterday, though, I gathered the girl, the dog, and the cane, and focused more on the greens. We went to The Pool, a manmade pond on the north end of the park.

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Another set.

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Ok, yes, I took a lot of photos yesterday.

I like this one

I confess, Art Child isn’t the only one obsessed with trees.

Memorial Day is one of 3 days each year when it’s legal to barbecue in the park. The scent of charcoal and charred meat was palpable.

One of my favorite spots in the park, you can almost pretend you’re in Louisiana.

I would like this bench for my terrace.

Happy start of summer, Fringelings. Soon it will be beach days!

Taking it to the Streets

Art in the Village

Yesterday I took my cane and my girl, and went to one of my favorite New York events, the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibit. It’s a biannual outdoor art show that’s been running as long as I can remember, Memorial Day weekend and Labor Day weekend, with a lot of amazing art and artists. This is not a street fair, no sausages, zeppoles, blow up rides or knock-off handbags. I’ve heard the original idea came from Jackson Pollack when he was broke, and took some of his paintings and sold them on the street. Something about being in the midst of creative people who are living their art, and others coming to see, appreciate, and purchase the work is inspiring. Plus, it’s fun and free, leaves me near all the places I used to frequent when I was young–can’t beat it. I’ll share a few of the highlights here, but if you’re in or around New York this weekend, or Labor Day weekend, go!

As much as I’ve always loved this show, there’s an extra dimension to it for me now, attending with Art Child. She chats with the artists and asks questions I wouldn’t think of. She responds to this type of venue and it shows. No less than five artists commented on her style, a couple asked to take her photo for portraits. I could see her wheels turning, wondering when she can set up a booth and sell her own work.

Like Art Child, many artists use trees as subjects for their work, and we saw quite a few styles and interpretations. We even found an artist with both paintings and sculptures of what Art Child calls “treeple,” trees with human features, and something she draws frequently in her charcoal sketches. The artist, Anthony Santella, was lovely and patient, with work ranging from realism to surrealism to fantasy.

If I had the money and the room I would have purchased this piece.

One artist, Lisette P, was showcasing jewelry that was all made from New York photographs she has taken, resized and set behind glass. How can you not love jewelry you can Windex to keep clean?

We spent quite a while at her table, and I was happy to see many other people were doing the same. There’s just something about New York street photography when it doesn’t look like a cleaned up postcard.

One of the first booths we stopped at was marvelous, a mix of paintings and jewelry that we both loved, and it turned out the two artists are mother and daughter. Olga and Daniella Bacskay. Perfect, no? I’ll admit to being a bit envious. I appreciate art, and thrill in Art Child’s joy and accomplishments, but can’t share the experience in quite the same way.

Art Child purchased a small print of this powerful mixed media painting. The original has volcanic ash in the tree limbs.

Moving on, we spent time chatting with another artist, this one with the kindest smile. I loved the work, another person displaying both paintings/prints and jewelry. Handblown, painted vases that blew me away. Dudley Vaccianna, the scenes he paints just seemed to radiate female power. The earrings were all hand painted on brass, beads from Nigeria.

I think I could grow ten stories from his pose.

I think I could grow ten stories from his vibe.

Sadly, the show is much smaller than it used to be, but even still, my back and hip gave out before we were able to see everything. So we walked back around the park to the west side.

So clean nowadays!

And of course, because by then we were hungry, and so close, getting a late lunch was mandatory.

The peanut butter restaurant, simple and brilliant.

By the time we got home, I was unable to stand up straight, but completely inspired. There’s a story I’ve been playing with, building in my head for months. I now have the opening completely in focus.

Strange Days

Wake up!

I should have known it was going to be an odd weekend, since it appeared I woke up on Mars Friday morning.

Art Child presented her too familiar puddle on the couch interpretation–bonus of a low grade fever– so I kept her home from school and we spent the day engaged in a marathon viewing of the tv series, Once Upon a Time.

Saturday was her second to last art class for the year and the fever was gone, so she went. I took Little Incredibly Dumb Dog for a walk, and ran into a friend I haven’t seen all winter. She asked me if I would like to go with her on a yoga retreat, she knows somewhere reasonably priced. After posting about never doing anything remotely like that just last week, I was intrigued. Then she mentioned staying in dorms, something like six women to a room. I promptly remembered why I don’t do things like that.

I decided to hit the Goodwill up the street from the art class. It’s the nicest one in Manhattan, and the last time I went in I scored two great dresses. Woot, covered for Man Child’s graduation! Yes, it’s a two day event, I needed two outfits. When I showed them to Fatigue, he told me I was channeling Alice Kramden. Works for me. Except for shoes, because mine are all either snow boots, flip-flops or high heels. Flip-flops don’t seem appropriate for the occasion, and I’m not stable enough for high heels yet, so I thought I’d check for shoes. Saw what could have been a great pair, but then I realized one of them had a thick streak of what looked like black permanent marker down the side of one. Red shoes + black marker = no.

Then I saw a very cool skirt. High waisted, cream linen with black appliqués. I couldn’t decide if it was a score-cool or just weird-cool, and it was $20, so I left it on the rack. Waited for Art Child to get out of class, I chatted with a couple of the moms who are seriously skilled thrift shoppers, and they offered to go back to the store with me to give an opinion. Me and my big mouth. It was still there, they liked it and encouraged me to try it on. It wasn’t a skirt. It was a strapless dress. I don’t do strapless. A very short strapless dress. I also don’t do very short unless paired with leggings or thick tights.

No worries, the truth is I’m bored with shopping inside of fifteen minutes, and the girl needed to rest. Art Child and I went home. I went to put my mug in the sink and I don’t know what the fuck happened, but a glass that had been sitting in there exploded. Really exploded. Not only was the sink filled with broken glass, but shards flew across the kitchen floor into the hallway to the left, the dining area to the right, and one embedded itself in my wrist. I had to throw away my sponges, it took me forever to clean up, and the girl was convinced my arm was going to fall off if she didn’t apply a bandaid on it immediately. Bloooooood!!! Sigh. Seriously, it was maybe two drops, no big deal.

Last week three of the four turbo snails in my reef dropped dead. In my experience, these snails never live long, but I haven’t had three die at once. The blenny, however, is thrilled, since he’s made a new home inside the empty shell of one.

Yup, that’s the blenny’s little head sticking out.

Thank you, oh mighty snail, for leaving me this beautiful new house, and thank you, evil bristle worms, for eating his remains so it would be nice and clean.

I think these are all signs that this year should be over. It should be beach time, don’t you think?

Mother’s Day Thoughts–Late Again

Flower District

This past weekend was beautiful, whether you celebrated Mother’s Day or not. I talk a lot about the not so nice parts of living in New York, but a nice part is there are always surprises, no matter how long I’ve lived here.

Art Child’s Saturday art class was invited to a small, private gallery in the afternoon. The gallery is in an old, nondescript building on a street I’ve walked down many times, never knew it was there. Surprise! 5 flights of stairs to climb. Bigger, better surprise, there was an elevator. The space itself was interesting to look at, bright, lots of windows, and enough bars and police locks to make me nostalgic for my first couple of apartments.

The show included recent sculptures by Tyrone Mitchell and a variety of traditional African art and artifacts. I forgot to ask if it was ok for me to post photos of Mr. Mitchell’s work, so I won’t, but I will recommend going to see an exhibition if you have the opportunity. Very thought provoking, using found, everyday objects for social commentary. I’m not an artist, don’t know the right words, but there was a piece I didn’t want to leave. On a wooden scaffolding, a pot set into the top, a woven, painted basket decorated with painted money cowrie shells (I have three money cowrie snails eating algae in my tank as I type) coming out of the top of the pot, and coming out of the top of the basket, a mask, a woman’s face. I can’t say why, but something about the whole moved me, and I had a highly inappropriate urge to climb the scaffolding and pick up that basket. No worries, I didn’t touch.

Then I saw a link on Twitter to an article in the New Yorker about the monetization of mommy blogs. For some reason I can’t link it now, sorry. Anyway, my first thought was, really? I haven’t made a dime. Then I remembered, I don’t do anything to try and make money from Mrs Fringe. Second, and more importantly, this isn’t a mommy blog. Sure, I’m the mama, most of that role is fantastic, and I sometimes talk about mama-ing, but that isn’t what Mrs Fringe is about.

I wondered if I should regret this fact. Would it have been smarter, more practical? Maybe, but I don’t regret it. Most of my life is about mama-ing, has been for a long time. I like having this one area for myself as a whole and empty pocketed-person. And I’m guessing the odds of actually making money from a mommy blog are almost as astronomical as any other form of profit from creative writing.

If this were a mommy blog, I would talk about the exhibition in terms of Art Child, the beautiful heartbreak of watching and listening to her experience this show; the opportunity for her to see and touch the artifacts, to speak to the curator, and the joy of seeing her get it in ways that I can’t. She has challenges navigating the everyday world, and by the artist came to speak she was wilting and we needed to leave, but in front of these sculptures she understood their power.

But this is my this-and-that, unfocused eclectic whole person blog. So I talk about the surprise of the gallery itself, hidden in the midst of stores selling rhinestones and questionable perfumes.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day

Smells Like

Street Fair Season!

Sunday was a beautiful day, one of those days where you feel the promise of summer. Art Child and I went for a little walk. Or in my case, hobble. We even took Little Incredibly Dumb Dog with us so she could be appropriately traumatized. Got to the corner and the familiar, peculiar mix of zeppoles, barbecue smoke, and exhaust was unmistakeable. Spring is peak street fair season in the city. Some of the fairs are fabulous, with interesting crafts, unique art, live music, and an opportunity to sample great food. Small children and tourists are certain they’re scoring goods that would otherwise be here:

But really, the booths contain a lot of what you might otherwise find here:

Most seem like a collection of the various street vendors scattered throughout the city gathered in one 7-10 block radius for the day, selling the usual crap–some useful crap, most not–and added a couple dozen deep fryers and barbecues. I have on occasion bought some great earrings, once bought a pair of gladiator sandals for $5 that lasted 4 years, and used to buy all my socks from these tables.

These are great days to be in the city, the first days of flip-flops and running into friends you haven’t seen since the first snow fell, warm enough to feel glorious but before it’s so hot all you smell is old dog piss rising from the grates as you walk down the street.

This was a pretty average fair, but the first one is always fun. Walk with me, Fringelings.

Beautiful, aren’t they?

Come join the crowd, who needs fresh air?

More beads, please!

If I didn’t love the sketch from Art Child so much, this would be my new profile pic.

The neighborhood rats will eat well tonight.

Need I say more?

I wanted to photograph the beautiful pillows and throws, but the man running the booth was concerned I would try to copy them. Never fear, I can’t sew a button.

Need any makeup?

Yes, yes, yes.

No really, disgusted but delicious. Sweet corn griddle cakes with a mass of steaming mozzarella in the middle.

Try it, you’ll like it.

Logic Need Not Apply

Don’t judge, I haven’t been able to wash the floors.

This morning, after I took Art Child to school I walked over to the grocery store. It’s a nice day, not too far from the school, and I am healing, so I figured I should be productive. The plan was to do this yesterday, but I was shot after physical therapy. Total win–it wasn’t crowded, I got my shopping done without falling, most people are courteous and give the lady with a cane room to maneuver. Sure, a couple knocked into me, but I think that’s the general invisibility of middle aged with no make-up. I stuck to budget and kept in mind things that would be quick and easy to prepare.

If only I had paid attention to the weight of things I was purchasing. Or the broken elevator (it’s Manhattan, square footage tends to be vertical instead of horizontal, larger grocery stores are broken into two floors). I intended to take a cab home. Well worth it under any circumstances, this store is considerably less expensive than those within a few blocks of my apartment. At this point, my pelvis/hip still can’t handle the subway stairs or the jostling of the train, so taxi it is. Pricey but convenient.

This particular block is always difficult for hailing a cab. There are three bus stops, an express subway stop is in the middle of the street, it’s only a block away from the exit/entrance to the highway, and two major avenues cross each other and switch places. In other words, it’s crowded, be patient. I waited. And waited. Not one empty cab went by. Well, maybe one did one of the six times I was blocked off by buses pulling in and out. Ten minutes. I should have asked for help while I was in the store, I still could have gone back inside and asked. Except I was embarrassed, because an acquaintance of mine works in there, and I had just told her how well I was doing, there was no need for me to cut the line to reach the cashier ahead of others. Hence the title of this post, no logic. Finally, a cab at the far corner. And a woman carrying bags sprinted ahead of me while I was trying to figure out how to pick my bags back up and got to it before the light changed. She turned towards me when she opened the door, and I saw she had a baby strapped to her chest. Fair enough, babies first.

I kept waiting. Now I was getting irritated, thinking about how much I just want to be home, and I didn’t even get everything I needed at the damned store. And watching cabs with lit numbers (means they’re empty) go past on the opposite side of the avenue–the direction I actually needed to be headed. Between the general weight of the bags, and the fact that I didn’t pay attention to how they were packed, there was no freaking way I’d make it all the way across the street. I know, sounds crazy, but I’m broken and this is a really, really wide street. I considered calling Fatigue and asking him to come help me, but I figured even if he didn’t have a dogwalk scheduled, there was no way he’d reach me before a cab came. I should have called.

By the time another fifteen minutes passed, I had gone well beyond my physical limits for the day, and was ready to start sniveling. Then, could it be? Yes! Stopped at the light across the street but on the side of the avenue I was on, was an empty cab. My spine crackled with the thought of a seat, not to mention needing to lift the bags again. And then he changed lanes, to turn away from me. Fringelings, I seriously imagined throwing my kale at that cab.

Pretty dumb, huh? But that’s what went through my overactive imagination. No, I didn’t throw my vegetables, and don’t believe I would. Then I thought about how many people with brown skin have empty taxis pass them by on a regular basis. One small thing, but it’s a symptom, and that one small thing might not feel so small if it happened all the time. And I thought about the many comments I’m seeing on my Facebook feed, declaring a complete lack of understanding for why so many in poor Black communities are so frustrated during protests that some will riot. Anyone can have the type of accident I had, it happens all the time, no matter what socioeconomic status. I’m not able to walk any dogs right now, and I cringe thinking of the bill from the orthopedist, but I was able to say I’ll skip the salt and vinegar chips, buy the store brand yogurt, and thereby pay for a cab to get groceries home. I became irate from being inconvenienced. Once. This moment, this nuisance of waiting an unusually long time for a taxi? This is privilege.

For the record, I gave it one more shot and waved my cane–the cab driver who had changed lanes? He changed back and picked me up.

City Angles, a birthday pilgrimage

Every year around Art Child’s birthday, we head downtown to the big art supply store so she can get some new supplies. This year I brought the camera. Note the green metal panels over the windows in the alley shots. I was told those were to protect the residents in case someone dropped an atom bomb on the city. Along the lines of being told to get under your desk in case during the old air raid drills. Not that I would remember such a thing, of course.

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Since Husband drove us, and we were already downtown, heading over to the village for a slice was a given. Later shots are along the West Side Highway, headed back uptown.

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And a few more random photos taken on my way to PT.

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Happy Friday, Fringelings, have a great weekend!

Spring From the Terrace

Ubiquitous NY bloom

Sure things get caught in the trees year round, but in the spring, there’s a ragged plastic bag for every other tree.

Between my current limited mobility and my perpetually limited budget, I decided it was time to unpack the flower pots and containers, and revive my role as (urban) Farmer Fringe. Ok, so maybe half the pots were just sitting out on the terrace, and hadn’t actually been emptied since I last used them two years ago. I confirmed with friends who know how to garden and my special friend Mr Google that I could reuse the old dirt, mixing in new and some food. Fertilizer. Whatever those little pellets are called. I used my little gardening tools (no, I don’t know their names either) and attacked the old dirt to loosen and aerate the old soil, and remove the long dead plants that I certainly should have removed long ago. I always mix up perennials and annuals, so honestly I’ve never bothered to pay attention to which category I’ve planted. The interesting part is that in one of the pots, I could tell what had been in there (nope, don’t remember what) was the type that could grow back, because the dirt was different. Once I got below the first few inches, the soil was darker, moist, and seemed live. Is live the right word? I’m thinking in reefing terms, like live sand.

A couple of months ago I had purchased some flower bulbs that I found on sale. Husband drove Art Child and I to the big box store in the Bronx so I could get fresh soil without going broke,

I may need this to be a miracle.

and some seeds.

Appropriate for this zone? I dunno.

I also found this neatogroovycool seed starting kit.

On sale, it seemed worthwhile.

I know myself well enough to know I’d never remember which seed I planted it which little pod, and I surely wouldn’t recognize the sprouts, so Art Child labeled Post-It flags for each square.

Unfortunately I didn’t account for the havoc the moisture would play on the ink and the glue. Going to be sprout surprise!

Nor did I account for the energy and physical effort required to get the seeds and bulbs planted–even though I did all from a chair, and spread it out over three days. One of the bulbs planted needed to soak for a few hours before being planted. By the time they were ready, I couldn’t bend at all anymore, so I waited til the next day. Wow, do those things absorb water! The next morning, they were unrecognizable. It’s possible I planted them upside down.

But look what’s happening now, a week and a half later!

Urban gardening at its finest

One last photo, just because the other morning sunrise felt especially promising.

I will hold this moment in my head as I do battle with the PT exercises.

Suck It Up, Ya Weenie!

The latest must-have accessory for the woman of 40,000 years.

I tried. Tuesday afternoon I was shaken but feeling positive, “oh, a few days of rest and I’ll be ok.” Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, not so much. I made a bunch of calls on Wednesday morning, trying to find an ortho who could see me that day. No luck–and apparently most of them super specialize, and the offices all insisted I choose if wanted to see someone for my arm or my pelvis. “but they both hurt like hell.” “Well, you have to decide which specialist you want to see.” Screw it. No appointment, the pain seemed like it was easing up, I figured I’d just tough it out.

10:15 Wednesday night, I was lying in bed trying to pretend the pain had not increased by multiples of thousands, and my back doctor returned my call. Bless this woman. I told her what was going on, and she told me to come in first thing the next morning. I did, she checked me out, and sent me off to the imaging place, with more concerns than I thought.

I may not have been able to tough this out, but apparently I’m pretty fucking tough. The next ten hours involved 4 MRIs, 7 X-rays, 1 CT scan, and 3 exams.

At the first MRI stop, after being told it would take 2-3 hours. Umm, do you have a chill pill or something?

Sorry, Mrs F, we’re an outpatient facility, so we don’t offer any medications. We have headphones and music, it’s on classical already.

Find me the classic rock station and we’ll be in business, I can get lost in my youth–where I didn’t humiliate myself by breaking and tearing my body from a simple slip on ice.

Between the music and the two hours of sleep I was running on, I was able to stay very still, no panic in the tube. Could have done without Van Halen’s “Jump,” though.

The doctor was in touch with the imaging center throughout, and it seemed that every test finished sent me to another. Everyone was nice, but suspiciously nicer as time went on, particularly since I had to have been screwing everyone’s schedule, being pushed (figuratively) to the front of the line, staff and techs waiting for me to hobble in at each new stop.

Can I please go get tea before the next one?

I’m sorry Mrs Fringe, they’re waiting for you.

Again and again.

Finally, one woman said I could get tea while they burned the images of all the tests onto cd. Yay! When I limped back in, she told me my doctor was waiting for me to call her. I know, I know, by this time it was clear I’m looking at some serious injury, but by then 7 hours had passed, 8 since my morning coffee–a woman needs a cup of tea–and some of us need several!

Every time I thought I was finished, I was sent to the next test, the next building. I stripped so many damn times by the time I reached the last X-ray tech I expected her to stick dollar bills in my underwear. By then I knew I had 4 fractures, why did I need more X-rays? The day ended at the office of a special trauma orthopedist, his physician’s assistant, his orthotist, his secretary, and the cleaning crew–clearly waiting and wondering when this patient would leave so they could do their jobs.

So. Despite that first X-ray done at the urgent care place, my arm is fractured, and now encased in a super duper molded to my arm but removable for showering cast. The rest of it….As I understand it, there are three types of bones that make up the triangular shape of the pelvis. I have fractures in all three, including one that extends to the hip socket. I would make a joke about not doing things half-assed, but I’m pretty sure this yields the very definition of half-assed.

Dogwalking is out of the question for the time being. I didn’t actually ask about typing, I figure I’ll just go slower and less verbose than usual, stop when it hurts.

On the positive side, even though I feel like I’m completely out of shape, all the past yoga left me in good enough shape that I don’t need total bed rest, can hobble with the cane when I need to, yanno, live. And I think this gives me the perfect opportunity to catch up on my reading.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8V26QkVuew