Sunday mornings used to mean going to the bakery in Hackensack with my father. I don’t remember going to church with him, but the bakery I do remember. It was hardly ever fun. Always some drama, some incompetence of the world would always piss him off. We’d get rolls and jelly donuts and crullers. Of course these couldn’t be touched until we got home.

My father, smoking his Kent’s would grip the wheel as if on the run from the law. He probably did something wrong, I’m sure of it. I had a run in with incompetence this morning myself. In Hoboken at the Bagel store. I’m just minding my business while waiting for my 2 bagels when I hear some male voice say a bit faintly, “Excuse me Sir, could you move up?” I didn’t think he was talking to me. The voice repeated itself, only not as faint, ‘Could you step up sir?’

I turn around expecting to see a homeless person for some reason, but it was a guy in a red windbreaker, black hair, and sleazy moustache. ‘Could you move up?’ I looked past him, there was only one person behind him. There were two other people waiting for their orders two, and I left the space in front of the register, in front of me, open.

‘Could you move up?’ ‘Why? What’s the difference?’ I knew my bagels were on their way. ‘Just move’. No way was I going to move now. I got my bagels, paid for them and said, ‘There you go. Step up’

‘Go choke on your bagels.’ He muttered, and I replied, ‘Go choke on this’ while not pointing to anything in particular, though I’m sure his imagination did most of the work on that. I could see if he had a walker, or something, a cane perhaps, but he was just standing there, itching to move forward.

I left, thinking that as I walked to the supermarket, he was going to sneak up on my and clock me. It was weird. I shouldn’t leave the apartment without having had my coffee. I wasn’t looking for trouble, trouble found me. In a red windbreaker. I suppose he could be even less of a morning person than I am.

And a person could die choking on a bagel. Someone choking on ‘this’ would be saved by the removal of ‘this’ from their mouth, no death there.

So I went to the store, bought some groceries and went home, while keeping an eye out for a red windbreaker and a sleazy moustache.

I did my usual breakfast thing, bagels, eggs, newspapers and coffee. Every weekend morning same thing, only usually without threats. I decided to actually go to the city today. Used to do that all the time, but as I got older and more ‘set in my ways’ the hassle of commuting lost its charm. There’d better be a paycheck at the end of the commute. Nice carrot, nice stick.

So I decided to go the Cheim & Read gallery in Chelsea to see the Andy Warhol Male Nudes exhibition.

25th between 10th and 11th Avenues it was a beautiful day as I walked down 23rd street from the PATH station. Not many Chelsea bunnies, which was fine by me. Nothing against them yet nothing much in common with them either.

Didn’t seem like many galleries were open which should’ve been a sign… I walked to 25th street and of course, the gallery was closed. And of course, no hours were listed. I remember galleries in Soho being open on Sundays; I guess this is a Chelsea thing. Go figure.

So I light up a cigar and start to wander over to the Metropolitan Pavilion where WFMU is having their record fair. My brother Frank had a table selling records, so I figured that since his co-pilot Bob couldn’t make it, I could show up and give him some time away. As I stood outside the hall, I called Frank’s cell while I finished my cigar. Nope, Frank still hasn’t mastered the idea of having the cell phone close by, much less having it turned on if he had it on his person.

So I finished the cigar and walked in. Frank gave me a free pass so that was easy to do. After looking around for a red windbreaker, I wandered inside. I found Frank relatively quickly, which is odd since it’s usually packed and he’s behind a table like the hundred other record sellers.

He asked, I offered and took his place behind the counter. It was pretty cool, being able to show off my geekiness regarding some of the music for sale. One woman asked me about Graham Parker while holding the Parkerilla album. I told her Squeezing Out Sparks was better. Also had to tell her who old Graham was, how he was compared to Elvis Costello, but actually Graham was around first, blah blah blah.

I saw Tom Verlaine walking around. He went through some records in the boxes in front of me, and I took a picture of him. Or actually a picture of Tom Verlaine’s shoes.

Didn’t want to be too obtrusive.

Frank turned up and I soon left the table, looked at a few things, bought a collection of David Bowie’s videos. Way cool.

After that I left and walked over to Farfetched. To my surprise there was Harry…in a red windbreaker! And a sleazy moustache!

No, it was Harry but looking quite svelte in black. Harry is my former boss of sorts.

He never really told me to do anything. Well, anything legal. We’ve been pals for years and years. He’s in that Pantheon that includes Julio and Mr. Pedro Ramos. I hung out for a while talking, using the loo. He had me take a picture of his tattoos.

We stood outside smoking cigarettes before I said goodbye and made my way to St Marks Place. Lucky me, though the surgeon general would disagree, but they had Gauloises. I bought what looked like the last box.

Walked to the PATH at 9th street and caught a train within minutes. Rod2.0 was right. There is something about the men on the PATH train. Nothing happened but there were one or two guys that struck my fancy. They had a heartbeat and testosterone. That’s all it takes these days.

Waiting For My Fran

A crisp autumn night. Me, at work killing time. I had to kill some time since I was due to meet my brother Frank between 7 and 7:30 at Columbus Circle. I was taking him to see Rufus Wainwright for his birthday. Somewhat fitting since Frank turned me onto Rufus about a year before. All it took was the first notes from the Want One cd that he had burned for me and I was sold. Carried away by the beautiful world and words of ‘Oh What a World’.

Enough that I went out and bought a copy of the cd. I sent my sister the burned copy, which she loved immediately. So I figured it would be a kick to see Rufus together. I really lucked out since the first night sold out almost instantly. I found out long after the fact. Visiting www.RufusWainwright.com I saw a second show added and I rationalized that if there were floor seats I would buy tickets.

There were and I bought 2 tickets for row H, left center. Wonderful. I think any seat that’s not in the orchestra at the Beacon Theatre is a bad seat, and I should know I filled many of them.

So after killing time at work I left around 6:30, thinking and believing that Frank would be at Columbus Circle between 7 and 7:30. Of course this was not the case. It never is. It seems that if you ever want to get one on me, just tell me to meet you somewhere at a certain time, and I’ll be there. All you have to do is be late.

The image of steam coming out of my ears is what best fits.

So I figured that I’ll leave work, stroll across town and smoke my nightly cigar, something I really enjoy doing. I was there he wasn’t. I stood under the big bright CNN sign with the time passing and temperature dropping, finishing off my cigar. No Frank. I had to remind him to take his cell phone and charge it before he took it, but neglected to get the number.

After a half hour of waiting, I was literally running out of steam and patience. And I was getting hungry and anxious to finally see Rufus. I called Elaine, my sister in law and had a real good talk about his eternal lateness. We both agreed he will never change, but why am I the opposite? Probably because I would never consider ever have anyone ever waiting for me. I show up earlier than the appointed time.

My brother Frank and I may look alike, but I know how to tell time. THAT is the difference.

I love him to death, but ay caramba! I got the number from Elaine and called Frank. No answer. Voice mail. Left message. Neglected to tell Frank to actually answer the cell phone. Frank has only recently gotten a cell phone. I think it was because his family insisted he get one, perhaps with the thought, that if he’s running late and call and let you know.

That would be so good if it actually happened. Other people would call and say, Hey I’m running late, order food for me, I’ll be there at such and such a time. Or go ahead to the movie I’m crazy late. You know, things like that. You’ve probably have gotten calls like that. But not from my brother.

So he calls me. He’s still in Weehawken at the dock waiting for the next ferry. Seems that homeboy left later than he should have and of course, got caught in the vortex known as the Lincoln Tunnel/Route 495 evening Rush Hour traffic. How bizarre! On a Wednesday, big theatre night yet! What are the odds?

So it doesn’t seem like the plan of a quick stroll through Central Park enjoying the musical stylings of the Jazz Cigarettes as we headed to the Beacon, is going to happen.
Fine, we’ll meet outside the Beacon.

I stroll up Central Park West, enjoying the Jazz Cigarettes, just vibing. Pretty pleasant and mellow. Enjoying the contrast of the great buildings and the nocturnal park.

Walked up to 74th street finished with the singular Jazz Cigarettes. Hung out outside the Beacon, looking for someone that looks like me. And there weren’t any, but Frank.

I mentioned how good the Jazz Cigarettes were and he asked if we had time to check out one of their numbers, but we didn’t. I was cold tired and wanted to get inside. Man did he look crestfallen.

A small price to pay for being late, don’t you think. It was the truth anyway.

We saw Regina Spektor, who was opening for our Rufus. The only think I really knew about her was her album cover, which I thought was dead corny. I really didn’t know what she would sound like, thought indie rock with a riot grrrl slant/part vibe but no, quite the opposite. We came in the middle of a number where she was using slats of wood as percussion with one hand and playing a piano with the other.

Amazing!

She did about five or six more songs, each one as interesting as the previous one. Frank told me he had a promo item of hers for me in his car. Sweet! All was forgiven. At intermission he made a comment about the me and the Jazz Cigarette. Silly him. His good friend was popped a week before at the cost of several hundred dollars due to a mistaken encounter with a Jazz Cigarette in midtown.

Didn’t he learn anything from his mistake? Did he realize that my choice of venue being Central Park being the ideal? Apparently not. So he mocked my red-eyed use of the word qualifying/quantifying when I told him my tale of woe regarding work.

Oh the charm. Of course when I turned the tables, he got mighty upset. We both know what buttons to push for each other. This is the trip of having a brother, or siblings. Can be fun, can be annoying. No one gets under your skin like a sibling. Or eczema.

I noticed the person in front of me was none other than Paul Morrissey, the proclaimed director of Warhol movies. I figured it was Paul Morrissey since the young man next to him looks like he’d be in one of his films.

Rufus came out and opened with ‘Oh What a World’. Perfect. It was on. Rufus was funny, adorable, self effacing, sexy, coy and fucking brilliant. His band was incredible, singers all. They carried the vocal arrangements off the cd to the T.

Paul Morrissey had his hands over his ears. It really wasn’t that loud, but it might have been if you’re in your 70’s. This was the guy that helped create the Exploding Plastic Inevitable with the Velvet Underground and Nico in the sixties. I’m surprised he’d have any hearing at all after listening to the Velvets at the peak of their powers. He got up and left with his pretty young thing. Poor kid.

Rufus’ set was mainly from Want One and Two. Which was fine with me, they are my faves. Well I like Poses more than Want Two, but Want Two has some amazing stuff. Poses wins as a whole. In fact the only song he sang from Poses, was ‘Poses’. Beautiful song. No kidding.

He was simply great. I snuck off some photos with my Canon since everyone else seemed to be shooting the show with their cell phone cameras. He sand ‘The Old Whore’s Diet’ which finishes the Want Two CD and during the instrumental break, the band left the stage to the accompaniment of a drum loop, returning a minute later in white robes dancing in unison. Frank mentioned that they almost looked like Polyphonic Spree and Frank was right damn it!

Then with an off the should royal blue gown and a mask from the Divine collection circa Pink Flamingoes. Two roadies, dressed as Roman Guards rolled out a cross and Rufus pantomimed while singing the ‘Gay Messiah’.

He finished with ‘Beautiful Child’. Truly wonderful and fucking brilliant.

We left the theatre and headed towards the subway. I light a cigarette and of course the smoke went directly into Frank’s face. Le puss.

‘Oh could you blow smoke in my face some more?’ I acted like I was about to and he raised his gloved hand to cover his face.

Another part of original plan was to walk to 57th street and catch a bus to the ferry but it was getting too late for that. Frank seemed dismayed at this fact, so I turned around and caught a taxi, which instead of impressing him, made him ask if I was made of money. Believe me, it was worth it. We got out at 57th st and walked to the bus stop but there didn’t seem to be any ferry buses coming our way, or any way at all.
So we got another cab, with me soliciting 3 dollars from Frank to contribute since I paid for the first taxi. We made it to the ferry as one was pulling in, but alas I had the wrong colored ticket. The green ticket that was twenty-five cents less than the red ticket and no the ferryman wasn’t not about to take a quarter. Sure pennies on your eyelids, that’s fine, but a quarter for a ticket. Get out of here!

Stupid Charon.

So I walked and got a red ticket and got on the ferry. Frank wanted to stand outside, I didn’t, so I went inside and sat down. Momentarily, Frank came in and sat next to me.
We started talking about ourselves, our siblings. He mentioned that I worship our sister Annemarie. I don’t worship her, I adore her.

He wanted to know why that was. I said that I’ve fought with him, I’ve fought with Brian, but I’ve never fought with Annemarie.

He didn’t seem to believe that rationale. Annemarie was there when I was growing up, taking me places, just getting me out of the house, taking me to Darlington County Park, bicycle riding to nowhere in particular, anywhere but Lodi. I was a willing participant on these escapades.

But Frank didn’t buy. I had to break it down to the most basic terms I could. ‘You know what Frank? Annemarie and I have one thing in common. You want to know what it is?” He seemed to, so I told him, ‘We both like COCK.”

That seemed to shut him up.

I do love him very much, he’s my brother. I even like him a lot, I consider him a friend. But man, can he drive me bananas,