Friday, November 26, 2010

heartbreak motel

As promised, I'm back with some new info on Babushka Babe and my so-called love life.But first, a commercial message.
"Mr. Manners' Guide To Electronic Etiquette" is out, and it's different from "Blonde, Blue-Eyed And Handsome" in that it's the first of a series of social tirades. It can be bought either from the author at or from the good folks at Fracteous Press.
Now that Mammon's been satisfied, I wish Eros would be. Babushka Babe and myself have a friendship, and I suppose I should be satisfied with that. We see each other most mornings when she's going to work and sometimes at night when she leaves. Sometimes we get together at night for about an hour to have dinner at a neighborhood cafe. These are usually hour long affairs as she's got to take an hour long train ride into Brooklyn. Not only that, these are strictly dutch dates. I've been debating asking her to let me take her to one of my favorite places on a weekend night, and I'd not only pay for dinner, but for a cab home.I've been trying to phrase this request without sounding desperate, as she's just starting to open up. I don't want to lose the friendship I've got, but I know she's got hidden depths I'd love to find.I'd tell her I'd like to spend some more time with her, but I don't want to scare her off, and considering her commute, she might not have the time.
Now, for those of you who like my poems here's a newie:
Everywhere you go
bags and bags of baggage
You never know
somebody might invite you somewhere
You have to be dressed
Have to make an impression
Your parents always said
clothes make the (wo)man
use the right fork
be home at ten
kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince
Yet it seems
the most baggage is in your mind

Wednesday, September 1, 2010


You wouldn't think so, but there are fundamental differences between a blonde-haired girl and A Blonde.
A blonde-haired girl's your sister. Or your friend's sister if you're a brunette.
A Blonde's Marilyn.
A blonde-haired girl could be any nationality. But never Asian. I don't care what's walking down the streets.
The Blonde's the Swiss Bikini team. Or she's Swedish or Californian. She's never the Girl Next Door.
The blonde-haired girl's got a nice personality. Or not. She could be the Girl Next Door. And probably is.
The Blonde's personality...who cares? That's not the part you're interested in.
The blonde-haired girl's got anybody's body. You can see her anywhere. After all, she's a brunette with lighter hair.
The Blonde's pnuematic. She doesn't walk, she wiggles. Her perfect figure goes with her perfect face and dress. She's the stuff of dreams, usually wet.
The blonde-haired girl's an attainable dream. She might dream of stars, but she'll wind up with the Boy Next Door. She might even wind up with you.
The blonde-haired girl's speech and mannerisms are consistent with her upbringing. She's basically a nice kid.
The Blonde's a bubbly, giggly woman child, acting helpless to pull in whomever she wants.
You can date a blonde-haired girl. You can even marry one. As I said, she's a brunette with lighter hair.
To date A Blonde is to afford A Blonde. You don't marry A Blonde. You rent her. You take her to exquisite places and she takes you for all you're worth. But you'll enjoy the ride.
Remember, they're called Blondeshells because they'll explode all over you. Now, about redheads...

Saturday, August 7, 2010


Songs are becoming golden oldies faster than ever in the all-new, ever-changing AC (After Computer) world. World-shakers such as the Beatles or Beethoven are relegated to sound bytes in computers or questions in trivia quizzes, while American Idol stars are replaced at an ever faster rate. As media moves faster and pop culture frantically tries to keep pace we find more of our memories becoming obsolete. Society moves forward, but at what price?
Recently I was wearing my old, comfortable WMCA Good Guys sweat shirt, a scruffy but clean grey with Peter Noone's face thereon. (If I mentioned he was a member of Herman's Hermits would it help?) I apent more time explaining who he, and they, were rather than doing the shopping I went out for. Luckily nobody saw the Dick Clark medallion I was wearing, for while more people might know the Dorian Grey-like host of American Bandstand and Times Square broadcasts, I'd just as probably have to spend more time explaining it.
Growing up nowadays means you missed the Golden Age of rock and roll radio. Bedtime meant you stayed under the covers with the radio on your ear, listening to the Beatles, Louis Armstrong, The Monkees, Aretha Franklin, The Temps, Ella Fitzgerald and anything else the jocks decided to throw at you between pimple cream ads and radio spots for whatever groovy group was in town that weekend. There wasn't any compartmentalization of bands due to the music they played or any other reason. It was good, it was played. The jocks were like old friends talking about the bands, and they'd do guest appearances at neighborhood schools. As FM radio gradually took over we acquired new musical guides such as Pete Fornatelle and Allison "Nightbird" Steele, but we also got a sense of what music was "hip" and what wasn't. I'd still buy Monkees albums, but I'd hide them between the Beatles and Doors records.
Rock and roll TV was a hell of a lot more fun before the advent of music videos. Ed Sullivision, excuse me, Ed Sullivan, might have had Topo Gigo The Talking Mouse, but he also had the Beatles, Stones, Doors and lots of other bands. The Beatles' Sullivan appearance was one of the most watched television events ever, and who can forget both the Stones and Doors trying to see what they could get away with lyrics-wise. It's fairly safe to say most of America grew up musically with Ed Sullivan's "really big shew."
I'm too young to remember Dick Clark's "American Bandstand"'s Philadelphia origins with teen idols such as Bobby Rydell, Frankie Avalon and the other suave Italians, but the show did give me at least one lasting memory. I hadn't heard of them before, but the mighty Bob Seger System was there to promote "Noah", probably playing "Lucifer" or "Big River". Seger had a reverse Gibson Firebird painted like the American flag and drummer Pep Perrine had four (!!) bass drums, two mounted on poles above his head. He played them too!
Kids nowadays won't remember them, and probably their parent won't, but the 45s! Incredible covers-Beatles, Stones, Lovin' Spoonful, Creedence. I remember taking a portable phono down to Van Cortlandt Park and lazing in the sun with a name long forgotten blonde whose mom was trying to match myself and her daughter. As the song says, memories are made of this.

Thursday, August 5, 2010


Let me tell you about depression. It's sitting here with a burning ass that you can't jump into the tub and ease because people are coming over. It's publishing your first poetry chapbook in thirty years and not having anybody to celebrate with. Working near hordes of young females unable to get to first base because you're too old and don't make enough for them. Having a female friend move to Pittsburgh and being miserable, even though you weren't really that close anyway. Maybe having to go to hospital and putting it of because you hate hospitals. Being so damn lonely you've got nothing better to do than think over and over. That, my friend, is depression.

Monday, August 2, 2010


Recently somebody said that I liked being the "Outsider" of one of my poems. It was, she further said, my "persona". I suggested this woman see a Mad strip showing a beautiful woman complaining she never had time for herself, and her not that great friend saying something akin to "shut up!". This friend, who slots people in according to what they can do for her, is a not bad looking JAP who never had to struggle for boyfriends. She probably never had somebody break up a relationship by calling in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner (!) to say that she was looking for somebody who "made more money." Of course, in the recent financial downtrend, this same woman is probably standing on the corner going "hey sailor!". Then there was the woman who broke up with me three days before Valentine's Day whom I spotted holding hands with somebody in a fancy club. Yeah girls, love that loot!
Now that my first volume of poetry in thirty years has come out I've regained some of my lost mojo. Just today I was chatting up a gorgeous Russian blonde I've known for a few years. When I mentioned my book was poetry she seemed to grow all misty eyed. I gave her a copy, which she said she'd read on the way home. Hoping that might be a way to her heart I asked for a date via poem. Hopefully this beautiful Brighton Beach resident (where else would a babushka babe live?) will join me for coffee or dinner. This being me (right Steve, put yourself down) she's probably already involved with somebody. I'll keep my fingers, toes and eyes crossed. Let you know what happens in a future column.

Thursday, July 29, 2010


For those of my readers who share my reading pleasures, Mad Magazine is up there in the top ten. I remember articles showing how genetics could improve on reality, something which in this cellphone, text messaging society is badly needed. Feet would develop radar to warn of obstacles such as puddles, other pedestrians and cars, one ear would become huge to envelop the phone, and fingers would be ultra-thin and tactile to access the small keyboards.
I remember a cartoon showing a couple walking down the street hand in hand with each one on a telephone. This was brought home to Your Humble when I noticed a couple hand in handing in down the street and turning in to an outdoor cafe. No sooner had they sat down when the female received a phone call. She answered, and her hapless companion waited. And waited. And...well, I daren't repeat myself. After some fifteen minutes the heat waves emanating from the male's head were hopefully due to the heat and not anger. Finally he became totally fed up with his companion. Picking up his water glass, he overturned it on his companion's head and stormed off. She chattered on, dateless but probably cooler.


Jeweled scimitar in smoldering street
Without a wielder incomplete
What child left you after pleasure
Pint size pirate imagining treasure

What seas did imagination sail
Boundless horizons, skuas wail
Hydrant spray is endless sea
Jeweled scimitar, speak to me

What child's hand held this toy
Unfettered imagination gives off joy