where are all the pimps of yesterday, our assorted Slims and Big Daddys. Long since muscled out by better, more consolidated hustlers, with their stables of trademarked animals and franchise stores. Publicly traded prostitutes stake out corners, broker soft caress of fifty-fifty cotton-poly. How much for a half and half. Instead of anything-you-want, all-you-can-eat in the booths of the cozy theme restaurant. It’s better this way. Johns travel in packs, in family herds, with clipped coupons from travel agents. It’s better this way, plus they pay taxes and really where would you put a Cadillac anyway with these new Byzantine parking regulations.
THE MOST HARDENED criminals adopt airs. That’s Dr. Sleazebag to you. Everything tamed and safe. It’s not the way it used to be, she tells her friends from out of town. Smiling as she leads this expedition. Longer she lives here, the more vulgarities to describe to and lord over those who have been here less long. Bonus points if you can name what was in that storefront three failed restaurants ago: a restaurant. Slim plywood stands sentry where buildings used to be, shepherds abyss. Post No Bills. They Post Bills. Check out rubble, cheer cranes hoisting girders. One day he’ll see a wrecking ball swing or see the old beast implode in dust or at least hear a loud noise from a couple blocks away and know some lovely destruction is going on nearby. They secretly relish the violence done to their neighborhoods and old haunts because after they’re gone they can brag about witness to the heyday. To complain is to belong, possess property. Not rent for once.
KEEP ON the path and you will not see the ruined people, so do not stray from the path. Discount electronics and discount lives. No Money Down. The more accurate signs, the ones advertising Misery and Doom, only get plugged in after midnight. Let’s drink in the Old Man Bar. The ancient masters are dead and their secrets were buried with them, so we will never see neon like that again. You are sorely missed. A hush falls across the room when someone says, Liver Transplant. That line of business, you know how it is, feast or famine. He said he wanted to take her photograph, had connections, but only after she makes it down to the street with half of what she went up with will she feel safe. Do not underestimate the will it takes to submit to cliché. Follow the script. It’s all make-believe. Like happy endings.
HE DOESN’T remember the exact address but is sure he’ll recognize it when he gets there. Old salts list what is bygone. The famous producer has fallen on hard times, the loyal members of his troupe nowhere to be seen because every check he writes these days bounces higher than skyscrapers. No one answers his ad for Beloved Times Square Characters. The sailors on shore leave have shipped out. The cancan girls are on penicillin. The bottom-bill boxers with their punchdrunk epiphanies have retired to condos in Boca, who can blame them really, the mild winters after all. Hair tonic and stogies, peanut shells and be-bop, these were the props of the most famous extravaganzas and where do you find them these days. Lament disappearances. Try to light a candle but the match keeps going out. So drafty in these old theaters. As if the old theaters still stand.
SPEAKEASY CITY, major manufacturer of special knocks, codewords, secret ways in. It’s been years but be patient. You’ll stumble upon it soon. They look in nooks and crannies. The seven-dollar sirloin. Those ribbons she likes. The shop devoted to the sale, upkeep and cultural lore of porkpie hats. Do not be deceived by these new and plastic signs. Need the addresses enough and you will find them. Even landlords earn their wings from time to time. The little store that specializes in Second Acts In American Lives will not budge. It’s mostly custom work but the shop doesn’t advertise, word of mouth suffices. Right next door is the travel agency that only sells
THE MOST HARDENED criminals adopt airs. That’s Dr. Sleazebag to you. Everything tamed and safe. It’s not the way it used to be, she tells her friends from out of town. Smiling as she leads this expedition. Longer she lives here, the more vulgarities to describe to and lord over those who have been here less long. Bonus points if you can name what was in that storefront three failed restaurants ago: a restaurant. Slim plywood stands sentry where buildings used to be, shepherds abyss. Post No Bills. They Post Bills. Check out rubble, cheer cranes hoisting girders. One day he’ll see a wrecking ball swing or see the old beast implode in dust or at least hear a loud noise from a couple blocks away and know some lovely destruction is going on nearby. They secretly relish the violence done to their neighborhoods and old haunts because after they’re gone they can brag about witness to the heyday. To complain is to belong, possess property. Not rent for once.
KEEP ON the path and you will not see the ruined people, so do not stray from the path. Discount electronics and discount lives. No Money Down. The more accurate signs, the ones advertising Misery and Doom, only get plugged in after midnight. Let’s drink in the Old Man Bar. The ancient masters are dead and their secrets were buried with them, so we will never see neon like that again. You are sorely missed. A hush falls across the room when someone says, Liver Transplant. That line of business, you know how it is, feast or famine. He said he wanted to take her photograph, had connections, but only after she makes it down to the street with half of what she went up with will she feel safe. Do not underestimate the will it takes to submit to cliché. Follow the script. It’s all make-believe. Like happy endings.
HE DOESN’T remember the exact address but is sure he’ll recognize it when he gets there. Old salts list what is bygone. The famous producer has fallen on hard times, the loyal members of his troupe nowhere to be seen because every check he writes these days bounces higher than skyscrapers. No one answers his ad for Beloved Times Square Characters. The sailors on shore leave have shipped out. The cancan girls are on penicillin. The bottom-bill boxers with their punchdrunk epiphanies have retired to condos in Boca, who can blame them really, the mild winters after all. Hair tonic and stogies, peanut shells and be-bop, these were the props of the most famous extravaganzas and where do you find them these days. Lament disappearances. Try to light a candle but the match keeps going out. So drafty in these old theaters. As if the old theaters still stand.
SPEAKEASY CITY, major manufacturer of special knocks, codewords, secret ways in. It’s been years but be patient. You’ll stumble upon it soon. They look in nooks and crannies. The seven-dollar sirloin. Those ribbons she likes. The shop devoted to the sale, upkeep and cultural lore of porkpie hats. Do not be deceived by these new and plastic signs. Need the addresses enough and you will find them. Even landlords earn their wings from time to time. The little store that specializes in Second Acts In American Lives will not budge. It’s mostly custom work but the shop doesn’t advertise, word of mouth suffices. Right next door is the travel agency that only sells
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