Thursday, March 31, 2011


I want to write great things. My throat hurts. My head hurts. My neck hurts. My eyes are tired. 

I hope your day in Camden was sufficiently rambunctious, grungy, and toocoolforschool. I hope you saw Amy Winehouse and asked her for directions to Pete's house. 

It's supposed to snow tomorrow. A lot in Vermont. It makes me feel very, very depressed. 

I miss you. 

Good luck

I didn't know you had an interview -- good luck!!

Cibo Matto.. two adorable girls singing about food mainly?!

Today my mission is to Camden Town and I shall document it thoroughly.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

SPY guilt

I don't mean to leave you hanging little english muffin. Work got the better of me, and now I need to rest and prepare myself for an interview tomorrow. I will continue the story even if it's line by line and you lose interest. 

Advice: look into Cibo Matto and tell me what you think. It may also help you get more out of my story. This is how I think when I'm preparing for an interview... 


keep going!

And continues...

I led my sister downstairs and into the venue. "A drink to warm up?" she asks. We headed straight for the bar, taking note of the people starting to swarm around the staged like ants creeping up on a discarded piece of watermelon rind. We both ordered a beer, and she handed over her credit card to open a tab along with her drivers license for collateral. Noticing her unease to part from her identification, I assured her that it's not an uncommon practice. 

We chose a spot on the right of the stage where the crowd was still only 2 or 3 people deep. Too many giants for a perfect view, but I didn't really mind. We chatted about jobs, trips, Lady Gaga, and apartments past and present. The longer we talked the more cramped I felt. I stood on my tiptoes to survey the scene behind us and realized the crowed was packed in to the back wall. My sister shifted me in front of her where I could peer around the 6 foot tall, French photographer. I watched a familiar young man in a brown felt fedora with a red feather hop around the stage messing with guitars, wires, and microphones. "That's Sean Lennon," I whispered to my sister in the noisy room, "I think." She shrugged. I looked at his face and nodded. "It's definitely him," I said, "Sean Lennon."

And the magic continues...

Now I'm at work, polishing off a Murrey's whole wheat everything bagel with cream cheese, tomato, and capers, sipping an iced coffee, and feeling very reluctant to deal with the nagging emails and attack the pile of scanning I need to have done by the end of the day. So, I'll procrastinate and continue with  my story of last night. I think we both know that Lou Reed is more pressing than Agnes Martin. 

Making eye contact with Dolores reminded me of what I was getting myself into. It reminded me of how excited I was to see Patti and Lou with you, Spy 2, when we stood with Dolores in the rain waiting to receive those neon pieces of paper. Our "tickets" labeling us number one, two and Dolores makes three. My heart was beating a little faster when I took my spot at the end of the line on the corner of Bleecker and Thompson, next to a man asking for change who would soon be pushed from his spot by the oblivious music fans. 

By the time my sister arrived 30 minutes later, I had already checked in using her name, received my 21+ bracelet, and lost all feeling in my fingers and toes. And still we waited. The line was growing longer and longer, and I was glad I had happened to come early. 10:00 pm came and went and still we waited. Just as I was about to duck into the CVS to thaw my thoughts, the line started moving. We were in. 


I am so intrigued!  It's quite cruel to start a story like that and then just leave your captive audience hanging.

I remember Dolores -- rapturous and crazy about Patti as all of her fans seem to be.  Myself included.

London is great right after it has rained a lot because the streets are so empty.  Portobello Road is in good form today and all it seemed to be missing was Spy 1's presence.  Now I will just have to drink tea (v. English) and wait, disdainfully (quite English) for the next installment of your story.

SPY 1 hopes SPY 2 warms up to this...

Dear SPY 2, 

     I have a confession to make, but I'm going to save it until the end of my tale in hopes that you won't give me too much of that biting English disdain (are the English disdainful?). First I must warm your gloomy disposition with a story of the dark, new york underworld. Or, at least, those who used to reign in the dark, new york underworld. 

   I was walking west on Bleecker Street, briskly though thinking I had some time to kill, The Bitter End just up ahead. It was freezing, and I couldn't get in touch with my sister, whom I was planning to meet. Just as I was crossing Thompson on the north side, I noticed a line of people a half a block long and quickly catty-cornered towards it. Is this the line I'm supposed to wait in? I walked to the beginning and saw a familiar face first in line. You may remember her, actually, I know you remember her. Dolores (?), the Patti Smith fan of all fans we met in line to the poetry reading at the Baryshnikov Arts Center. How do they do it, those Patti fans! 

Actually, I just looked at the clock and I'm very late for work. I will do my best to give you installments throughout the day. 

Here's a blurry picture in the mean time: 

SPY 2 is surrounded by rain and gloom.

I hope that you are now Patti Smith's best friend.  She seems approachable and friend-worthy, in a strange way.

Today I was going on a mission through Notting Hill, but it is raining and cold which bad for even seasoned flaneurs.  No blossoms and daffodils today.  I must figure out the buses in London -- they scare me!!

I wait for your Patti, Lou, and Yoko update with bated breath.  

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

SPY 1 has a great idea

Maybe I should become Patti's best friend tonight and convince her that we would be the perfect muses for her book. Though I have to be more composed than I was last time when "HI!" was all I managed to blurt out. 

I put on my stenciled Patti Smith t-shirt this morning before I knew of my evening plans. Must be fate? Must be. 

Patti and SPY 1

I'm jealous.

I saw Patti speak at the Royal Geographical Society in January.  She's writing a mystery/spy novel.  Tell her hello.

Fuck oceans.


To bad all urban stares can't be like these: 

I'll be basking the pitch black glow of Lou Reed, Patti Smith, and The Plastic Ono Band in just over 6 hours. Fuck the Atlantic Ocean. 


It is hard to be an ocean apart....

Tonight I ran into a lamppost.  Running is a scary, vulnerable thing, and in urban areas it is easy to look at the sky instead of what is head of you simply to avoid the stares of urban youths.

SPY 1 gives SPY 2 a feel good verse

SPY 1 awakes at a more decent hour

I dreamt that my mom bought a gun and I was telling her where to hide it. She said the front porch, but I agrued that was pointless, and it would be much more useful to have it in a drawer in the front hallway. If my mother ever bought a gun outside of dreamland, I would pretend like I was dreaming. Anyway, it's morning, and I'm unmotivated to do anything besides figure out how to make this writing look cool. 

SPY 2 awakes

I escaped my benadryl dreams about Texas (???) to drizzle and grey outside of my window.  It may be 'on' but I'm not, not yet.  Soon for the first mission.

Monday, March 28, 2011