The Airtrain took me to Howard Beach train station. JFK Airport is a small city in itself. From Howard Beach, the A train took me through lower Brooklyn and into Manhattan. I sat watching the tiled walls and stations fly by: Chambers - Washington Sq - 14th St - Times Sq - Columbus Circle... I was headed for the Upper West Side.
From the airport you don't see New York City. So to exit the subway station at 103rd, clambering up the steps into blue sky, red bricks, black fire-escapes and green Central Park was rather mind-blowing. The thought of being in New York brought uncontrollable chuckles of excitement to my typically reserved self.
I finally found the Broadway Hostel, checked in, more stairs, showered, then went walkabout. New York was such an inspiring way to finish the journey. After five weeks travelling through a country where walking is considered an alien phenomenon or a remarkable act of courage, joining the crowds on the NY pavement and subway was a joy.
It was Friday evening. I found the Bowery Poetry Club (across the road from the late, lamented CBGB's) for the Taylor Mead Show. Taylor Mead is an interesting character, known for his friendship with Andy Warhol, and lately for his part in Jim Jarmusch's "Coffee & Cigarettes".
He is poet laureate of the factory worker, and one of those people (like Woody Allen perhaps), known for the love of his town.
I ordered a Jamesons, went in and sat down. I was alone in the audience, but three more came along. Taylor Mead hobbled in, aided by his young sturdy sound-guy. He sat down at his desk onstage, surrounded by audio paraphernalia: a cassette player and a briefcase of papers, teeming with words, poems, drawings.
"My insurance company just cancelled my Vicodin" he drawls, "I gotta pay full price for my f*ck'n Vicodin". No matter what he says, it is utterly charming and inspiring. "I have 3-4000 pages in my apartment. Every so often my landlord tries to evict me and throws out a whole lotta pages. That's my editing."
I bought his latest book of poetry, "A Simple Country Girl". A collection of 'sublime quips'. For example
Philosophy of Cats
A minimum of effort
A maximum of error
I sat with him afterwards at the bar. No one else was around really. Another old fellow, ostensibly homeless, was trying to sell me a cd from a shopping bag. He could've been a genius, I could've missed out, maybe he was just an acquaintance of Taylor's. So I talked to Taylor Mead for a while, and he was fascinating. He offered to sign the book, which I accepted. Some time later I was on my way back to the Upper West Side.
NYC
