Apt #9--resurrected from the Cold Dirt Press files circa 2011

The Doorway to Doom?

About a week ago my untapped ninja skills were put to the test when I was awakened by somebody pounding on my apartment door at 3 am, screaming that the building was on fire. At first I thought it was a prank because the smoke alarms that usually go off when someone burns toast were not making a peep but then I heard more people in the hallway yelling that it was really happening. I threw on some clothes, put my cats Manny and Joe inside the carriers without their typical cartoon resistance, grabbed a jacket and my backpack and ran outside. Three fire trucks were blocking the dead end street and most of my neighbors were already outside in the rain. 

Damn! Forgot my glasses, an umbrella and my cell phone. Evacuation fail! Shit.

Bad Fundamentalist Poesie - from the Cold Dirt Press archives

Despite the fact that convicted child molester Warren Jeffs is incarcerated in federal prison, he still has his minions at the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints to do his bidding and they apparently have the funds to publish and distribute apocalyptic warnings to government agencies and schools. Some news stories state that the recipients are throwing the mailing in the trash.

Imagine my glee when my sister showed me a copy that was sent to the school where she worked. Being a Subgenius connoisseur of schizophrenic ramblings from way back, I was fascinated and asked if I could keep it. The bland tome is devoid of any images or color, only black text on cheap paper stock with a hefty title on the matte finish cover:

Words are randomly capitalized and the psychotic warnings repeat for all of the target populations starting with the generalized Nations of the Earth (someone watched a few too many 1950s science fiction movies) to the United States, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Latvia, NATO, the Vatican and so on.

Shop Window Archeology

The center of my adopted hometown of Bloomfield, NJ is undergoing extensive urban renewal and I have mixed feelings about that. This was an area that I visited when I first went to Upsala College in East Orange back in the early 1980s. It remained a place caught in a vortex, clinging to the past so tightly that it was chosen several times as a sure-fire film location to evoke Mid-Century Modern, but there was economic blight blanketing the nostalgia with empty storefronts and crime. 

Back in 2012 I took some photos of the shop windows and now those businesses and buildings are gone. Here are those pictures resurrected from the Cold Dirt Press site and preserved for your enjoyment. 

Relief through Belief

Patent

The Party's Over

Cough syrup by the dram. 

Guess the meds

Historical pharmacy

Designer drugs

Dada lives!

Elegy for Manfred Mystery Mann - From the Cold Dirt Press Archives

The underdog has always held a soft spot in my heart. To me, that includes all types of animals but especially felines. Loving special-needs animals further marginalizes my life, I suppose. I am drawn to shelter sweethearts that are typically overlooked. One of those kitties was named Mystery, a shadowy gray Russian Blue/Siamese mix I adopted in 2010. His elegant nose and world-weary eyes drew me in. When I held him, his disposition was utterly mellow as if we had known each other for ages.

The shelter workers informed me that he had previously been adopted out but returned because he was not playful enough. Maybe those people were expecting a puppy instead. That sealed the deal and Mystery was mine. Firstly, his name was changed to Manfred Mann after one of my favorite 60s groups.  Poor Manny had a misshapen spine from some trauma, perhaps hit by a car, and he was suffering from an intestinal parasite that left his body emaciated and twisted. Because of nerve damage, his claws did not retract. Later I determined that he was also deaf.

Plating

Put your heart on a plate and share it. 

Beulah and Hoppy - From The Cold Dirt Press Archives

Over thirty years ago, I had an after-school job at a dry cleaners, the same place that two of my sisters had worked at more than a decade earlier. The tailor and one of the workers knew me since I was about five years old. Working there was a bit Dickensian with the chemical smells, drudgery, and the oppressive heat. The other employees were great characters from The Carolinas, Jamaica, and Central America, or from  right there in Westchester County, New York.

One woman who looked out for me was named Beulah. She was rail thin--wearing a size zero. Beulah was tough, smart and funny. We bonded quickly and would work the late shift together, sharing stories and a little libation at the end of the day. She had three little girls and an abusive husband who drifted in and out of her life. She also knew how to do everyone else's job in that place, and she did so when they wouldn't show up.

Too Much is Better Than Not Enough - From the Cold Dirt Press files

 

 

Another excursion through the central business district of my town brought me to a window dresser's fever dream full of ersatz Capodimonte and misfit tchotchkes. I want to miniaturize myself and bask in the nuclear glow of this storefront.