Monthly Archives: June 2011

So few people. Uncongested but happy. How I doubt riches in pop culture: fixed but never making the worst of it. Squandering little meat in the fridge. I don’t see friends at a group event and want to laugh aloud with sorrow. They are my escape. The escape from mass plebeians. I run from it and wonder where those friends are? If they could merge into one person I would need nothing else. Reality being such a tamed creature. Often over developed as saddened detritus. So are you.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a full out comic book nerd or you have simply paid enough attention to recognize this iconic clock tower that overlooks Brooklyn. This penthouse has recently popped back onto the market. It boasts 3 floors and almost 7,000 square feet, 4 giant clocks and a ridiculous price tag for most. Care to take a guess at what this Gotham City icon will run you per month?

$50,000 is the monthly cost of calling this sky high suite home, unless you want to buy it out right at 23 million. It’s an immensely beautiful space that is begging for a bit of modern furniture or large art pieces — oh and one fat party! The lowest ceilings in the space start at 16 feet and go all the way up to 50 in some areas. There’s indoor and outdoor deck and observation areas that take advantage of the 360 degree view from atop this 1914 Brooklyn landmark.

It’s a piece of history, it’s a piece of pop culture, and more importantly it just goes to show that there’s always someone willing to be part of both as we’re sure this pad won’t be available for very long.

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In the dream I am at a encampment. Not a slammer but we are all sharing cots and food is scarce. I go to help with the crawlers. One of them has grown silent…too quiet. I pick her up and realize she’s stopped breathing. I know it’s difficult to give a toddler mouth to mouth. The breastbone is still quite fragile and risks snapping under the weight of misplaced pressure. This is no ‘Pulp Fiction’-esque procedure with markers and best guesses The little angel has fluid lungs, the product of a c-section. I worry for her, I kiss her blue’ing lips and place her next to an older girl in different sleeping quarters to secure her safety. Later, I’m in a pool.

There must be hundreds of babies splashing around in the azure puddle. The water is salted and cold. With a deep, warm undercurrent, I can feel only around my ankles. I cannot tell if we are all there by choice, or have been assigned. I cannot tell if these little ones are swimming, drowning or just splashing. And I’m overwhelmed by trying to assess which to save first. Chubby little arms, legs and faces are crowding me with urgency, making flesh colored foam.

I have a vague recollection of where I was before this prison, in Virginia, at a multi-floored beach house with my sister. Cynthia has tickets to a Stone Temple Pilots concert, and promises, with some malice, that she is most definitely not going to take me. I’m devastated and a humming rings out throughout the house, to the tune of “Sour Girl”. I run from the house, over the dunes and down to the ocean front. A couple of older kids walk up to me, and I’m encouraged to go with them. I don’t feel too much younger then they must be, and I’m enjoying the adrenaline of risk. We wander off to a nearby dock. I’m aroused…

Back to the camp. I’ve heard Scott Weiland is there. I think this makes perfect sense and I wonder if he’s going to offer me a shared heroin needle. Cynthia’s there too, but she’s never had the same inner ill-advised, risk taking tendencies. My confusion begins to grow brighter. To love a rockstar is a given disaster, this seems obvious, but is not – as things in dreams often go. Now, the babies are all crying with scarlet fury. I am the only person paying any attention to taking care of them, and I’m so high I can’t keep their faces from morphing into devilish hellions. I can’t sleep and I can’t see Scott, until they quiet. They’re reaching for me, through wet, soft gauzes, tiny limbs disowned by mothers and caregivers.