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Transcript of an approximately nine-minute phone conversation between Lonnie Holly and Dale Eisinger, Wednesday, December 5, 12:13 p.m. EST

DE: I’m looking for Lonnie Holly.

LH: Thumbs up. Good morning. How are you?

DE: I’m just better every second.

LH: I love that concept.

DE: Because, if I’m better every second, then every second is the best moment of my life.

LH: Man, you’re right on the money. That’s my fast way of living.

DE: How has your year been?

LH: Well the year has been wonderful. Like you say, the reasons for our betterment of strength is by us working for that betterment. So the year has been wonderful. All the things that I’ve learned, beyond last year, has enhanced, really. If I can say something that could make a difference to artists: that’s working to be a star, and where those stars may end up being, it’s important to be the star of where you are. A lot of times we try to be stars in other places. But being a star in your place may be for the betterment of right there.

DE: It’s almost like you, as a star, Lonnie Holly, have centrifugally attracted the right people right at this moment for the ultimate potency of your message at this moment in history—because this is the perfect moment for it.

LH: But remember: practice makes perfect. Your last words were, “for it.” Practice makes perfect. So if I have, from my little-bitty childhood, doing music my way, tapping on rocks and broken pieces of glass to get sounds, or hearing sound, or being trained and coached by just the actions of nature itself. See, the whole thing that I’m saying this morning that I haven’t said to any other interviewer is that nature has been my coach.

DE: You’ve always been in tune with nature.

LH: It’s how I grew up. Not so much just in tune with nature, but in tune with what humans was doing with fragments and little-bitty pieces and what we call what we can’t see. We did a thing called The Ghostness of Darkness one time and we also did, while we was up here at Mississippi for its 15th anniversary. And I would like to give a shout-out to Eric for that. Looking at all those records that was in his collection… my, my, my. I think with William Arnett we had an opening during the 1996 games. And a little-bitty piece, it was on the fence, of a pressure gauge. And [the gauge] said: “if you really knew.” If you really knew the amount of what it takes to keep up the pressure of life. See, the whole thing is these particles of this, that, the other, all the little bits of what it took to make it up to now, is mostly in our archives, of our museums. So the thing about musical venues is being those museums.

DE: Are you telling me you consider your work as a frozen moment in history and a textual object of a reflection of this moment?

LH: Yes, also a key to the gates that need to be opened, where humans can reenter. A lot of times we leave out the house, and a lot of times we slam the door. And we forget to take the key. I’m more of a key to get back into certain situations.

DE: Your message is so expansive and you spiritual quality so vast that it’s hard to distill your practice into a few short words.

LH: “Distilled” to me means “watered down.” I heard this song by Bob Dylan called “Watered Down Love.” You don’t really, really want real love. You want something watered down. So if we were looking at how our society today wants something quick, you see what I’m saying? But it’s about what we want to try and give them now that they need to listen for and listen at. Because our earthly situation. We want to keep it in the format of what is happening within nature. And therefore, if all of this stuff is happening within nature to the mothership, we’re a little bit in danger.

DE: In terms of the Lonnie Holly record Mith on a 12” vinyl, people don’t miss the record itself… they miss leaving things behind. Because there’s no opportunity naturally to create the memory. All the information in the history of mankind is beamed into your pocket.

LH: In a sense, Mith is so real to the context of our values today, hopefully this is what they’ll get out of this piece of music, is that it is so real. That’s what resorts to the “wow.” I don’t want to put myself out there like I should be some heroic, hit-slanging artist—because I’m not. I’m just a human. I didn’t think my music was gonna get this far. But it wouldn’t have been able to get this far without the orchestration of a kind of togetherness: Let’s take art. Let’s take music. Let’s take the landscape. Let’s give them all of that. Let’s take Lonnie Holly getting out there and learning how to be a coach to his own music. I had to learn.

DE: That’s a beautiful place to stop.

LH: I think that the start was so good with you comin’ on, with the “second by second.” Because everyone of us has got to live… I think we did this song night before last, and I did a song called, “No Matter How Many Pairs of Shoes You Have, You Can’t Wear But One Pair Of Shoes In Your Grave.” Really growing up second-by-second, we can wear all of these shoes, while only wearing one pair in our graves.

Father Figure - “Love In the Time of the Apocalypse”

recommendedlisten:

Father Figure are the Godmode Music side entity (yes, another one…) of YVETTE’s Dale Eisinger and resident bearded songwriter Fasano, and it’s one that has been quietly brewing its own craft of experimental noise since the duo’s debut single, a warped romance called “Omnisex,” two years ago. What was originally planned to be an EP, however, has since become something much bigger than expected, as they’ve instead released their debut full-length Fly Casket this week. It doubles as the latest installment to the Brooklyn and Los Angeles avant art label’s continued Faculty singles series, and deeper into the listen, “Love In the Time of the Apocalypse” provides fuller detail as to why Father Figure may have kept us patiently waiting for their formal arrival. Here, the duo embellish a morbid twist on afterthoughts and feelings with junk pile acoustics, clanking multi-instrumentation, weirdo-scribed journal entries, and a creepy, marching “Auld Lang Syne” sample. It fleshes out the project as some found sound influenced by the remnants of fractured homemade cassettes and warped Swans and Neutral Milk Hotel LPs that somehow managed to survive an atomic bomb, and now live to play endlessly on a nuclear dust-covered turntable in some Brooklyn apartment while the rest of the world just passes on in complete, hollow emptiness.

Father Figure’s Fly Casket is available now on Godmode Music.

(via recommendedlisten)

Corey and Skinny

With a patina of forest fire clinging to the silver Four-Runner–trying to be brilliant in the dusty summer heat–she checked her blind spot and accelerated past a fucked-up black Camaro.

It was quiet for a moment and then I said, “I want to go home and I don’t want to go home.” Stoned, I remember a beat too late that she leaves for Colorado tomorrow, anyway.

“How long have you been there now?” Catie said.

“Seven years.”

“Isn’t that long enough? You don’t live here anymore.”

I didn’t want to think about it. “Who are you having lunch with?” I said.

“Some old family friends,” she said.

“At 12:20, you have to buy me an Americano,” Catie said.

I looked at the clock in the dash: barely past noon, but the clock tracked an hour slow, unchanged from her stint in Portland, one time zone west. “Do you mean 1:20?” I said.

“Right. When I come back to get you, come out with an Americano.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“Black,” she said, her straw hair whipping around her dark Hepburn shades, no irony lost on her deep black frock and black loafers. I also wore black, despite the heat. She smirked but no one laughed. Who knew the next time I’d see her. We rolled up across the connector and the skyline unrolled below us in the valley. She accelerated again and sped through the 45mph zone, to hit Myrtle at a decent clip, hitting a couple consecutive greens. She took a left on 8th then did a U at Broad and stopped in front of a place called Slow by Slow, in Bodo–one of these subway-tile and raw-wood joints, the kind of coffee you have to wait for.

“I’m going to leave my bag in here,” I said as I unclasped my seatbelt and climbed out of the SUV. “You sure this will work out?”

“You’ve got time to kill. I’m not gonna drop you off right now, you weirdo.”

“Alright,” I said. “See you in an hour or so.”

“I promise,” she said. “Stay here.”

*************************************************

The barista asked for $2.67 for my own Americano, this one to stay. I fished around in my front pockets and only come up with a dirty brown capsule of Ashwagandha, which I popped right in front of the guy. I got three bills out of my wallet, and then reminded myself to ditch the baggie of weed crumbled in the bottom of the zip-up leather pouch. I could smell it and my one-hitter and the barista could too–he looked skeptical at me through his massive beard, trying to hand me my change. I waved the dimes etc into his tip jar then I cursed myself to stop smoking, when I got back to the city.

Minutes later, he slid the ceramic cup with the espresso water across the counter. I whipped out my phone and started scrolling–12:27.  I didn’t even need the coffee, or the cream, or the sugar. Or the cell phone. Just desperate for anything to change the moment, to somehow stay doing that. To occupy the brainspace He once held, or my work once held, or alcohol once held, or my heart once held. I felt defeated and impatient. Waiting for the next disaster, I swilled the coffee and stared at my screen.

The coffee was gone at 12:35 and I was already sweating. My phone was only a portal to misery. Another shooting in Munich. Donald Trump accepts the presidential nomination. The GOP in upheaval through live tweets. 12:37.

I pull my wallet out again. Another small baggie with five grams of Adrafinil falls out. I lick my pinkie and dip it in and then suck the powder off my finger and relish the medical taste of the speed dripping down my throat. It’s not my favorite drug. I decide to smoke the rest of the weed, and come back to meet Catie. The barista is still staring at me.

My teeth clenched the little cigarette-shaped pipe as I left to chief. But patting myself down, I realized I left my lighter in my briefcase, in her car.

There’s a Jackson’s Foodstop a block from the coffee joint, at the corner of Capital and Myrtle, where the freeway dumps out into downtown. It’s a squat white brick C-store with red-and-yellow striping all over the place.

Only three little lighters left and all three are white. The clerk for some reason has trouble ringing up my mini Bic, for a full $1.26. I pay with a couple more singles and she hands back the change. This time, I put it in my wallet. A nickel fell into the leave-a-penny and I snatched it back out. Her name tag said FLOATER.

Outside, there’s a security camera, but it’s pointed away from an area with a NO LOITERING sign. There’s one hesher in a black van lighting a smoke as he laced through the fuel pumps. A teen with an old powder-blue K car filled up on the other end of the service station.

Traffic moved on Myrtle but I didn’t see any cops so I stuffed the one-hitter and lit the little flower with my virgin-white lighter. The world receded back to tunnel vision.

“Yo man!” someone shouted from across the way. I turned and saw this dude walking up from River Street. I nodded and he yelled again. “What do you have going on?” I’d already put the weed away and I don’t think he saw me smoke it.

He comes up with me under the NO LOITERING sign and I got a better look at him: he’s got on fresh new trainers and a clean pair of gym shorts, below his oversized cerulean polo shirt. He’s tattooed from stem to stern in the new-school grey-and-black style. Could be prison tats. His ears tucked up into a blue Yankees cap, his eyes crooked with sorrow. He had four solid black teardrops tattooed at the edge of each eye. White boy. “What’s up youngblood?” He looked me up and down, taking in my own tattoos, ripped clothing, long hair, and absurd sunglasses. “Are you a rockstar?” he said.

I didn’t know how to answer. “Some people have said that,” I said.

“Well that’s what I’m saying right now,” he said. We shared this brief chuckle and he threw his backpack against the brick.  

“What’s up man?” I said to this stranger, both of us leaning against the NO LOITERING wall.

He toed his bag. “Just got all the laundry I have clean,” he said. “And then I’m going downtown to shake. Me, I’m getting clean myself.“ He started doing that nervous kind of pacing that includes a soft jab of one hand into the palm of the other. "Two days,” he said.

“Off what?” I said.

“Meth.”

I whistled. “That’s a monster,” I said. I looked at him again: his skin was pretty clear and his teeth weren’t too fucked. “I’m about two years off of booze, myself,” I said. “How much were you smoking?”

“Everyday,” he said. “Everyday for two years. But I’m two days now, and, once I kick this, booze is next. You got a lighter?” I handed over my little fire. “Why are you shaking so much? You need a drink.”

“I don’t remember if I shake more with booze or without it,” I said.

He sparked a cigarette that had already been smoked and handed the Bic back. He exhaled and indicated the cigarette. “And then this’ll go.”

“That’ll be the hardest,” I said.

“Honestly bro,” he said, “booze will be hardest for me. I’ve been deep in one.”

“How so?”

A purple sedan pulled up in front of us. A woman got out wearing nurse’s scrubs, with a multicolored balloon pattern printed all over them. She walked inside without looking at us.

“I did a ten for domestic, I caught one for possession,” he said. “When I came out, my grandma died, my father-in-law died, and I fell into it again. Now my son’s mother won’t even let me talk to him. And I love my son. I love him.”

“How old is he?” I said.

“He’s a youngblood, just ten years old.”

“Were you and she close?” I said.

“Who?” he said.

“Your grandma.”

“When I was little, really close.“

His eyes went out of focus and I saw his heart sink.

“I can’t imagine how you feel,” I said.

I watched him try to shake the vulnerable feeling off his machismo but he could only click his teeth.

He snapped out of it. “But you get clean, that’s cheating and lying,” he said. “I still tell a lie here or there.”

“A lot of people lie,” I said.

"And I told my wife all the times I cheated on her. I don’t want to be that person no more. But then I started coming around, and everyone I met was laughing at me. Oh, they’d say. ‘Oh, you’re Stephanie’s husband?’ I found a picture of her in the Backpages!”

“You mean she was a…”

“A prostitute, bro!” he said. “I don’t have any of her support. And I’m not even cheating. There are plenty of beautiful women around. But I said to her, how can you be there in my recovery, when I can’t trust a fucking word you say! I kicked in the door, I slapped her… things I never thought I would do. Things I never thought I would do drunk or sober.”

I shook my head. I had nothing to say so introduced myself and he said his name was Corey.

The wind picked up a little bit and a blonde woman in denim capris and strappy sandals got out of a green SUV. She struggled with the pump. Out of the bushes off toward River Street, a shirtless kid in black gym shorts–tanned to a crisp and with a backpack/sleeping bag strapped to him—starts hollering at this poor woman. We can’t really hear him over the dirty gusts of wind.

“Skinny,” Corey said. “He’s good, but he’s crazy.”

“Aren’t we all?” I said.

The woman shook off Skinny and the kid caught sight of us from across the lot. He recognized Corey and started hobbling over, at least one of his feet clubbed at some point. He had buckteeth and a headband holding his frizzy hair up. He was emaciated but taught, with six pack abs that protruded out of his odd belly. There was a scar running from navel to sternum and he had a crown poorly tattooed on his chest, with the word FAMILY along the brim. He was filthy. He had weird court shoes on and khaki socks pulled up to his shins. He said he was looking for a cigarette and frantically peered into the trashcan next to me.

“Skinny, what’s in your sock?” Corey said.

The kid came over in front of us and stopped. His right sock bulged out.

“Looks like a god-damned knife,” I said.

“No, it’s just my money and things,” Skinny said quickly.

“What?” Corey said.

“Not that I have any money,” Skinny said. “Look! I’ll show you. I have a concert.” He bent over, the straps on his backpack flinging around, and pulled a soft sunglass case from the sock. He stood up. From the case, he withdrew a concert ticket. I couldn’t see from where I was standing what it said or if it had already been torn. Skinny peered at it then suddenly lit up. “Is it the 26th?” he said.

“The 22nd.”

“Really?” Skinny said, getting excited.

“Where is the show at?” Corey said to the kid, moving over to look at the ticket with him. “Oh look, the Botanical Gardens. The old penitentiary.”

“Really?” Skinny said again, laughing. “The old pen!”

At this point, the nurse in the balloon scrubs came around the corner, a soft-serve vanilla/chocolate swirl ice cream towering above her left hand.

“Excuse me miss,” Skinny said, launching into his pitch. “Might you please have a cigarette, or some spare change, or maybe even something to eat?” She barely looked at him and got in her car. I couldn’t see what she did with the ice cream but she drove off pretty quick.

“I’m going to take a shit,” Corey said. “Watch my bag, will ya?”—He said this to me. Corey walked around the corner, leaving me alone with his backpack and the stammering young vagabond.

“You don’t have an extra cigarette, do you?” Skinny said, his attention fluttering so quickly that he can barely get a full sentence out.

“Nah man,” I said. Then I feel the baggie in my pocket. "You want some weed, though?”

Somehow, Skinny gets even more excited. “Yes! What? Really? Oh my god. This is incredible. Even though I’m sick…"

“What, you’re sick? With what?” I looked at him again. His teeth were pretty fucked up.

“Not that I’m really that sick. It has to do with this tumor in the back of my head.“

That one hits me in the gut. “That’s what my brother John had,” I said. “Have you had surgery on it?”

“No,” Skinny said. “I’m too afraid.”

By this time, I’d fished my baggie from my pocket and stuffed my one-hitter. I took the whole thing in one go, then repeated the process. “Here you go,” I said to Skinny, handing him the bag. He snatched it out of my hand and began studying it like he’d be tested later. “It’s enough,” I said.

“For sure!” Skinny said. “Are you positive about this?”

“Yeah man. I’m about to get on a plane.”

Again, Skinny’s already impossible enthusiasm went up a notch. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. I wish I was getting on an airplane. I want to get the fuck out of here. I’m sick of it here.”

I thought through my last few days in the city, of all the driving around others had done for me, about the strip malls and the temples, the obscene and the sacred, the drive-thrus and donut shops, the vaperies and the pure consumptive glut of the sick and the dead. I’d gotten lost trying to direct a driver to my parents’ house, the day before, a home I lived in for ten years. And that’s how I felt. So stoned I couldn’t breath and so I was about to agree with him, and then it hit me: I wasn’t sick of the place. I was sick of myself. Lost.

“Can I have the pipe?” he said, pointing to my hand, where it still sat like a cig.

I thought about what he said about being sick, and decided I didn’t even want to let him use it. “No. It’s too fancy.” I opened my wallet and slid the little brass-and-rosewood rod back inside. I dumped the change from the lighter into my palm and handed it over to him. "Here,” I said.

Skinny now held the weed and the concert ticket and the change. “Who’s playing this concert?” I said.

“I guess I gotta get some papers. I could find a paper maybe,” Skinny said to himself, still studying the pot. I happened to have some Joker 1-and-a-quarters in my wallet. I drew five of them out and handed them to the kid. “Who’s playing the concert, Skinny?”

“I am,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a lead vocalist,” Skinny said. “I don’t have a name or nothin’ but I’m gonna have this concert.”

“Well what do they call you?” I said.

“Robert Smith,” he said.

“But that’s the name of the singer from The Cure.”

“Cure?” he said, getting it wrong.

“Man. You need to know The Cure.”

Corey came back around the corner, patting his gut. Skinny’s attention diverted again, this time to a guy in an aquamarine golf shirt and matching Corolla.

“Excuse me sir,” Skinny said from across the tarmac. “Might you please have a cigarette, or some spare change, or maybe even something to eat?” The guy started rummaging in his pockets and Skinny headed over toward him. They spoke briefly and then Skinny was gone. Corey and I watched him cross Myrtle and take 8th toward the Grove.

"He’s crazy. But he’s good,” Corey said again. He grabbed his pack from the ground and strapped up. “Alright homie. I gotta go shake. But you know what? I need to be doing something better with my life. I’m going to be a week off meth and then I’m gonna call my son’s mom. I don’t wanna be this person no more.”

“I like to think nothing’s permanent,” I said.

He took my hand and said thanks and called me brother. Then he followed Skinny’s trail toward the Grove. I checked the time–1:07 p.m.–then waited a few minutes. I crossed back over Myrtle myself, and went back into the slow coffee store.

*************************************************

“I saw your band,” the barista said, after passing me the second Americano, this one in a 12oz paper cup.

“That’s surprising,” I said.

The black Americano ran the risk of scalding my hands, so I passed it back and forth until I saw the dirty silver Four Runner pull up outside. She stopped on the corner, facing north. 1:21. I crossed the street. She had the windows down and Arthur Russell was singing over the speakers the only way he can: softly. I didn’t recognize it at first, the wind in my broken ear drum. I got in and handed her the coffee.

“Thank you,” she said. She found a cupholder for the drink. “The Broadway Bridge is closed.” She whipped around on Broad Street then took a left on 9th, crossing River Street and then the actual river and then University. The old adobe Train Depot looked haunted in the smoky drape.

“How was your lunch?” I said.

“Fine. We talked about nothing. What’d you do?”

“Nothing.”

We drove up the slow slope of the Boise Bench and to the end of Vista, at BOI, up the ramp to the departures concourse. She kept the engine running.

I looked at my briefcase in the back seat. “Please just get out and hug me,” I said.

She threw the car in park and then she did.

missed a deadline

As we head straight into the Scylla and Charybdis of election day, I’m voting with my conscience for song of the summer. Songs I’m addicted to (Kanye, Young Thug, Kaytranada, Soft Lit, etc) are more ubiquitous than conscientious; I want to nod to this Joyful Noise Recordings cut. A flexidisc limited to 1k, it was free with proof that you’d donated to Bernie’s campaign–I was able to snag one. The song itself isn’t anything groundbreaking. It’s a glittering guitar meditation with clips from Bernie over the top. But I’m here to say, yo, honestly fuck you if you resigned to the attitude: “Bernie can’t win.” He can’t win because of that attitude. You have to inhabit a possibility before it manifests. You have to believe in an ends and work towards those ends, if that is what your heart says. I very much appreciated the effort, and the ability to work towards an ends, in the midst of derision. And that’s what this release is–thinking about new means to reach the ends you envision. As Bernie says on this cut: “You have to think about it and you have to feel it in your guts.” What does your heart say? Do that, always.

Thurston Moore & Bernie Sanders – Feel it in Your Guts

feed from a port authority bomb threat

Crowds rushed down the stairs near the 8th Avenue entrance to the Port Authority, as authorities deemed it safe. Workers in neon yellow vests were not speedy  

An announcement over the loudspeaker declared business as usual, after “the building had been shut down temporarily, due to police activity.” The announcer said both incoming and outgoing buses would be delayed.

A crowd of travelers banged on the roll-down grate at the Greyhound office. A man in a cowboy hat rushed in when the employees entered. Another started weeping.

A woman named Grace, 35, stood waiting for the Greyhound ticketing office to reopen, so she could finish her trip to Philadelphia, for a funeral. She said with the delay she now only has half-an-hour to spare.

“I don’t know what happened. They just said ‘police activity.’ They do this so often you don’t even know if it’s a scare or not. You don’t know if it’s real or not real. So you just have to relax and do the best you can. If you get everybody flustered and frustrated it’s going to be a stampede. It’s scary. But we’re just in a time when these things are happening. So if it happens, if you’re caught it in, you can’t do anything. We’re all locked in here. You can’t even run off fast enough to get away.”

feed from mothers day

At least 500 people, as estimated by the NYPD, and as many as 1200, as estimated by organizers, marched across the Brooklyn Bridge on the eve of Mothers’ Day, making an impassioned call for reformed gun legislation. Calls of “NOT ONE MORE” and “SAVE OUR CHILDREN” rang out on the bridge, as the crowd congested the pathways for about an hour. It was a cloudy and grey day, punctuated by neon protest signs.  

Actor and avowed Republican Melissa Joan Hart marched at the front of the throng, helping carry the banner.
“There are safe ways to go about making sure those guns don’t end up in the wrong hands, making sure that they’re stored safely, making sure that people don’t have military-grade weapons,” Hart told the Daily News. “In this day and age, I don’t think military-grade weapons should be available to the public. I understand some people talk about tyranny and what if we have to rise up against the government. But I think those days of worrying about those things are so far behind us. At this point the military is made up of our sons and daughters. It’s not going to be a massive war between civilians and the military. That’s not a worry anymore. So I think it’s time we take smart steps to make sure children can’t get their hands on it and that dangerous criminals who can’t get their hands on it.”
“My kids wear a helmet when they ride a bike because it’s a law. I can’t buy two packs of Sudafed at the pharmacy because I might make meth out of it or whatever is it you that do. Why is that if I go online I can go get some military-grade weapon shipped to my house without asking any questions. That’s not okay.”

Abbey Clements, 47, is a teacher from Connecticut. She was teaching second grade at Sandy Hook Elementary the day that Adam Lanza brought a military-grade AR-15 assault rifle to the school and murdered more than two dozen. Lanza spared her classroom by turning left instead of right at the end of a hallway. She’s a Survivor Engagement Lead for the State of Connecticut chapter of Moms Demand Action. She started teaching at a new school this fall.
“It’s keeping guns out of the hands of dangerous people. Whatever you have to do. Encouraging people to lock up their guns and keep them away from young children. It means everything to me personally. Your sense of safety, and we see it in the news everyday, is not what it seems to be. There are a lot of steps we can take to change that. So now, this is what I do. We would see a family on TV and cry. But it can happen at any time.”

Representative Nadine Velasquez introduced legislation to the House this year, closing background loopholes, and providing technology to police to make it easier to find–creating a national database of lost or stolen guns. It also imposes $100 tax to any purchase of any gun. “We need to make arms more expensive. The fact of the matter is we have 270-300 million arms in the street. We have to make it more difficult so that those guns do not end up in the wrong hands.”

Christopher Underwood, age 9, member of the Everytown Survivor Network whose brother, Akeal Christopher, was shot and killed on his 15th birthday in Brooklyn, spoke at a rally kicking off the march in Cadman Plaza. “My brother died on his 15th birthday. He didn’t get a chance to grow up. He was shot right here on Brooklyn. After spending two weeks in the hospital fighting for his life y mother had to explain to me that my big brother Akeal wasn’t coming home. I was just five years old. Someone stole Akeal from me. They stole my big brother, my role model, my friend. When Akeal died, I was just a boy. Since that day almost four years ago I have grown up a lot. I may be jut 9 years old. But when I open my mouth the voice that comes out is strong and can make a difference.”

People came from Maine, Montana, Georgia, Virginia, California, Illinois, Washington DC, and many other states, just to march.

Denise Romero, 40, from Massachusetts, was there representing her brother, who was murdered when he was 28, in 2013, gunned down by thugs in the Bronx. “Nobody found the gun. Nobody found the killer. We in limbo. He was a good kid. A happy young man. It’s the streets. The illegal guns. They get a hold of it and they just want to kill people.”

Public advocate Latisha James: “I’m here today because I’ve been a long advocate of responsible gun laws in this country. As a result of the inaction of congress, it’s just really unacceptable, and if we’re going to get anything done, it’s going to be from the ground up and not the top down. The leadership is going to come from mothers, mothers who unfortunately have lost their children to senseless gun violence. And it really is a shame that congress is doing nothing and that they are being hijacked by the NRA. We’re gonna stand strong all across this country. And we’re gonna push them into action. Because what they are doing is a form of malpractice, by not doing anything. Because we are losing too many children.”

Actress and New Yorker Julianne Moore spoke at a rally at City Hall Park. She spoke about the day the shooting at Sandy Hook happened, and how her daughter discovered the news. “She said, mommy did a bunch of little kids get hot today? And that’s when I felt ridiculous. And that it is reprehensible for me to try and keep my daughter safe by shielding her from news. If I really wanted to keep her safe and be a responsible parent then I needed to help prevent an atrocity like this from ever happening to anyone else in this country.”

“Nine months ago I could not have imagined that I would be here with you today. Like so many people in this country my husband Andy and I were horrified every time we read about the gun violence in this country. And like so many other people in this country we said something has to be done. But we did not speak out. It had not happened to us. After the shootings at Virginia Tech, Aurora, and after Sandy Hook, we said how does this keep happening? When is congress going to do something about his gun violence in our country? But we did not speak out. We felt safe in our small southern town in Virginia. Are children were grown and happy. It couldn’t happen to us. And then on August 26 2015 it happened to us. Our beautiful 24-year-old Allison, a reporter and anchor for WBDJ-7 television in Roanoke Virginia was murdered on live television. by an angry former employee of the station. Her cameraman Adam Ward was also killed. We were devastated. Allison was just doing her job. Cheering up viewers early in the morning as they drank their coffee and prepared to start her day. She was young. She was beautiful. She was in love. And she had an amazing future ahead of her. But on that day, 60k viewers watched her die, a victim of the plague of gun violence that has taken so many of our loved ones. A victim of an angry man who should have never been able to purchase a gun. Our grief turned to disbelief. How could this happen? And then there was another shooting. And another shooting. And another and then another. And nothing was done to stop it by our leaders who were elected I serve and protect us. We could no longer be silent. Our child had become in the eyes of some, collateral damage. We cannot accept that. Our grief turned to anger. And that anger became a willingness to do whatever it takes to do or say to enact sensible gun legislation. And that is why we’re here with you today, the day before Mother’s Day.”

feed from brookylnettes tryout

Vying for just a handful of spots, hundreds of high-kicking hopefuls hit the open audition for the Brooklynettes dance team Saturday morning, at the Brooklyn Paramount Theatre in Downtown Brooklyn’s Long Island University.

Brittany Gregory, 22, queued up outside before the doors opened, ready to plie, pirouette, and bahtma for one of 18 or 20 spots on the team that revs up the crowd at Brooklyn Nets games. Gregory, who started dancing at age 3, comes fresh off the dance team at Syracuse University, where she just received her M.S. in instructional design. “This is an aspiration of mine. I’ve always admired dancers, and I think dance teams don’t get enough credit. Some say dancers aren’t athletes. But once you get into a rehearsal, it’s a different story.“

Asha Singh, the team’s captain, led stretches in a gymnasium, before teaching the scores of dancers just eight counts of choreography. After those first few beats, the judges would cut about half the dancers.

"This whole audition process is all about just choosing the team, hitting the court, and entertaining the fans,” Singh told the Daily News. After four years on the team, the Brooklynette is serving her first as captain. Hers is the only spot that’s ensured–all other dancers have to audition again. “To me a Brooklynette embodies a professionalism but knows when to have fun in that moment of dancing in front of thousands of people regularly. It’s so unique and incredible an experience that even Broadway dancers don’t experience.”

Brooklyn native and renowned choreographer, Rosie Perez served as a guest judge for the audition. “This is just old hat to me,” she told the Daily News. “It’s not just dance ability we look for, but charisma. How many people fit in the Barclays Center? About 20 thousand? You have to hold the attention of that many people.”

One woman walked up to the registration table just 35 minutes too late—the auditions had already begun, and there was nothing that could be done. She was seen standing on the corner of Flatbush and Dekalb Aves, still in her dance gear, tears running down her face.

stabbing at a YWCA

Regina Zimmerman, 41, has lived here since March.
re the victim:
“I know of her. I’ve seen her around. I saw her outside. A few times. Tall dark skin, dark glasses. If odd is picking up cigarette butts and talking to yourself, then she was odd. I never saw that woman with anybody, actually.”
“I don’t know why this happened really. basically they’re just saying she went on a rampage. it’s actually really upsetting because most of the women here get along very well. it’s very shocking. it’s very shocking. I can’t believe anything like this would happen in this building. it’s been very quiet.”
“Right now this whole thing is very dramatic. My son’s already heard about it in Indiana. This is breaking news in Indiana.”
“You can’t be in your right mind and stab a person 80 times.”

Katherine Scott has lived at this shelter for 25 years.
“evidently this woman was going around knocking on doors and whatever door that opened was just stabbed. the victim opened the door only to be greeted by a knife.”
“there was another woman who attempted to kill a security guard. she scared me. I had to move out. that was in 1991 I think.”
“lately they’ve been sending them from the homeless shelter, an they’re mentally disturbed as well.”
“so we have incidents like this happening. but this is the worst I ever seen.”

Elaine McNeil had lived at the shelter for over 20 years. “Oh no! That’s terrible. How could that happen with all this security? Bill de Blasio and Cuomo are all over that. What’s not working?”

A woman who had lived at the shelter for a few months but wouldn’t give her name for fear of losing her room.
“It had to be somebody who lives in the building. we have to sign in and out every time. they know every person who goes in and out. even the side door connects to the security. this really to be honest is one of the best shelters in New York City. even the food is better. there are always two or three security guards on duty. at the entry they search our stuff. and when we aren’t there they search our rooms. we’re not allowed to have sharp objects or other things in here. for the homeless residents here get weekly room checks. and we signed the contract that says they can do that. the security guards have to do security detail every 30 minutes, walking the floors, making sure the emergency exits work. the security guards are really good here. they’re better than the staff. some of the staff are DHS. there are also maintenance cleaners called wildcats, who have same kind of security authority and radios. every room has a phone with an extension to security. each of the 11 floors has a couple cameras to get all the angles.

Another resident who wouldn’t be identified choked back tears as she remember the victim. She lives on the 8th floor. earlier this morning
I went to go to bathroom and the police said I couldn’t go any farther. I know the young lady who was murdered was from Trinidad and she’d just came back from her country. she was hardworking in home healthcare and she was a fantastic cook. and that’s all I want to say. she cooked for me around Easter time. macaroni and cheese and everything. I called her Liza, liza Minnelli, but others called her Lisa.

She says perp name might be Dorothy. She always wore dark glasses, even in the dark, she wore all black.

Andrea B. has lived here five years. Only way she’s be identified.
"On my floor there’s a lounge. I don’t have a bathroom in my room. I have to go out to go to the bathroom. When I was going back to my room I heard a noise I saw her sitting in the dark in the lounge. Well there’s nothing in the lounge. I said are you alright? She said yeah I’m washing. Well the washing room is closed at midnight. I immediately called and said why is there someone ten to one who says they’re washing. Two days later, I go out to the bathroom. I hear a noise in the lounge again. That same person is sitting in the lounge in the dark. Again, she says she’s washing. Well I called security right away again, said why is someone think they’re doing the washing after four in the morning. In hindsight this is not the behavior of a person with it all there. When I have called for people who have not normal behavior, they write it off. When I call the police or EMS, they just treat us like we’re all crazy or poor or retarded. When it’s things like this have happened now maybe when we give calls about the mentally ill, they’ll take this seriously.”
“I know she turns tricks to pay the rent. I’ve seen her walking around the corner with a nice looking white man or walking into the deli with someone who buys her food.”
re the victim:
“she was from the West Indies. she was a very nice woman. I think she worked as a home health aid or something like that. I know she had a daughter who lived in the rockaways. we were just two Fridays ago laughing and talking in the kitchen. it’s just very sad.”
“there is a shelter program in here but neither of these people were a part of that.”

Mike Jones a veteran marine lives in the building.
“That woman had been walking around this place with all freedom. Walks around inside with sunglasses on, with untreated mental illness. No psychiatrist, in medicated. When this murder went down, where’s the staff, where’s the security guard, where’s the support network?”

A woman who wouldn’t be identified has lived here eight and a half years.
“I’ve been here right and a half years and I’m looking to get out. Most people that live here have issues. There’s nothing wrong with having issues. The problem is when they think they are ok. They think they’re fine but they’re not fine. And when people think they’re fine and they’re not, things happen. It’s been very difficult dealing with shelter clients.”

Naomi Braxton, 52, says she knew the perp. can’t confirm her last name. has lived here four years. knew Dorothy for three years. says she saw her last night.

“she never took off her glasses, for whatever reason. she came to my room last night. she always came to my room asking for cigarettes. I only had a couple so I gave her two. She gave me two dollars in change. When I woke up today, my neighbor said there was an incident, and she kept saying it was the lady with the dark glasses. you would never think something in her could trigger her to be that violent. that’s so many stabbings.”

“we rarely talked. I knew she had some kind job. she didn’t really talk a lot. but when he spoke you wouldn’t think she was capable of doing such a hideous thing. you can tell in some people in their language or behavior. but she didn’t show no symptoms that she could commit such a violent horrible act.”

“it’s kind of peculiar because she came on my room and spoke about the cigarettes. I can’t tell you it was particularly odd. but then she went back to the hallway. ”

“two days ago I went to the 8th floor to get a soda. I saw her I. the lounge. this was like three days ago. this was night it was dark. ”

feed from memorial day

On Pier 86, a three-volley rifle salute punctuated the oompah of the US Marine Corps Battle Color Detachment Band, as the Intrepid Museum held its annual Memorial Day ceremony. Hundreds of active servicemen, veterans, their families, and compatriots gathered under a massive tent next to the decommissioned aircraft carrier.

Decked out in a tiny American-flag polo shirt, two-and-a-half-year-old Michael Geiser comes from a military lineage, with grandfathers and great-grandfathers on both sides having served. His mother, Bridget Geiser, 36, a banker living in Battery Park City, cradled the excited child. “It’s just a great celebration of America,” Geiser said.
“It’s important for us to remember our veterans and for him to understand the importance of the US military and what they do to protect our rights every day in America and how privileged he is to be an American citizen.” Michael could only exclaim “captain,” again and again.

Retired US Army Surgeon Carlos E. Leon, held a sign commemorating the names of 25 deceased servicemen he knew during his tours in the Middle East. He spoke to the Daily News as he dabbed tears from his eyes.

“This means to me to remember them. Not me. To remember them. Because I’m alive and they’re not. It’s to make sure their names and souls are remembered and not forgotten.”

Leon was born in Lima, Peru but grew up in Jackson Heights, Queens. “I’m so proud that even though I wasn’t born here, growing up here, my adopted mother country gave me everything that I could possibly need. I’m so proud that I could serve. I was in my heart Peruvian, but wearing the uniform of the US Army, my mother country.”

Colors were presented, the national anthem played, and a convocation held. A series of remarks from high-ranking military members, museum chairpeople, and Mayor Bill de Blasio adulated those lost in the line of duty.

The mayor thanked veterans and servicemen, and spoke on how much the American military has meant to New York City specifically, especially in the age of terrorism and the aftermath of 9/11.

“I remind people that in New York City we have such an understanding of the meaning of terror because we’ve experienced it firsthand. But it’s not just the pain we’ve overcome that we remember. It’s the fact that here in New York City we are honored to stand with people of all, a society where everyone comes together, every faith, every nationality, in harmony. Not perfect harmony, but everyday harmony. People work it out, respect each other. It’s no secret we’re on the map because New York represents the exact opposite of everything the extremists, the terrorists are fighting for. They went exclusion, separation. They can’t stand the notion of tolerance and understanding and respect for all faiths. So here in New York City we are proud to represent the best of American values.”

“The people of New York City have joyfully embraced all members of our armed services,” de Blasio said, giving a nod to Fleet Week, which ended today.

Admiral John Richardson, the Chief of US Naval Operations, thanked the Mayor and all New Yorkers for opening the city for the annual docking.

“We have learned as sailors that there is no hospitality in the world that can match New York City hospitality,” he said, adding there were 14 vessels and more than 4,500 crew members who enjoyed the city over the last week.

“As we gather here today we must celebrate the memories of our fellow Americans who have died in combat,” Richardson said. “And to be here, onboard the Intrepid, is entirely fitting for this solemn ceremony. Intrepid herself is a veteran of 41 years of service.” He mentioned the more than 250 service members who gave their lives while aboard.   I think it’s completely accurate and fair to say, here on Intrepid, every day is Memorial Day.“

"There are no bigger hearts, no stronger hearts, than those beating in your military’s chests,” Richardson said.

Admiral Mark Norman, the Commander of the Royal Canadian Navy, also spoke. Following remarks, commemorative wreaths were laid onto the Hudson River, one each for servicemen lost in current conflicts, servicemen lost throughout history, crew members of the Intrepid, and servicemen of allied nations.

Navy Fire Controlman Petty Officer Third Class, Jonathan Lawrence was one of several dozen military personnel who unfurled a 50-foot American flag. “I’ve never seen a flag that big,” Lawrence said. “It’s not often you get to do this. It’s gonna be cool standing there with everybody else, knowing that everybody’s looking at us. This is our service and this is how cool we are.”
Lawrence has been aboard the USS Bataan for a year, and in the service for two. The Wasp-class assault ship came in from its station in Norfolk, Virginia. His primary job at sea involves weapons systems. Originally from Mississippi, it’s his first time in New York. He’s got a brother on active duty in the army, and other family he’s unrolling the flag for. “That would be my great-great grandfather. He died one year before I was born. I got my middle name from him, Lloyd. she was in World War II.”

The USS Intrepid Museum every year holds this ceremony. (It’s not run by the military.) The ceremony serves to commemorate fallen soldiers, airmen, coast guardsman, all across the country.

US Navy Commander Rob Kuffel has been the in Navy for 19 years as a selective reservist, and continues to serve daily. He’s not been in a war, but dons his dress blues for ceremonies like this–working in protocol, he usually wears civvies. “I think you will find that many of the veterans in the audience get emotional during a ceremony like this,” Kuffel told the Daily News. “Those guys that fought in Vietnam and Korea and those other places, they’re the true heroes. Those are the guys that get the most out of this ceremony.”

The ceremony ended when “Taps” echoed through the pavilion.

feed from a trump event

The silent majority stood with major minorities Monday afternoon.

At the Trump Grille, inside Trump Tower, a few dozen well-dressed supporters gathered to throw support behind the republican candidate for president. Trump spoke briefly to the “minority coalition,” which had assembled there, including rela from organizations canvassing Libyans, Arabs, Muslims, Jews, and other religious or ethnic groups, who favor Trump. Many of the people in attendance were religious leaders from across the country, including from Maryland, Cleveland, and Washington.

Celebrity Apprentice Omarosa discussed other apprentice contestants speaking out against trump. “I’d say that is what makes this country so great. That’s what this democracy is all about. You want to support Hillary Clinton and the democrats, that’s your prerogative. I have a right in this country to support whomever I want and I stand with Donald Trump. That’s what’s great, that they stand on one side and I stand on this side and it’s OK.”
“I always tell people to vote their own interests. And for my community we need economic development. We need economic opportunities. We need jobs. We need someone who is going to be tough.”

“Our country is divided. But we’re come together to be successful,” Trump said. He touched on his stump points of jobs and the economy, before appealing to voters in the city. “ We do care about New York. We care about New York a lot. We love you all.”

Pat Walker from Tacoma Washington is a Native American minister. She’s part of the coalition of pastors and ministers who support Trump. “We came out to represent our hearts’ desire for Donald trump to become the next president of the United States. I think Donald Trump is the answer to cutting through the plan for the new world order. I think he’s bringing darkness out into the light. I think he’s bringing this country back to a place of truth and bringing the hidden out to the light. I think he says it the way it is. Which is fine.”

She said a man named Eric Cowley organized the pastors coalition and that she paid for her travel expenses herself.

On Wednesday I had my wisdom teeth extracted. On Saturday was the blizzard.

I get a call at 1 a.m. from the Daily News that I have to be at Manhattan Detention Complex at 6:30 to interview that guy who made his girlfriend walk down the street naked. We expected the Post to be there so we couldn’t afford to be late on it or miss it. He’s the most hated man in New York. And I really don’t give a shit about him and to me this is the worst story I can imagine. So I had been planning to go to bed pretty soon to get up at 8, which is my normal routine for my Saturday shift. I was in a lot of pain so had taken 2 or 3 Percs and eaten a bunch of THC candies so was pretty loopy and really needed to sleep it off. So then I’m scrambling to get ready for work in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall asleep until about 3 a.m. I got up at 6:15 and started moving. I called the MDC to see if they were still having visiting hours and this like crazy sounding scene is going on in the background but they keep saying they don’t know and I should call back in half an hour. I go outside and the streets are deserted. the snow was already piling up. But there were no buses, no cabs, no cars. And mind you I am fucked up on drugs! And my face was the most swollen it had been yet. I looked like a retarded white Kanye West. outside it was ice age Escape From New York. Half an hour goes by and I don’t see a single car. A couple available cabs go by but they turn their lights off when I hail them. So I finally decide to use a surge-priced Uber but they are all twenty minutes away and three of them cancel before one comes from bushwick to pick me up. So much time is going by and the snow is piling up that I’m calling the MDC to see if they’re having visiting hours. Finally they say that they are from 8-2. In the suburban, the driver in pajamas had the heat set to 80 degrees. I was overdressed for that and started getting nauseous. When I asked him to turn the heat down he just pretended to do so. I could see the modern AC screen and it stayed at 80 while he fiddled with the nobs. It was so hot and I got so sick that I had to take off my scarf and sweater and coat all in the moving car while trying to stay buckled in because the only cars on the street are insane delivery drivers who are driving like normal and therefore gliding around corners. So I’m at the MDC and Manhattan is deserted. $28 for a 2 mile ride. There’s fucking NOTHING down there. One H&R Block, a couple Starbucks, and a Dunkin Donuts open. the Duane Reade on Duane and Reade was closed! and I call again and they say they’re having visiting hours. I’m standing in front of the MDC and it is CLOSED. There are no lights on. The metal detectors are off. There’s a big CLOSED sign right in the window. I call and there’s that crazy audio in the background and the person tells me they are having visiting hours. As soon as the staff gets there. I go to a Dunkin Donuts and the entire inside is wet with steam and ice. There’s a guy mopping the entire time I’m in there to wait. I am so sick on drugs and nauseous but now I’m also starting to have caffeine withdrawals. The horrible latte I ordered is too hot to slam. And the hotter I get the sicker I get. This goes on until I pass out in the Dunkin sauna and wake up around 9:15. I went back over to the MDC and it’s still closed. I call the office one more time and it still sounds insane and the guy still says they’re having visiting hours. it was so fucking weird and perverse and I was so fucked up in every way and confused. At that point I decided that a pic of my horrible swollen face to my editor was adequate explanation as to why I would be quitting work for the rest of the day. He has no choice but to acquiesce. But the horror was not over yet my friend! Still no cabs, I’m walking in the middle of the street, I am legend. Uber is surged x8 so I decide to take the train. As far as I could tell they were running normal. There’s an R and an A/C nearby and they both go straight to Jay Street/Metro Tech, from which I can take the B54 straight to my doorstep. The R is closer so I hustle and swipe my Metro and miss it by 15 seconds. So I wait. It’s snowing so hard now that it’s actually snowing inside the subway. There are so many homeless people sleeping on the platform taking shelter. I wait for another half an hour and the train never comes. I go out and swipe my card down to zero dollars and wait for the A for another ten minutes. I get off the train and once I get my head about me and realize which direction is north I find the b54 stop. The bus never comes. So I’m walking up Myrtle Ave and at every bus stop I’m texting the bus app and every time it says the bus is 1.9 miles away, but the time to wait gets longer. So I keep walking. The snow is piling up so much by now that actually I’m not walking. I’m trudging. An hour for two miles. and right as I walk up to my door, the B54 goes by.