Where ‘you from?

Whenever I’m asked such a question, I have to think for a moment. What would be appropriate? Outside New York I’m from New York. In New York – from Poland. In Poland – from Warsaw. All of the answers make people look down their nose. Back in Poland, people don’t like us, “Warsovians” (Warsowers?) ‘cause apparently we’re snutty, patronizing, arrogant and not very honest. There was this famous tale about a guy form the ‘hood who apparently sold the Poniatowski Bridge to a poor provincial guy. Put it this way: I was born in Warsaw, my dad was born there, my grandma grew up there, and they weren’t like that. I had lots of friends, native Warsovians – none of the above applied to them. I’m not like that (or am I? One can’t be too sure these days); in college I had friends that were born in Warsaw – they were the nicest people you could meet. So – where is the stereotype coming from? Especially that there aren’t so many “true” Warsovians living there anymore. It’s the outsiders that ruin our reputation (I write “our”, but am not so sure if I can be still called Warsovian – although, as C. told me yesterday – “You can move a boy from Kansas, but you can’t move Kansas from a boy”), it’s suburbia moving to Warsaw, trying to act up and be successful no matter what. And, last but not least, our soccer fans. If you go to Lodz (there's a long history of competing between Widzew Lodz and Legia Warszawa) or Cracow, you better shut up when they ask you where you're from – or else you could be beaten up. I lived in Warsaw for 28 years, went to school there, had my first job there, first kiss (the Old Town – surroundings were nice, kiss – not so much), and then everything started to be the same. I started to choke. So I left. Came to New York. And what do I find here? Same shit. Whenever I meet a Pole living in Greenpoint, Ridgewood or Maspeth, they look down on me ‘cause I’m from Warsaw. Could not believe it! Even here, I’m called “Warszawka” (sarcastic way of describing Warsaw’s beau monde, the so-called “elite”).

Native New Yorkers are being patronized, too. Outside NY and in their own city. They’re being pushed over by the newcomers (and the GOP conventions). They have bad reputation (snobbish, arrogant, tough guys, smart asses, thinking how to rip you off) they – supposedly – aren’t very friendly. Two cities, two parts of the world. So different yet so similar.
I want to write about those two cities. Now I know why I chose New York to live. Cause it’s like Warsaw, in many ways; only bigger and better.

To be continued

Got my hands...

...on a miracle.

Ratz and catz

I can't even explain how lazy is the cat in that bar. Or probably she just doesn't care - rats, shmatz - she doesn't give a damn. And I like that about Rizo - she's not going to chase the rats just because some people have that image in their head. Who said that cats didn't like rats anyway? Maybe they're buddies, and that's why Rizo refuses to take care of the problem? Anyway - I love this cat, I even like her for not liking me. She's got right not to like anybody she wants.

Day of the Living Dead

Black woman with a big black-and blue under her eye, wearing a rag-of-a-dress, was sitting on the bench in front of the bar, staring at people walking by. She sat there, waiting for god knows what. When the bartender was opening the gate, she thought: “Well, I’ll let her sit here for another hour, who cares – she’s probably homeless, let her rest old bones".
Half an hour later a guy in a camouflage jacket, military boots and an army-like hat came running, passed the bartender without saying a word, and went straight to the bathroom. She didn’t react, knowing the type: he’s gonna take a piss, then won’t order a drink, and won’t even say “thank you”. Whatever. To her surprise, he approached her after using the bathroom. She was ready to scream, seeing his bloody eyes, chunks of blood clots hanging from his cheeks. Yikes! – she thought, instinctively offering a guy some ice to put under his swollen eyes ; trying to be polite, although couldn’t bare looking at the guy’s face. “Thanks, sweetie, I’ll be fine. Can I just trouble you for a glass of iced water?”. She gave him the water and went back to her chores, not asking questions (pardon me – to be just, she did ask the guy: “Long night last night, huh?”, for what he just smiled the kind of smile that meant: “I know it, you know it – what’s the point of rubbing it in?”). Meanwhile, the homeless woman wouldn’t move from the bench, like she was hypnotized or something. “OK, last chance, lady – I’m giving you another half an hour to move; if you won’t, I’ll have to intervene”. I mean, give the bartender a break – she wasn’t mean or anything, she just knew that a homeless person sitting in front of the bar isn’t good for business.
Half an hour passed, and two 40-year old guys came in for a drink. They ordered sodas (“it’s a fucking bar, for god’s sake – if you want to hang out, go to the senior citizen’s center” - she thought, as she always did in cases like that, but, as always, she kept her mouth shut - “at least they don’t look like Vietnam veterans who didn’t notice that the war was over”). Guys started to talk, and whether she liked it or not, barmaid overheard a big piece of their conversation:
- “So you’re gonna attack me from behind, right? This way you can bite me in the neck, and everybody would see it. Besides, when you will do that from behind, I have a slighter chance to defend myself, you know what I mean?”
- “OK – so I’ll jump on you, and first try to strangle you, my other hand holding your arm behind your back so you wouldn’t do anything. Are you right- or lefthanded?”
“Jesus! What a crazy day! Those are freaks, too”- thought the bartender in despair. “Is it a full mooon or something?”. Not even 15 minutes passed, when another guy came in to use the bathroom – this one looked like a burn victim, his face inhumane, with random hair sticking out of his ears, blood-filled eyes. Two guys knew this one: “Hey, Timmy – yo’re gonna eat Frankie alive, right? But as for Charlie, he’s gonna have to die in the explosion – it’s gonna be more spectacular, besides you can’t eat everybody – after a while it gets boring”.
Mulberry Street Production is shooting a rat-zombie-horror movie, using the bar as their office.

On men and pigs

Last Saturday of July was hot and frying. Three customers were sitting at the bar for about two hours now, filling the space with the stink of their sweat and noise. They ordered Margaritas, rocks, salt, a double Jameson’s and a tiny beer in a rocks glass (the little beer for the little leprechaun in my stomach – explained Anton). “They must be rock stars – decided the bartender in her own mind – who else would be so full of himself not to respect other people’s nostrils to that extent?” The big girl who came along with Anton and Frankie suggested at the same moment:
- “Guys - maybe after this round we’ll go to a hotel and take a quick shower?”
– “Shower shmower” – laughed Frankie - “I’ve been wearing these pants for, like, 6 days straight – what good a shower would do?”
They were smoking, screaming at each other throughout the whole room. They were loud, sweaty and obnoxious – like the teenagers left home alone with the booze. But still, there was something fragile and sad about them – the unexpected, delicate words that they would say to each other, fascinating love and hate relationship between Anton and Frankie. As the afternoon went on, barmaid started to get attached to her troubled customers. Almost like a mother-figure, she was eager to please them, wipe the sadness off their faces, and brush off these stupid rock-stars masks. Then the comments on life became more and more devilish (Anton: “If I had a gun, I swear to god I would kill that bitch right now; I never believed that there are bad people in this world, I thought deep down we’re all good. Bullshit! She’s evil, evil I’m telling you”), and probably booze and speed snorted in the bathroom had something to do with the intensity of it all. They went from “Man, I love you, you’re my brother – get rid of that bitch”(Anton) to “I hate you, motherfucker, leave me alone, and go fuck yourself” (Frankie). Bartender had no idea what they were talking about, and, knowing better, she wouldn’t ask (if they wanted to tell her, they would). Somewhere around 6pm, a guy came into the bar, looked at the rock’n’roll crowd, and asked Anton: “Aren’t you such and such, by any chance?” (the bartender couldn’t make out the name, it was way too long and complicated). “Yeah, man – we’re having a tour in New York, playing at the Bowery ballroom – you should stop by”. The guy shook Anton’s hand and went back to his beer and a book. “Excuse my ignorance” – started the bartender, busing the table of a stranger – you know those guys? Cause I serve them since noon and have no courage to ask what band they are from. And now it would be even more awkward…”
The next morning they came again. This time without a girl. Same clothes, same oily hair, same order: Margarita on the rocks, salt, Jameson’s neat, and a mini-beer. “How did it go last night?” – asked the bartender, knowing well enough that last night’s gig was a disaster. Some guy from the audience started to insult the singer, and he couldn’t get over it. So instead of playing, the band was just badmouthing the audience and vice versa. They played maybe half an hour altogether. “It didn’t go so well – said Anton – cause people are fucking pigs, and dogs and even worse than all the animals together”. “Well, they are – but do we care about animals’ opinions as much as we do about people’s? Since they’re pigs, you shouldn’t let them bother you, cause you’re not a pig. Are you?” Anton didn’t answer. The next concert of Brian Jonestown Massacre in New York went much, much better from what I heard.

Instead of a fortune cookie

A friend at the bar gave me a note. there was no cookie attached to it, but it still looked like a wishing-well from a fortune cookie. And I have a feeling that he was right. This time and always.

I don't want to be Paul Newman

We were watching "Cat on a hot tin roof" at the bar, starring Liz Taylor and divine Paul Newman. Dave Johnson asked me all of a sudden: "If you had a choice to be someone else, who would you want to be?" "How much time do I have?" - I asked, knowing that this one is not going to be an easy one. "As much as you want" - said Dave, then returned to the movie and another of his "final cocktails". As I was washing the glasses and putting them away, I started to think. Mother Theresa? Great human being, selfless, helpful - a saint. But she only lived for others - I couldn't, or else I would become bitter. Leszek Kolakowski? Great philosopher, huge mind, exceptional personality, yet humble, very warm and simple at the same time. Nah - even though the million dollars he recently received from the Library of Congress made me think twice - not him, either; He's a bit too old, I like being 30. I also considered John Paul II, then checked negative remebering the obligatory celibate. Albert Einstein? Let's see - a genius, very good sense of humor I heard, little bit odd, but still very down-to earth for a genius. Yes, that's a close call. I was just about to open my mouth with the answer, when I changed my mind and, trying to buy some more time, asked Dave: "You? Who would you want to be?". "Him - he said, pointing at the screen as Paul was getting drunk even though Liz begged him not to - I want to be Paul Newman, always wanted. Look at him: he was gorgeous, talented, had beautiful blue eyes, everybody loved him then. When he got older, people still loved him, and his eyes didn't bleach. He's 80, has more hair on his head now than I had two years ago, and is married to the same woman for 47 years. Now he's making pasta sauces, good ones at that, sells them all over, and gives all the profits to charity. He's the perfect man: has got looks, sense of humor, brains, and heart. I have only brains and slight sense of humor. That's it - I want to be Paul Newman."

Listening to him, I agreed. Paul is the perfect man. And then it dawned on me: why would I want to be a perfect man? Why would I want to be a man in the first place? And who wants to be perfect? Perfect is boring. I like my own laziness, my "don't wannas", my moodiness, my lack of perseverance and my stupid rebellions, I even like my own problems. I cry a lot, laugh a lot more, can't sleep at night, have been down and broke, have been successful. It's a shitty life I have at times, and a beautiful one at the same time (just have to flip the coin). Yes, I had my heart broken, not once, not twice, but it's still beating, and is beating super fast lately, thanks to a certain Him (thank you, my heart, for your inexhaustible healings). So If I had a different life, I would not meet my friends, I would have different parents (for what? Mine are a pain in the ass, but I love them anyway), wouldn't be in New York, wouldn't have known and loved Warsaw. No. I don't want to be Paul Newman. My humble me is enough for me.

Counting my blessings

It's the little things that matter in life.
Like a little dance to Tom Waits' song.
Like Him getting milk for the morning coffee.
Like Him buying her a toothbrush cause she forgot about it.
Like drinking coffee and watching beautiful photos He took.
Like text messaging, hotter than the sun...
Those little things that make you want to get up in the morning. Thanks, Life - keep'em coming ;-)