Weekend Visitor

Trav,

I’ve got this guy living with me until Monday evening. Rufus. I call him Roofie.

He’s a smaller dog, which means Joss feels safe around him and, therefore, loves him. This morning she gleefully chased him all around the dog park and even ran solo circles herself, something she doesn’t do that often anymore.

Roofie is a cast off, much like Josser, and bounced around a bit before being shipped up to New York to be with his new owner, who promptly showered him with love. He now spends a fair amount of time on her lap, from what I’m told.

When I left them this morning, Joss was happily tossing about some of Roofie’s toys, and wriggling around on her back on my bed. Rufus, however, followed me from room to room and generally appeared unsettled.

Being the owner of a rather frantic dog with separation issues myself, I can see the signs in Rufus. But I figure he’ll settle into a pattern in a day or two. To be honest, his whining and following me around made Joss look almost normal in that regard. For once, I’m glad she’s there to keep him company, instead of the other way around. Honestly, I think she’ll keep him in line. I can see her now:

“Listen, little guy, stop pacing. He goes away right after his shower, when he puts all that stuff in that bag and grabs his iPhone. See? He just did it. You hear that? He just locked the door. Now we go lie on the bed and listen to the iPod on shuffle until he comes home. It’s pretty relaxing.

What are you doing? Stop staring at the door! Hey! I wouldn’t tear that up if I were you! Believe me, it solves nothing and you’ll just feel foolish when he comes home. Oh, and if you still feel on edge, he keeps the Prozac in the cabinet over the kitchen counter. He gives me mine right after breakfast.”

Brady

The Step Grinder and the Secretary

Travy,

I just came back from Michigan to visit my mom in Berrien Springs. I had not been out there since Thanksgiving, so I was due for a trip. It’s quiet and peaceful there, and I can run past apple orchards and sleep with the windows open in a farmhouse built in 1840. Here’s where I sleep.


Looks like we stepped back in time, doesn’t it? You can feel the years in this old place.

Anyway, we had a bunch of errands to run while I was there: a trip into town for some banking, a stop at Lowe’s, an appointment for my mother. But we also had tasks in the house, including going through her filing cabinet to weed out junk. I came across some pretty good stuff in those drawers: her birth certificate, complete with tiny footprints on back; her old driver’s license; her passport. And, most interestingly, my parents' marriage license.

My parents have been divorced for a long time, as you know. Long enough for them to both move on with their lives, and even arrive at a place of mutual respect. Which allowed me to view this piece of paper for what it is – an awesome piece of history.

Here’s what it tells us. They got married in St. Joseph, Michigan. My dad was 19. My mom just 21, though her birthday was the very next day, which really made her about 22. It tells us my mom was born in St. Joe, and my dad in Pittsburgh. I already knew they met at college, my father still enrolled, but my mom finished with a two-year degree and working on the campus. The document lists my father’s official occupation as “Step Grinder” – his job when he worked at Buck Tool while also a student – and my mom’s as “secretary.” (I have no idea what a step grinder is and had never heard the term before the marriage license. But my dad found and sent me a picture of him actually working the job.)


This piece of paper also tells us my grandfather was born in St. Joseph, which means he spent his entire life in that town – from birth to death. My grandmother's birthplace, however, is listed as "Russia." The truth is she was born in Kiev (though it was occupied by Russia at the time), and her family was descended from Germans. But none of that was needed for official paperwork in 1969 – "Russia" said it all.

That document put me in a nostalgic mood, sitting there imagining my parents much younger than I am now, a step grinder and a secretary, working their way through college and getting hitched in small-town, southwestern Michigan. My dad, just a year removed from his mother’s cooking, all at once a student, a husband and a full-time employee. My mom with a two-year degree and a household to run. At 22, she’s Mrs. Huggett, of all things.

So maybe that’s why, when the sun came out on Sunday, I wanted to poke around St. Joe. I wanted to go past the house my grandparents lived in when I was a kid, because that’s where my strongest memories of them are. Driving past that ranch house brought a lump up into my throat; I suddenly felt old, swimming through memories of me standing on that porch, of splitting one of the guest bedrooms with my big brother. And, most importantly, memories of my sister arriving into our lives in that very house, after my mom and dad brought her home from their overnight trip to the adoption agency in Chicago.

We left there and drove past my mom’s high school, past the homes of her childhood friends, even the house my grandparents lived in right after their marriage.


Then my mom and I headed for the water, but we passed a soft-serve ice cream shop and I had to stop, because the warm weather and clear sky made the day feel an awful lot like the beginning of summer. We parked in a lot at the water’s edge and sat on a swing in the sand, my cone already gone, the sun on our faces and a breeze coming off the huge lake.


I pulled a few stories out of my mom. St. Joe, nestled on the coast of Lake Michigan, is a nice beach town now, and rich folk from Chicago buy vacation homes on the water. But when my grandmother and her family, after coming into the US through Ellis Island, arrived to St. Joe, the homes by the water were for immigrants, and they settled into a little enclave of Germans. My grandmother and her sister spent a lot of time on that beach. In fact, that’s where my grandparents met. Part of my grandfather’s job was to keep hooligans and riff-raff off the carousel at the beach, and he noticed her while he was working. Eventually they went on a date, and that was it. They were together some 70 years.

The way my mom remembers it, when my grandparents decided to get married, my grandpa’s parents didn’t like it. They called my grandma a “beach bunny,” because she lived by the water with the rest of her lot, but my grandpa didn’t care – he loved his beach bunny and that was that.

Now fast forward some 25+ years. My dating parents come home from college to introduce my dad to my mom’s parents. And they had news, as well: my mom was pregnant and they were getting married. Boom!! Can you imagine?

My grandmother began to cry. “What will the neighbors think?” she sobbed. My grandfather, to his everlasting credit, slapped his thighs and said, No crying, this is a time for celebration. And he went down to his basement for a bottle of champagne.

This is where my parents got married.


Big church. But small wedding – punishment, my grandmother said, for my mom being pregnant. There was no party, no real reception, but your parents were there – not yet married but engaged. I guess my dad had to beat his big brother at something, and he won that race to the altar, leapfrogging your dad at the last second.

Some of this stuff I already knew, but it was a good trip. With my mom headed back to North Carolina, I’m not sure when I’ll be out that way again, unless I make it a habit of driving around Lake Michigan. And maybe that’s another reason why I felt so strange while there, because I don't know when I'll be back. Or maybe it’s the small-town feel of St. Joe that put an aching into my chest. But it can’t be that, because once my family moved out of Detroit, I spent years in a tiny town in Maine, and I had a great time, so what’s the problem?

Or maybe because being there screams the past to me, screams 1980, screams a time when we were young, my grandparents were alive, everyone was thin and we all had our health. But the truth is those times are gone forever. And maybe that’s what bothers me.

Brady

The Lance Message

Trav,

As part of our continuing series on vandalism, city ‘art’ and the lives of the homeless, I give you this:


Fuckin white Boy will not give up Lance I go to Bronx

I took this down by the East River, under FDR Drive. The homeless congregate there, because it provides shelter from the elements and they can rest their wearied bones on the benches. Plus, it’s a step away from the street hustle and traffic. When Joss and I go jogging in the mornings, we occasionally pass these men, burrowed under blankets on the benches, their overflowing shopping carts parked alongside. Sometimes their stockinged feet protrude from the bottom of the bedroll, which always makes me want to stop my run and gently reach out my finger.

"It's time to get up, little buddy," I’d whisper, tickling away. "Breakfast is ready."

Anyway, they are two great sentences – almost poetry. They say a lot, but not enough, and they get one thinking.

I emailed my friend Randy to see what he thought. We exchanged messages for about 45 minutes, in debate. To me, it was one homeless man leaving a message for another: "Look, that white boy won’t stop harassing me, and I’m moving on. Find me in the Bronx if you need me." In my eyes, the "Fuckin" lends it a tired anger – bitter and defeated, he’s gone.

Randy saw it differently. He saw the note as a message from a man to his gay lover – I’m leaving, and you can find me here, if you’re still into "us." Neither of us could quite see it the other’s way, so Randy suggested I get some paint and write "Please Clarify" beneath it.

It got us talking about this book – a collection of people, some famous, some not, who were asked to boil down their lives into six words. A sampling.

After Harvard, had baby with crackhead – Robin Templeton

Watching quietly from every door frame – Nicole Resseguie

Nobody cared, then they did. Why? – Chuck Klosterman

So, my questions to you (and our readers), are these: What do you think the "Lance" message means? And, can you sum up your life in six words?

I think mine might be one of these:

Please punch me; I deserve it.

Moved around but still not settled.

Joss, I think, would write this:

Prozac helps calm the anxious dog.


Brady

Hey.
When I first saw it, I thought the same thing as you. This guy was getting hassled by some "white boy". Probably another homeless man, whom he competes with for the prime sleeping locations or something, or maybe the white boy just keeps roughing him up and stealing his cans.
I suppose Lance knows where in the Bronx he can find his friend, an equivalent to the spot under the FDR. I wish the homeless of New York used Hobo symbols, that would be cool.
I found his use of the term "boy" interesting. I think the statement would read in a completely new way if it read "Fuckin White Man" right? That would be a broader statement about society I think.

A new mystery: I was down there the other day, and somebody has covered the word "fuckin" with spray paint. The question is, who? The city? Then why not cover the whole statement? A shortage of white paint? Laziness? Maybe it was a local parent, who occasionally walks by there with a young child just learning to read? I don't know. I'll try to get a picture of it as soon as it stops "fuckin" raining.

OK, here is mine: Used to read, now ... diaper changes.

Trav


Update: Brady: While jogging this week, I noted the entire wall has now been covered over with a light gray paint. The message is buried. Glad I got that picture when I did.

Shit Bird?

East Houston NYC

So I know the nation awaits my Orson post (and it will come). I just need to wrap my brain around this last month and try to put it into words.
Anyway, it'll happen, so until then .... Shit Bird?

Fiction Post

Trav,

I’m overhauling the fiction section of The Huggett Files. It was incredibly stale. I’m going to try and be more vigilant about getting new stuff up there. I'm going to feature one piece at a time, and also link a nice photo from your work to go alongside – after all, that was our original idea for this blog.

We’ll start small. I just put up a piece called Brooklyn. It’s very short, and light fare. The impetus was some email exchange between us back in maybe 2005. You told me, as a joke, that you wanted my next piece of fiction to include a shovel, a cat named Oscar and a mattress? Something like that. I whipped up a piece while at work (my old job in Atlanta) and sent it over. It was kind of stupid.

But one day a writer friend tipped me off to an online contest for fiction pieces – nothing over 300 words, I think. It’s pretty hard to set up a scene and give any sense of place or meaning, then get some closure, in that amount of space. One of the best pieces I’ve ever seen of very short fiction is by Annie Proulx, called “55 Miles to the Gas Pump,” in her collection, Close Range. The piece is dark and haunting, and it’s only three sentences. If you see that book at your local store, take it off the shelf and read that story. Won’t take but a minute.

Anyway, I cleaned up the piece and sent it in to the contest. Those contests are sort of rigged. Not officially, but the winner is someone who immediately gets in touch with everyone they know and have all their friends stuff the digital ballot box. The award went to someone with about 75 online votes, and the piece wasn't great. Second place was in double digits, too. The rest of us with no friends settled around the bottom. But I was very pleased to see that a complete stranger voted for me – you can see it in the comments section. Made my day.

Anyway, jump over and read Brooklyn. That’s your photo at the top.

Brady

Posters

Photo by Kel, from the Lorimer stop

Trav,

For a long time, I thought posters were the most ancient, ineffective way to advertise. "Why would you put up a poster," I wondered, "when there is TV and radio and internet and everything else?"

They might be ineffective elsewhere, but I've realized posters work in NY. Everyone walks here, and posters catch attention. They consistently alert me to new movies and live shows. It was a poster that turned me on to Dexter, for instance.

But they also provide a vast playground for vandals. Most of it is harmless: tags or kids giving shout outs to themselves, like "Fancyboys" or "Kid Flava." Sometimes they get political, if not particularly coherent. Like this.


It's hard to read that, but it says, "So what if I voted for McCain. Israel can do no wrong."

Look at this one.


You know who that is next to Cedric the Entertainer? That's Haley Joel Osment, disfigured. I was startled by his face under the ink – he didn't grow up to be that cute, did he?

And, of course, we have the crude ones. The cocks-n-balls. Like this.


I have several problems with this piece of art. First off, The Statue of Liberty is a woman – Lady Liberty, they call her. So the penis makes no sense, unless someone is telling me that one of America's most treasured symbols is a tranny. And even if that's the case, I just can't believe his/her genitals would be able to reach his/her face as he/she kneeled in the cold, no matter how stiff his/her erection.

Gets you wondering, though. I mean, when Debra Messing agreed to do marketing for The Starter Wife, did she know what she was getting into? Did she know kids were going to draw a mustache on her upper lip, black out two of her teeth and scribble a cock next to her ear? Did she know she'd eventually be depicted as a hairy, toothless sex freak on a subway wall for all of New York to see?

Anyway, my favorite in the past weeks is this one for the movie Marley and Me. Three quiet little words, but effective (spoiler alert!).


You The Huggett Files readers – and there are so many of you now, millions even – what have you seen? If you see something particularly noteworthy, snap a photo and email it to me or Travis – we'll get 'em up. Or describe it in the comments.

But don't send them all at once, or you'll crash our server.

Brady

Hey.

I can remember when I first moved to New York City I was fascinated with the poster specific graffiti in the train stations. I could not believe the artistic level of the scribblings, whether with paint, sharpie, or ball point pen. It took some time to for me notice that when I left my usual train stop, the Clinton/Washington G train, the quality dropped off considerably. I was spending all my time at a train station one block from an art school (Pratt) waiting for a train that is notoriously slow to arrive. The G is the only train that never enters Manhattan, and there was a time I was convinced that there was only one actual G Train, running back and forth between Queens and Brooklyn. Art school kids always have pens and markers and X-acto blades on them, and they have plenty of time before the G arrives.


I'd like to take a second to mention the art of Poster Boy. This is a young man who has taken it all to another level. No penis drawings for him. I'm always on the lookout for his smart and creative work, take a look: http://www.flickr.com/photos/26296445@N05/sets/72157605066109339/
and word has it, the cops MAY have finally caught him:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/04/arts/design/04post.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=poster%20boy&st=cse
I for one hope they never catch him. He may be the only interesting artist working in what seems to be the recently stale world of street art, other than Banksy and his many copycats that is.

Anyway, I love this stuff. I enjoy both the primitive penis given to Julia Roberts on her newest movie poster, and the cut-up commentary of the Neo Cons by Poster Boy.

I have to believe that the companies that produce these posters know full well that they will be defaced, it must have been proven worth while either way.

I'll keep an eye out for both the best and worst, and put 'em up here soon. Below are a few of my favorites.
Trav






From Kelly:


Brady: Just saw this one yesterday, and since it made me laugh for some reason, I went back and got a picture.



First off, I didn't know NWA were still recording -- I thought they branched out to solo projects more than 15 years ago. Guess I was wrong, because here they are offering up their most memorable advice again. Clearly, the street doesn't think working as a corrections officer is the way to go. Also worth noting here: This ad campaign was styled by our very own Cate Sheehy.



Latest from Kel:

My favorite part about this one is the prison style tear tattoos.

The Jury is Out

Hey Brady,
I hope you can still read this through the tears of laughter I've created with my hilarious title. You see, I thought I'd write a little bit about my experience with jury duty this week. Unfortunately, I have nothing to say about it. I sat in a big room with about 300 people, my name was never called, and I never spoke to anyone. All of the city employees were friendly and often funny, and none of the people waiting with me did anything crazy. So, I managed to get caught up on my New Yorker articles, which I feel pretty good about, and that's it. How is it possible that I spent all that time with hundreds of people and nobody did anything funny enough to write about? So anyway, that's all I've got, instead, I'm going to post a picture I shot over the holidays, that I hope you enjoy, because I've got nothing to say.