Props to Joe Strummer, whoever he may be, and y-ever he was anointed with this mural on East 7th Street between A and B. I do know that it was the first bar I went to in NYC, 1989. I'm always glad to see its still in operation, although the name seems to change weekly, so I shan't include it in this post. But it's easiest enough to find---along the southern end of Tompkins Square Park where anarchy still reigns supreme; junkies, street kids, artists, crazy people, young families, wild dogs and once a great horned owl.
True story. Saw a crowd gathered, looking up, a tall towering tree. I said, What's going on? A lady said, It's a great horned owl. And I looked up, way up, and standing tall on a high branch of a huge tree, sat the owl. As if she hadn't a care in the world--- completely unaware that she was surrounded by a worshipful crowd of human beings. And yesterday, no owl--- but Joe Strummer, peering out from behind his shades on another Africa-hot August afternoon. The kind of day where you sit down and watch the carnival. Because it is multitudinous.
In the early 90's when I worked at P.S. 122, I'd eat my burrito here. I would stake out the Polish ladies. Sit next to them. I just wanted to hear them speak. My mother is always here. I see her: La-la-Lottie, pretty blonde, who lived across the street in a 5th floor walkup, heading out to Coney Island, with her friend, Francis. And here I am, a half century later, snapping pictures, having brunch. Checking out Joe Strummer and other wild life.
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