Quiet Brooklyn

I was at the Lutheran Church of The Messiah in Greenpoint, in Brooklyn, Thursday night. My short, fat, gay, Indian companion and I were there, downstairs in the multi-purpose room to see a show. His name is either Phil or Mount Eerie or both, I could never be sure. He sat by himself on the stage, off to one side, looking at the projection behind him of what at first seemed to be a still photo of a dock on a lake with the moon at the top of the frame. It was a movie, you could see the water lapping the shore. "Is this the new place?" he asked someone in the corner. "Is this the new place where they have shows?"

We'd come early before the doors were even open. The fluorescent lights were still on and there were four or five happy-looking youngsters milling around. I cursed my companion for bringing me to a Youth Group. "Listen," he said, "don't you ever feel like there's something missing in your life? Well I've got a friend I'd like you to meet. His name is Jesus." We laughed and laughed and went down the road to Enid's to get started on some beer: it was already eight o'clock and this show wasn't even off the ground. They were playing all of Mr. Dynamite at Enid's, a collection of James Brown's old recordings. Impossible to tear ourselves away.

We came back the the Lutheran Church of The Messiah a few hours later. The multi-purpose room had been transformed. It was disappointing to be in the basement, but our promoters had done what they could. The fluorescent lights were off, and green and red light bulbs had been screwed into the sconces. There was a stage with other colored lights splashed across and a quiet Belgian woman performing on her guitar. The room was packed with acolytes and the curious, sitting quietly cross-legged on the floor, like kindergarten.

"It's like kiddie gardners," said my companion. "I have to piss," I said. I tip-toed through the crowd and sidestepped beer bottles toward the bathroom. As I neared, the Belgian woman's set ended and I found myself at the end of a line to piss. All was not well. "Dude, I'm having a shitty day," a man in front of me said to a friend. "I lost my job today. Job of five years. I guess someone in Ireland can do it better." Bitter young man. "Fucking Euro's so strong right now." "Ja," someone said in front of him, "I know vhat you mean. I'm from Sveden." "Hell yeah, you know what I mean!" "Ja, like this yacket cost me only like tventy Euro." "Yacket?" the bitter young man said, "it's called a jacket! You're stealing our jobs!" The Swede left without using the bathroom. He couldn't have been more than fifteen.

It was now time for Mount Eerie. The moon in the first shot on his projector by the end of the song had risen out of frame and then it faded into a shot of mist creeping through trees that lasted about as long as his second song. He seemed a little shy at first, not talking much between songs, but looking back at whatever shot was appearing on the screen behind him. A contemplative set, just him and a classical acoustic guitar. He loosened up as the set went on and told little stories that were met with applause and laughter. Everyone loved him. This is what they'd been waiting for.

For his last song he informed the audience that they had to sing along. But he wouldn't tell them the lyrics and he'd never performed it. But they could read his mind: it was completely open. "Just read it. It's like you go to your airport dropdown menu and scroll through to find me. It's called MountEerieConcert555. Okay? Is everyone there? Okay, here we go." He sang very slowly, stretching out every word long enough so people could telegraph what it was. The effect was that of chanting, or prayer (a little Catholic, maybe, for a Lutheran church, but there it was). The verses were funny: "Where is the Mount Eerie concert? I got a flier today on the street." Then he would break out into a quicker response that wasn't sung along: "There is no concert. Mount Eerie's turned to dust." It ended with the following. Sung along: "I've RSVP'd. I'm here in the basement of the church. Where should I set my stuff?" Then the quicker response: "That stuff isn't yours. You'll be taken tonight, in dark arms."

Stuffed Animals, part 2

We'd blown it. It was that simple. There would be no show for us tonight. The Cougars
had distracted me. I'd been concentrating on the vodka they'd been ordering. "Vodka cran. Just a little cran. And some soda. Grey Goose if you have it, or Belvedere." They were on the prowl.

"Those Cougars sure are on the prowl tonight," said my short, fat, gay, Indian companion after I'd come back from the line up the stairway. "Forget them, kid." I said. "What they're on the prowl for has almost nothing to do with you, or what you're prowling for." We discussed bocce ball. There are two such courts inside Union Hall. The line, though, was insanely long, and unless we instigated some sort of Hall-wide brawl, there was no way we'd get in there. And I no longer had the heart for instigation.

Back in our niche by the fire underneath the books I almost paid for the whiskey. But I decided that I was by God going to see some dead, stuffed animals that very night. And instead of paying, I ordered more. And our minds turned, as they will, to music. We were starting a band named Angel Glands. Esoteric music using esoteric instruments. Eso-Core. Polyphonic rhythms on such diverse tools as: a theremin, a washboard, a Jew's Harp, found percussives, a comb with wax paper wrapped around it. Every song title would be about Leonard Cohen. "Leonard Cohen Bites My Rhymes." "Leonard Cohen Made Out With My Girlfriend (and Gave Her Herpes)." "Leonard Cohen is a Buster." Every title taking Cohen down a peg, because, really, he's had it coming. For a long time. There would be one song, though, just called Angel Glands. It would be on our album, Angel Glands, by us, Angel Glands. We'd eschew Eso-Core for one song and be a traditional three-piece with and infectiously poppy song that would put us on the map. This would also complete the triangle, the first two sides of which were built by Bad Company and Big Country*. We were destined for greatness.

The talk of Leonard Cohen, naturally, led to Nazis. I pulled a book at random out of the nearest shelf and opened it. It was the beginning of a chapter and its first line was "I lost my virginity to a Nazi." A very useful line, we agreed. In any sort of situation. "Would you like cream or sugar in your coffee?" my companion asked. "I lost my virginity to a Nazi," I said. "Does it look like I want cream or sugar?" And more in this vein.

I blinked my eyes and suddenly the Hall was filled with Scientists. Unmistakable corduroy and facial hair. I knew the show had let out.

My companion and I beat a path to the stairway. He hesitated at the top. "I don't know if I want to go down there. I can't really deal with death." I reminded him of the Great Spirit and counseled him washteh. He finally agreed and we descended into the dark, humid, cramped cellar.


It was still packed with people, Scientists and lay people alike. I had to shoulder my way to the exhibits. I heard talk of a two-headed ostrich. I didn't see it. "I still don't get it," my companion said. "Is it just funny? These are a bunch of dead things." He was peering at some of the taxidermy boxes. "No," I said. "They're reminders of things that once were living. Taxidermy doesn't glorify death. The reason this trend is sweeping the city is just this reminder. Nature. Natural habitats. These kids long for something: the famous pioneering spirit, the myth of the Old West. They don't have the balls to actually move to the country or lead a for-real hard scrabble life, but they connect with the idea. Or maybe they do have the balls and have only recently come to this city. Taxidermy in a tiny apartment represents this Urban Naturalism. It's not ironic. It's serious and fun and not somber. It's a philosophy. Look at all the people here. They love this. So do I." All of this uncharacteristic tangent was lost on my companion who was staring at a standing badger dressed like the Pope.

(*Editor's Note: Big Country never released a Trifecta. The band had a single called "In a Big Country," but the album was named The Crossing.)

Stuffed Animals, part 1

"Watch out! Guy's got a dead animal." Someone yelled at me outside Union Hall, in Park Slope, in Brooklyn, Friday night. I explained to the gentleman that my short, fat, gay, Indian friend, (and not Indian like that, you son of a bitch, he's from New Mexico and building an adobe house with his husband), was not any sort of dead animal. The gentleman replied by pointing at a man pushing a large wooden box on a furniture dolly into the bar. Taxidermy box. I knew this had to be the place.


I was there for an event given by The Secret Science Club called Carnivorous Nights. Darren Lunde of the Museum of Natural History would be speaking and then judging, along with a distinguished panel, contestants's taxidermy. We were early and I found two armchairs next to a fireplace on the main floor and sent my short, fat, gay, Indian companion to the bar to get us started on some whiskey. Directly after he left, a waitress asked if I wanted anything. Whiskey, I said, and maybe some food.

A little later, with now four generous pours of Elijah Craig in deep glasses, my companion and I watched an older gentleman and a younger woman sit across from us at the fireplace on a red couch. A coffee table seperated us in this bookshelved niche. They ordered beer and sliders from the waitress and talked quitely. Halfway through their meal the young woman got up. She never came back. I blinked my eyes and the man was gone as well. One slider left half-eaten. Beer almost full. A group of Cougars on the prowl asked if they could sit down. My companion began to reply that it looked as though the couple was coming back. "Nix," I said, "have a seat. They're gone." And the Brooklyn Instigation Society was born. We would spend the rest of the night trying to start trouble wherever we could. I wanted that old man to come back and have some altercation with these Cougars about his stolen seat. "What if they had a knife fight, " my companion asked. "That would be awesome," I said. The old man and his young lady never reappeared.

A steady stream of bowties and courduroy jackets with leather elbow patches had long been passing. They all wore sneakers with their get-ups, as they all were Secret Scientists. I knew it was almost showtime and I sent my companion downstairs to find us some seats. When he came back to tell me the room was full to capacity I knew I had to find out what the hell was going on myself.

The room was indeed full to capacity and there was a line up the stairs of people waiting vainly to get in. We were too late.

(Will our heroes ever get to see some taxidermy? Will the Cougars pounce? Will there be any knife fights? Tune in to read the exciting conclusion of Carnivorous Nights!)