Tags: jesus in a grilled cheese, orange fuzzy bear
Oh, hello. It’s been awhile.
Last spring, while walking with Ashlee, Lil Nola Jane, and Lucy the Dog, I stumbled upon this abandoned, helpless bear. An encounter that, for me, was akin to finding Jesus Christ on a grilled cheese sandwich.
I felt an immediate, profound connection with him, and the memory of his deranged smile, in the midst of grave peril, fortifies me on a near daily basis against the slings and arrows of life.
There is no more apt symbol for the depravity of man than Lowell’s canal system. On a good day, if the tides are right or the heroic Canalwater Cleaners have been at work, the glistening waters recall Lowell’s past moniker as “Venice of America.”
On most days, however, those canals are congested with shit–extraordinary amounts of shit, from Twizzler bags to Honda engines. And each piece of said shit can be traced to a single human being who simply didn’t give a shit. Just dropped his shit and moved on. It’s somebody else’s shit now.
My mother is surprised by the shit, almost to the point of disbelief. She thinks I’m exaggerating when I explain that people in my neighborhood routinely drop trash on the sidewalk without breaking stride. In suburban New Jersey, where she and my father raised me, there’s far less shit. Here in Lowell, even the city government leaves its shit around at least once a year.
It can be disheartening to walk the canals and see the consequences of such selfishness, stupidity, and disregard. And of course, if you extrapolate further and consider what else is begot by that way of (not) thinking…well, you just might toss yourself into that canal.
The shit is pervasive. Big bank shenanigans. Endless war. Political ineptitude. Tea-bagging retards and Nazi-boning infidels. Pretty much all the columnists at the Lowell Sun and every boozy T rider who curses in front of kids. What’s up with their shit?
Early Easter morning, a guy who worked at my dad’s company was murdered with his fiance in Jersey City. They were both shot square in the head on the sidewalk in front of their home. Execution style. They’d just come home from their engagement party. Two 19-year-old girls and one 19-year-old male were arrested. The male was charged with three unrelated murders.
That, dear reader, is some low-down dirty shit. Shit that’ll break your heart right in half.
It’s a defiant smile that hints at insanity, but defiance and insanity are required in this modern century. For without them, one could easily drown in despair. The bear knows this. And whenever I start to lose sight of it, I think of him, belly up and smiling. He may be worse for the wear, this bear, but he’s still got a pulse and a smile. They haven’t finished him yet.
It’s been a long time gone for Lucy the Blog. But we return today with a fuzzy bear’s frame of mind.
Life is cruel. Life is hard. But above all, life is beautiful. Smile at the sun. Fight with defiance and insanity. And keep floating through the shit. There are no other options.
More to come. But in the meantime, sing us home, Bruce.
Tags: +EYEFORMATION+, Glen David Andrews, Lowell Folk Festival
Tags: Chris Isaack, Derek Jeter, Jessica Alba, Jessica Biel, Michael Vick, Scarlett Johanssen
It takes someone special to knock Ashlee from the top spot on Lucy the Blog, especially on the eve of her opening.
But on this day in 1974, the Lord blessed all of us mere mortals with the gift of Derek Sanderson Jeter.
On his kickass blog, Yankee beat writer Peter Abraham recounts that a reporter once asked Jeter what the best birthday he ever had was. Jeter’s response: “Aw, you know I can’t tell you that.”
Undoubtedly, it involved finding a cure for cancer and feeding the hungry while in the midst of some ungodly sex romp with Jessica Alba, Jessica Biel, Scarlett Johansson, your mother, or any combination thereof.
And surely, his performance was clutch. For clutch is all that Derek Jeter knows.
So today, we salute you, Oh Captain, My Captain.
And may I please offer you my firstborn daughter as a gift on this monumental occassion. I know it is not much for a man of your riches, but she is all that I can give.
I would offer the wife as well, but she foolishly thinks you’re too full of yourself. I know, I know. I hate her.
Also born on this day were Chris Isaack, who gave us Helena Christensen in sand-covered black-and-white, Jason Schwartzman, who gave us Max Fischer, and Michael Vick, who sucks.
Hap-Hap-Happy Birthday to you all, from Lucy the Dog!
Tags: Ashlee Welz Smith, Lowell, Miley Cyrus Sex Tape, Opening, Small Person Giant Presence
Oh, hello there. I almost forgot about this dump.
We’ve been a bit frazzled of late, with Ashlee scrambling to finish her show, and Lucy the Dog ass-deep in strong and supportive artist-spouse mode. A true hero, he!
Her show is quite good. It’s about moms and babies and shit. So go check it out if you like art or meatballs. I’ll be making some of the latter. Crockpot, holla.
Small Person, Giant Presence
Ashlee Welz Smith and Meghan Moore
*OPENING RECEPTION: Saturday, June 27th, 5 p.m. to 8 p.m.
Loading Dock Gallery, 122 Western Avenue, Lowell, MA
*The show runs from June 24th to July 26th, 2009 at the Loading Dock Gallery. For hours, click here.
Tags: Balls on Nose, MBTA, Performance art that doesn't suck
A couple of months ago, I was sitting on the side of the train, at the end of the car, in the seats facing the aisle, as opposed to the ends, of the train.
By the Winchester stop, the aisle had gotten pretty packed. A man stood directly in front of me, with his arm above my head, holding the support rail for balance.
Because there were so many people surrounding him, he had to squeeze in, forcing his intimate region to be level with, and in close proximity to, my facial region.
And so we rode, from Winchester to Wedgemere to West Medford to North Station, with his balls dangling on my nose. It was the worst commute ever.
In contrast, seeing this in North Station would probably make for the best commute ever. I bet Gary would hop right in the midst of it for a graceful, impromtu two-step with a Dunkin’ Donuts barista. And I would cry and cheer like a schoolgirl.
Tags: Marey Carey, Melky Cabrera, One Son, Peanuts
There is so much awesomeness packed into this short video; I hardly know where to begin.
Love Melky’s farmer’s tan. Love his inability to communicate with Marey Carey and his apparent indifference toward doing so.
Love the dedication with which he stuffs those peanuts in his mouth. Love his lack of a reason for picking number 28. Love his answer to, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
But mostly, I love that a little boy with nothing can come to the Big Apple from the Dominican Republic and become a New York Yankee and nail porn stars who once ran for governor of the state of California. What a country.
In short, I love Melky Cabrera. And I love America.
RELATED: I (Heart) Melky
Tags: Dr. Michael White, Glen David Andrews, Lowell, Lowell Folk Festival, New York Times, Rosie Ledet
If you’re to believe the Bible of communist arugula-drinking Brooklyn hipsters, then Lowell, Massachusetts is the place to be on the weekend of July 25 and 26.
But this time, dear reader, those queers at the Times got it right. Suck it, Goldberg!
Yes, there are days when you may get shot in our fair city.
So, please. Let Dr. Michael White take you to school.
Let Glen David take you to church.
And then let him take you to the streets.
Alive. Unique. Inspiring. Luscious, strong thighs that make your loins burn.
Yes indeed. There’s a lot to like about Lowell.
Tags: DWYFF!, Lowell, Simon and Garfunkel
Today marks the much-anticipated return of Do What You Feel Friday, Coach Football’s favorite blog feature and the preferred reading for his candle-lit mastubatory sessions*.
We’ve been dwelling on violence here at Lucy the Blog, in the wake of Tavyrna Chouen’s murder and my growing homicidal tendencies. Last night, the face of violence quite literally showed up at our doorstep. Hijinx did not ensue.
It came out of nowhere, really. Ash was putting Nola to bed, and I was slogging through the wreckage of our home, trying to make sense of the chaos and clutter. We’re having repairs done to flood damage in our bedroom and nursery, which required us to move everything into the office, where we all live like hobos under the glow of the iMac. Because Ash can’t go to the studio, her painting gear is scattered about the living room, along with baby gymnasiums and chewed up dog toys. All quite lovely.
It started with a few screams in the distance. And then in seemingly no time at all, two grown men were rolling around our front yard, surrounded by a crowd of people cheering and hollaring, encircling the brawl like it was a cockfight.
Tags: groveling, Perk Is a Beast
These are dark days in the Beast’s dojo. Not quite this dark, but dark all the same.
Thus, in an effort to jolt themselves from the somber doldrums of a lost second-round playoff series to the dreadful and unworthy Orlando Magic, the Beast Lair has generously offered up a free T-shirt to anyone who, well…it’s not entirely clear. In their own words:
“Just give us a reason, any reason…a photoslop, a virtue of the beast, some fantastic statistical anomaly, whatever…and the one we like the best is getting a Beastly T of their choice.”
As of yet, the post has received zero comments, which may be because the site’s commenting feature is too depressed to get out of bed. Every time I try to comment, it says I have to log in or something. But I don’t have a Perk Is A Beast password, as far as I know. So instead, I will plead my case for a free Beastly T right here in my own space.
Dear Beast Lair:
I deserve a free Perk Is A Beast T-shirt because I purchased a size L shirt that was big enough for me, Ashlee, Nola Jane, and Lucy to live in. Since it was ordered through Cafe Press, I didn’t think I could exchange it.
So then I bought a size M shirt. But for that transaction, I was in more of a ringer T mood. Those must be sized differently, because the medium ringer T turned out to be too small. It’s tough to see in the above photo, but those biceps are about to tear the sleeves right the fuck apart. So even though I’ve paid for two Perk Is A Beast shirts, I only have one, and it can only be worn to Europe or when dry-humping coked out bitches at the club.
I also bought a onesie for Nola Jane. It’s a little big, but she’ll grow into it. I tell you this, however, because with those three purchases, by my math, I have invested nearly $75 in the Perk Is A Beast Empire. Of course, all of this waste could have been prevented if I hadn’t gotten small and gone into big-spender mode when I visited your site. But that damage has been done. The only way to rectify matters now is to give me a free T-shirt. Thank you.
Lucy the Dog
Tags: Lowell, Tavaryna Chouen, UTEC
UPDATE: The Lowell Sun’s Police Line Blog by Robert Mills posted a couple videos from the rally. I embedded one of the spoken word performances at the end of this post, and you can click here to see the other two. (At the 2:12 mark of the middle video, look for the sexiest bitch in Lowell on a leash held by a dirty hippy. Thanks to Robert Mills for posting these.)
Yesterday afternoon, Ashlee strapped Nola Jane into her hippy-mom papoose device, and along with Lucy the Dog, we attended our second peace rally/vigil thingie in as many years.
The event was organized by members of the United Teen Equality Center, in response to last week’s murder of 17-year-old Tavaryna Chouen.
As with the first vigil, held after a gay man was savagely beaten downtown, I didn’t know what to expect or why I was even going. I generally recoil at such demonstrations, but even after a weekend of relaxation, I was still quite angry about Chouen’s death, and I wanted to be around other people who were equally angry.
We walked down Moody Street through the public housing projects, and Lucy the Dog decided to take a dump right next to two women who were loudly threatening to rip each other from fat-laden limb to fat-laden limb. Apparently, minutes earlier, one of the women had walked in on the other whilst she was boning the first woman’s husband. They were both hideous monsters, and it’s a wonder that either of them ever got laid by anyone, much less the same man. He should be given a medal of valor for performing such a noble charity.
We tried to swiftly pass the ladies before they brought out the heavy artillery. But Lucy had made an uncharacteristically soft, shall we say, bowel movement. So, as the two women exchanged their “bitch this’s” and “bitch that’s,” I stood by unassumingly, trying to pick the shit up with a Quizno’s bag, but instead just smearing it all over the grass.
Meanwhile, Ashlee walked ahead unfazed, threading the needle between the crazed ghetto queens, with one hand over Nola’s head and the other raised in a dismissive ‘talk to the hand’ gesture. She is cooler than Trombone Shorty sitting inside a Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine.
When we got to City Hall, there was a decent crowd, comprised mostly of Lowell teens and UTEC organizers. I’d guess it was 150 people, but it may have been 18; I’m horrible with numbers as they relate to measurements or quantities. If you told me, for example, that I walked 400 yards from my apartment to City Hall, I would believe you. And I would also believe you if you said that I walked 4,000 or 40,000 yards from my apartment to City Hall.
I can say with certainty, however, that the weather was indisputably gorgeous, which made it a challenge to maintain the simmering rage that had brought me there in the first place. It was like a pleasant reunion, seeing some of the friendly faces who had helped with Ashlee’s Lowell Teen Portraits show last fall, including two of the teens that she worked with, Kim and Eddie. I also got a delicious oatmeal cookie.
In the same week that Chouen was killed by bullets intended for someone else, and in the same week that her “friends” dumped her lifeless body on a Suffolk Street curb, UTEC learned that state budget cuts could put an end to its Lowell Teen Coalition program, which, according to the Lowell Sun, “has reached hundreds of city youths, ages 13 to 20, getting them into after-school programs, arts, gang-prevention programs, and putting them to work organizing anti-violence activities.”
Thus, some of the signs and speeches at the rally called upon investments in peace and, more specifically, support for the threatened programs. But most of the language was geared toward the Chouen incident and the urgent need to “Silence the Violence.” Three teens addressed the crowd in a commendable fashion, though none of them displayed the level of aggression that I personally yearned for. I realize it was an anti-violence rally, but I wanted blood, goddammit.