(Brooklyn Bridge – historic Tobacco Warehouse – Photo and Photoshopped by Joe)

Okay, I’m back after a hiatus from posting. Who cares, right? No one. I sure as heck don’t.

Anyway, things haven’t been going so well on my side of the fence. I’ve been living at my boss Nick’s house, yet not going to work (though I do drag my butt out for job estimates). You’d think after weeks of not showing up at the job sites, Nick would say something, but to him I’m as inanimate as the couch or the table or the chairs. I don’t know who or what he cares about other than gambling, it sure ain’t me. I did ask him one college-football-Saturday if he wanted me to move out, and he just waved for me to move away from the TV. The man’s a stone. Whatever.

Most days I’ve been sleeping into the afternoon, and in the evenings I usually head over to this seaport dive on the Brooklyn side of the East River. I won’t say where the bar is exactly, except that it’s just outside the glitzy(to me it’s glitzy!) Brooklyn Bridge Park area, while the door to the place is three steps from an unobstructed view of the bridge. It’s a bar where you can really immerse yourself in the moment. The patrons tend to be euphoric and unbridled, particularly after midnight when rough-hewn characters begin to slip in among the crowd of slick-heeled wannabes. The dregs make a game of leering at the ladies, who don’t seem to mind much, though some give dagger-eyed looks. These men also love to violently cry out, sing, and yowl. I can hardly tell a word apart, or if they are truly singing or yelling at one another. Most peculiar is that although everyone sees and hears the dregs, they appear ghost-like, as they breeze in and out of the bar as if on jets of air. It’s no wonder that in looking back the day after, the night spent in the place always seems like a dream.

After one especially long night there, Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” popped up on me as I plodded to the subway. I can’t remember much of what he said, something about me having to change my ways, that I was on the path to becoming irrevocably nocturnal. It was all blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Oh, he also said that I was messing with the type of forces that lure in the mind, only to consume the body. Whatever. I haven’t talked to him about it since. Though the next day he did orchestrate a meeting between me and my estranged lady friend(LF). I was dying to see her, and didn’t want her mad at me anymore. Benny even came along and did a lot of the talking. He really helped smooth things over between us.

-

In the week or so since LF and I have been back together, I haven’t gone to that seaport dive. Plus I’ve been working everyday and even going to the gym. She is my everything. I know that, and so do my readers. I won’t go into our reunion, though you can read about our breakup. It wasn’t my fault. A trickle of demon blood made me sick. Read Episode Thirty-Four and Episode Thirty-Five, if you want to know all about it.

Otherwise, because of the dose of demon blood from that runt of a kid I met at the “House on the River’s Edge“, I do get sick now and again. When it happens, besides the fact that I get a little nutty, my extrasensory perception sharpens. Though you’d be surprised, things get very clouded, and I usually have to search the streets really hard to see a ghost or true spirit matter. As far as the nuttiness, I won’t go on about it, except to say that no one should fear me. I don’t want to bite anyone. And I don’t get that crazy, so long as LF is with me. I trust in her, and know after a few hours, I’ll be fine.

Unfortunately, Since LF’s in my life again, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) are back stepping on my tail. Not having seen them in two months, they appear more primitive and bizarre than ever. They seem thrust from a TV commercial, or sprung from the pages of a fashion magazine. They both work hard to evoke fashion-conscious personas; whether they’re on a street corner, at a bar, or at the dinner table waiting for a helping of garlic mashed potatoes, corn, cranberries, stuffing, and gravy, those two love to pose with pouty mouths and affected gestures. They are whacked, plain and simple.

-

Today is my first day back living in the old apartment with LF and num and nuts. In a little while the four of us plus Benny are going out to dinner. Afterwards, Benny wants me to meet someone who can offer some insight into NYC’s darkest paranormal secrets. It’s partly because I’ve been toying with writing a book on the subject. The old man thinks that’s a great idea, especially because he’s always telling me that I need to learn more about the supernatural to help myself. Benny says this person is someone who has lived many past lives, yada, yada. I don’t care. And as far as the book, I’ll be upfront and honest with you like I always am, I want to write it so I can make a few extra greenbacks. E-books are easy to do.

So, whatever, I’m really hungry and can’t wait to stuff my pie hole.

But I will say that I owe Benny one for bringing LF back into my life. I know I complain about the old man, and always say how I don’t trust him because he’s doesn’t tell me all he knows, but now I’m truly indebted to the bastard, that is, at least until I pay for his dinner tonight.

Thanks for reading.

Your friend,

Bald Punk aka Joe

P.S. I’m happy to be back blogging with you.

P.P.S.S. To that person from the Bronx with the demon problem, sorry I couldn’t help you directly, but let me know if my suggestions were of any help?

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(View from South Street Seaport Mall, 3rd floor – Photos by Joe)

Twenty minutes had passed since I sat down with a decent cup of Joe and turned on my laptop. I was outside on the third floor deck of the South Street Seaport Mall. Just upriver was the much marveled Brooklyn Bridge. Not far beyond it was the representative-blue-steel Manhattan Bridge. The early afternoon sun presided over pastel blue skies and an East River breeze flowed upstream from the mouth of New York Harbor, a quarter mile to my back.

Hyper-focused, I was reading through the opening chapters of my book about Max Beckley. People familiar with this blog know of him as the Revolutionary War soldier that was abducted by demons as he lay dying in the marshes of what is now Park Slope. Outside of this blog, I’ve written well over 100,000 words about his saga and have enough material for two books. I see his life best when I’m by the Seaport. It’s real. Probably why I’ve been warned to pull my snout out of his story.

Someone dropped down at the other end of the wooden bench and over the next few moments was profoundly still. I imagined they were enrapt by the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge. The span can be like a magical loom that spins out dreams.

I glanced up and to my displeasure saw the slight frame of Benny, “the cigar store Indian.” Benny’s a clairvoyant and old homeless man. He claims that in another life he had been one of the Lenape Indians who met Henry Hudson in 1609.

And his eyes were set on me, though his presence was ghost-like.

Benny wore an old, three piece suit and had a brand new pair of black cross-trainers. I remembered that my lady friend had bought them in TJ Maxx. Now I know who “the kicks” were for.

“What do you want, Benny?” I said gruffly as if he was a dog. “Want a coffee or some food?”

He put his lower lip over his upper and shook his head. His tanned face had a fresh sunburn. “I want to talk to you about Robert,” Benny said, referring to the alleged vampire that we both “ran across” a few days before out at Calvary Cemetery in Queens.

I gazed down at my laptop and reread the last paragraph in the first chapter. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not . . .

Karl let his gaze drift up to the second floor window, to the room where Max unknowingly waited for the couple. A sense of anticipation spread over his stomach. He closed his eyes, daydreaming of how eternal light might feel. He imagined the final door opening and a ghostly hand beckoning him onward. It was then that from the primeval depths of his mind came a long-dismissed hope . . . God is forgiveness.

“The other night I saw Robert at the Pathmark on Cherry Street,” Benny said.

“Shopping?” I said with a smirk.

(Pathmark)

“He was hanging around the dumpsters, catching rats and sucking the blood from them.”

“Cool.”

“He leaves the cemetery regularly,” Benny said.

“Good to get out of there, even if it’s at night.”

“I’m going to need you,” Benny said somberly, his countenance showing a seriousness that I’m not used to from him.

He wants me to help him kill the vampire . . .

I stiffened and looked to the Williamsburg Bridge that was the third span upriver. That span tends to get lost in the vista because of its utilitarian, Erector-Set-type design.

My mind’s eye took me further and “came ashore” on the Brooklyn side of the Williamsburg. In my head, I could just see the old Domino Sugar Factory set alongside Grand Ferry Park. My sight threaded up a small, paved hill and turned left on Kent Street. Soon my mind’s eye passed the new luxury condo towers that sit right on the East River and a sprawling, waterfront park. My “eye” made a right onto Greenpoint Avenue, moving through the urban landscape of brownstones, walk-ups, synagogues, churches, banks, and sundry stores that include Polish delis, bakeries, and butchers. Once over the border and into Queens, I saw the gentle slopes of Calvary Cemetery that were choked with tall monuments. Robert was interred there.

(Calvary Cemetery)

“I can’t do it by myself,” Benny said.

“What do you have in mind?”

Benny closed his eyes and gave a barely perceivable shudder.

“How?” I asked.

“Dismember him, limb by limb, until the soul slips off,” Benny said, with a serene light in his hazel eyes. (Btw, last time I saw Benny, I could have sworn his eyes were light brown.)

My body flinched, though it could have been my soul as it realized the mortal sin it might have to absorb. ”I’ll help you find him,” I said and carefully folded my arms so as not to tip my laptop. I thought we must sound like soulless killers. “The cutting up part you’ll have to do.”

Benny looked up into my eyes and smiled. In retrospect, I can’t believe how I wasn’t repulsed or ashamed. I had remained calm. I’d like to say that there was some element in Benny’s eyes that held sway over me, though I can’t be certain.

The old homeless man had set a brown paper bag in my lap. “It’s not a knife,” he whispered, head bent. “Just a harmless stick that has a finely carved handle. It’s an antique. Priceless to some. Keep it on you. I’m not a powerful man, if Robert kills me, he will sense you are near. When given such a creature, it is the weapon of choice.”

(Max Schreck as Count Graf Orlok in Nosferatu (1922)

“Is he a vampire?” I asked, closing my hand over the bag. I ran my fingers over a slender object wrapped in a thin cloth. I pressed my thumb on its sharp point.

“He likes blood. He’s undead. I would say ‘yes.’”

“There must be others like Robert,” I said.

“There are things in the night, more strange and perverse than vampires.”

“Good God help us.”

“Don’t concern yourself. They are things you may never see or feel.”

“Oh, great, thanks, like I’m just going to forget.”

“It’s the price paid for knowing,” Benny said.

I stiffened, knowing I had little recourse. “How does Robert get here from Queens?”

Benny laughed. “He takes the 7 train,” he said, his brows high and face radiant. “He has a MetroCard.”

I looked up the East River and tried not to smile.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Photos by Bald Punk)

The pictures were taken when I was walking to and from the new park, and are in the order of my footsteps. I hope I didn’t post too many similar shots.

My favorite subject is the Brooklyn Bridge. For me, it’s like a stepping off point into the past.

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photos by Bald Punk)

DUMBO seems to be a nice little arts and crafts/hipster community, budding in the crosswinds of the East River. I should have taken more photos of the artsy shops and crap, but I made a beeline for the park under the bridge. And then I had to get over to the Brooklyn Bridge.

I will post photos from the new Brooklyn Bridge Park in a few days.

Tonight I will post the first episode in a series of stories that will begin with The Hunger. It seems to have me and my friends on the trail of vampire, though I don’t believe they exist. We’ll see . . .

Related post: It Takes A Tourist (Chinese immigrant mistakes East River shoreline for a beach)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

It’s not a guarantee of fame and fortune or riches–but doors will open, good and bad. For some, like the homeless man in LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES, he was at the right “place.” Near perfect in one sense, and in another, needing to be perfected(this will not be touched upon in this post).

His name is Max Beckley. His story is legend.

It has thousands of layers, all tucked away in the belly of the beast whom some would say is the living, breathing soul of New York.

(Cigar Store Indian)

An old, “cigar store Indian” told me Max’s story. I didn’t believe him. Not a word he said. He was a crazy bastard who was feeding the pigeons in Central Park. He invaded my space and started a conversation that I didn’t want started.

I’m the friendliest guy in the world—if I know you. If not, I’ll ignore you at first, but if I turn to you, it’ll be with my are-you-talking-to-me glare. You think I have a bad attitude, come to NYC, and you’ll see for yourself that strangers who start conversations with strangers are usually missing primary nuts and bolts.

(Photo by Bald Punk, Sunny City Picture/South Street)

It was a sunny day, and I was sitting by a ball field in Central Park waiting for my friends to come so we could play soccer.  (I’m early for everything. I have superior time management skills. Avoiding useless banter helps.)

Nearby an old man was feeding the pigeons. After a few direct glances as he tried to get my attention, he blurts out that once he was a cigar store Indian. I laughed in his face. He laughed too, then his large, brown eyes held steady as he began to tell me about Max. The old man had a long, rugged face and high brows, and a wistful gaze that said he’d seen good and bad in his lifetime. His skin was tanned though sunburned on the cheeks, and he had straight black hair with bold streaks of gray.

When he was done I still didn’t believe him, but it was a good story. An interesting story. Who knew that a few months later I’d actually have a meeting–more like a vision of Max Beckley on the promenade by the Brooklyn Bridge.

(Photo by Bald Punk, South Street Promenade)

The night that I had had the vision on the promenade, afterwards I met my friends at Jeremy’s Ale House. I drank a couple super-sized beers, trying to get the whole encounter out of my head. Then it hit me . . .

The homeless man whom I had met on the promenade was Max Beckley. He was the guy the cigar store Indian had told me about. He was one of The Immortals.

Now part of what I’m about to tell you about Max, the cigar store Indian told me, other bits I researched.*

(Plan of the City of New York – Bernard Ratzer, c. 1776 – click to expand) 

Let’s step back 233 years to learn about Max. Any date in August is fine. The Ides of August is perfect, though he arrived here in late July, I think.

August that year was extremely hot and humid, same as it has been so far this summer, today being 8/16/09. Men from all parts of the country, and across the seas, had been funneling into NYC. Most that came by land, came on foot, and were armed with muskets, fowling pieces, blunderbusses, or just pikes.

British warships arrived daily in the harbor until the number swelled to over three hundred. They stirred up mayhem and terror by firing cannons, some turning broadside to the land and shelling onlookers.

A war was brewing, so was a country. It was set to explode.

(H.M.S. the Phoenix and the Rose – Fire Ships on the Hudson by Geoff Hunt)

From the black and gray smoke that hung ceaselessly over NYC that August, a great metropolis was set to rise.

All eyes were on New York City, including those hiding away in the belly of the beast.

Up from Maryland came a fine bunch of bright souls. Light oozed through their skin, and shined onto eternity. It caught the eye, even there.

Max Beckley was one of them, born and raised just outside of Baltimore.

Many in his Maryland Regiment wore fashionably cut, scarlet coats, buff-colored hunting shirts, macaroni hats, and fine socks. Their weapons were outfitted with bayonets that were new to American warfare. The blades glinted in the sun.

(Smallwood’s Maryland Regiment, 1776)

The battle that erupted late that summer was the first the Army of the United States ever fought, and they did not fare well.

The incipient, mostly ragtag forces had rushed into war and were ill-prepared. Making matters worse, in the middle of the night on August 27th, they were ambushed. The fighting started in a watermelon patch in South Brooklyn.

Superior trained and better outfitted British, Hessian, and Scottish Highlanders carved out a victory before the sun reached its midday perch.

From the highlands of South Brooklyn, General Washington ordered an all-out retreat, while selecting Max’s regiment–one of his finest units–to hold up the rear of his retreating army. He hoped they would provide precious time for an escape.

It was all but a death sentence for these southern soldiers, who were far outnumbered.

But in the marshlands of the Gowanus Creek, the Maryland Regiment fought long and hard, regrouping and attacking time after time.

Two-thirds were killed, wounded, or captured. From the highlands Washington saw first hand how courageously they had battled, and lamented, “My God, What Brave Fellows I Must This Day Lose!”

(Battle of Brooklyn, Old Stone House, Noon, 8-27-1776)

The war and country might have taken a different turn if not for the Maryland soldiers’ gallant effort. Especially if the British had broken their line and caught the rebel leader, George Washington. As we all know, he went on to become President and shape America unlike any other in history.

For their heroism, the Maryland 400 as they are called, were posthumously honored with the name The Immortals.

(Maryland 400 Monument, Prospect Park, Brooklyn)

Max Beckley was one of those who had perished that fateful day.

Body broken and near death, in his last few moments of life he lay in a ditch in the marshland, when a Scottish Highlander reamed him again and again with his bayonet. Death was beyond question. Though the afterlife would have to wait . . .

(Close up of inscription, Maryland 400 (The Immortals) Monument)

————————————

Epilogue

Don’t know if this counts as an epilogue or not — though I thought having one would be cool. I just wanted to let you know that I will tell you a whole lot more about Max Beckley another time.

Your friend,

Bald Punk

Update: I went to The Old Stone House pictured above and took some pictures for you. Then a few weeks later I went to the Maryland 400 Monument in Prospect Park.

—

*Two great books for further reading:

Battle of Brooklyn 1776 by John J. Gallagher

The Battle for New York by Barnet Schecter

—-

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Fourteen – August 2009

New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

Secrets

We Are Knowing

LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES

We’re on a Road Trip to Home Depot (Secrets Interlude)

THE IMMORTALS

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photo by Bald Punk)

Click here for all the pictures I took yesterday of the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges.

— 

I LOVE the Brooklyn Bridge. For me it’s like the “gateway” to Old New York.

(Bird’s-eye view of New York – Published in 1873 by Geo. Degen, NY)

<< Click above picture for larger view >>

Btw, the above picture you can buy in poster form and hang on your wall. This way you can sit and stare at it for hours.

 —

        These are some of the other photos and videos I posted this summer:

        It Takes A Tourist (Pictures)

        Coney Island Photos (Pictures)

        Sun Setting Over the Edge of the World (Pictures)

        Brooklyn Bridge, Lower Manhattan and Beethoven video  (Music Video)

        Dinner and a Video on the Staten Island Ferry (Music Video)

        Walk with Bald Punk up Broadway to Canal Street (Pictures)

        Peaceful NYC Waterfall Video (Music Video)

        Pictures From South Street Seaport (Pictures)

See Easy Site Navigation if you are new to BaldPunk.com

 (Photo by Bald Punk – Nutty Tourist Wading in East River)

On my lunch break I went to my favorite place in the entire world. Which, despite what I posted last night, is South Street. I’ll have more on that in the days to come.

Click  here for all the pictures I took of the nutty tourist above who mistook that tiny patch of land for a beach on the East River.

You had to see this guy. He lost a flip-flop and was trying to use a huge log to pull it back in, all the while holding a newspaper. I was certain he was either going to slip and break his neck or drown. Either way, I was ready with my camera.

Lucky for him, my lady friend called me on my cell. She yelled at muah about how polluted the water was and that he’d get sick. So I yelled at him. The bastard smiled at me, not understanding a word I said. So I yelled louder until he got out of there.

       These are some of the other photos and videos I posted this summer:

        Coney Island Photos (Pictures)

        Sun Setting Over the Edge of the World (Pictures)

        Brooklyn Bridge, Lower Manhattan and Beethoven video  (Music Video)

        Dinner and a Video on the Staten Island Ferry (Music Video)

        Walk with Bald Punk up Broadway to Canal Street (Pictures)

        Peaceful NYC Waterfall Video (Music Video)

        Pictures From South Street Seaport (Pictures)

See Easy Site Navigation if you are new to BaldPunk.com 

(Photo by Bald Punk – Lower Manhattan by South Street)

I’m not perfect.

I see homeless people on the street and think, should I give them money, pity, the cold shoulder, an evil stare that says “stay away?”  Is the way they are their fault or is it God’s, societies, bad luck or did a watershed event ruin them?

Then I turn away and forget them.

           This post is the third in a series. These are the first three in order of posting:

           New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

           Secrets

           We Are Knowing

I remember my high school biology teacher, Mr. Buegler, figuring out how much sperm a male could produce in a lifetime. As impossible a feat as that was, it seems as difficult to calculate all the homeless one might pass on the streets in NYC over an extended period, especially when you tend to look right through them.

(Dick Buegler/Painting  by Sarah Yuster)

Though I did meet one unlucky soul that I’ll always remember.

It was a few years back when I was killing time on the promenade that runs along the East River by the Brooklyn Bridge.

It was a Friday evening, and I was going to meet some friends at Jeremy’s Ale House on Front Street. It’s one of those bars decorated with drunk-women’s underwear. You’d probably like it. I’m not saying that because most people on the Internet are perverts. I’m saying that because it’s a fun, forget-about-everything type place.

(Jeremy’s Ale House)

So there I was sitting on a bench near the Bridge. Man-oh-man am I handsome–then and now. Though at this time I had a nice quaff of blond hair, and was a touch slimmer.

I can’t remember what I was thinking, but it’s not like I’m Einstein. Beer, food, girls, music, books, do I have an illness I don’t know about – take your pick. It was one of those.

Come to think of it, I must have taken a reality break and zoned out. Because I didn’t notice this homeless guy until he was two feet in front of me. He was leaning on the railing, seeming to be absorbed by the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge.

(Brooklyn Bridge/Manhattan Bridge – Photo by Bald Punk)

He had on heavy woolen trousers and a shirt. Both looked like they could last for years without a wash. His hair was stringy and flying with the breeze, but it wasn’t dirty or tangled. It seemed he had just arrived from bum-hell or out of a homeless fashion show.

More importantly, he was a little too close to me. I wasn’t happy. But before you go hatin’ on me, you have to understand, in NYC a person has their own space. When it applies to an encroaching  homeless person, it expands two or three times. It’s a safety thing. Plus I don’t want to have to smell them.

Sorry. But you know I like to be honest with you. I won’t lie to you like your Congressman.

Btw, if this guy smelled, I didn’t notice. But he was totally bonkers. He was talking under his breath, a mishmash of half-sentences–gibberish.

When his gaze jumped my way I gave him the ‘deadly-serious, stay-the-f away stare. I’m not Gandhi. Plus, as you know, when I do shit for mankind, it’s spontaneous.

That’s how I’m wired.

But I decided to vacate the bench, while thinking things like: was he born to be homeless? He seems more nutty than drug addled? He was probably born to lose?

Then I heard him say something that I thought was directed at me. He had said, “Born that way.”

“Born that way,” I repeated just to see that I heard him clearly. He nodded and my body kind of pulled inward at every perceivable angle. “When?” I asked, the word slipping past my lips, but somehow it was the right thing to ask.

“Two hours ago.”

“You were born two hours ago?” I asked and looked up at the criss-crossing steel-cable of the Brooklyn Bridge, amazed that this guy could read my thoughts.

He didn’t answer.

(Photo by Bald Punk)

“I built that,” he said, his tone a little less nutty as he also set his eyes on the bridge.

“You built the Brooklyn Bridge, and you were born two hours ago?”

He turned with a razor-sharp glare. A shiver ran through me.

The wool clothes he wore seemed from another time. They had a utilitarian style, that is to say, they were made to last as I had first thought. The bones of his face were heavy and pronounced. You’d break your fist on his jaw.

“Fifteen minutes to live,” he muttered, and his eyes darted to a row of old, red brick buildings across South Street. It was where the Fulton Fish market used to have offices.

In seeming response to something he saw, he muttered angrily and walked off. His shoulders were hunched though he had a wide, powerful back.

Now why I didn’t get up and go after him is a mystery to this day. I really couldn’t move (this is something I’ve experienced more than once). I watched him trudge along until it hit me that he was going to walk right into the traffic lane.

Finally, I “came to” and sprinted after him.

One of those big-and-tall tourist buses with a large glass windshield was coming up the street. It never slowed as he walked right in front of it.

I winced at impact. It slammed into him and he went flying. There was no damage to the bus, which kept right on going. All while the homeless man hurdled through the air.

He vanished.

I was terrified and needed to vomit. I loathed myself for how I had felt toward this man.

I turned again to the red-brick fish market offices across the street. Someone stared at me from a doorway. I had the feeling, he had seen the accident, too.

 (Photo by Bald Punk – South Street)

If I wasn’t terrified enough, in the window above this man, I saw the homeless guy again. He waved to me, and clear as day, I heard him say:

“Two hours and fourteen minutes to live.”

I took off though not before I stole another look at the guy on the first floor. His head was narrow and elongated, and he had a beady-eyed, intense stare.

He wasn’t human.

To be continued . . .

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Fourteen – August 2009

New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

Secrets

We Are Knowing

LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES

We’re on a Road Trip to Home Depot (Secrets Interlude)

THE IMMORTALS

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(*Photo by Bald Punk)

<< Click here for photos that I took at Coney Island last May >>

Here’s what happened that day:  Ghost Breath of Coney Island

—-

I will have more of Episode Fourteen soon. So far it includes the below three posts.

        New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

        Secrets

        We Are Knowing

–

*When I looked at the home page this evening I thought –  no more photos with the freaking sun in them!

Sorry!!!

See Easy Site Navigation if you are new to BaldPunk.com

(Photo above and video below by Bald Punk)

(Brooklyn Bridge, Lower Manhattan, and Beethoven -  ”Symphony No 5 In C Minor”)

The footage was entirely shot from the South Street Seaport mall.

Me, my lady friend, and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys love hanging out on the deck that wraps around the upper floor. We go there and have some bevos in their nice lounge chairs — and chill big-time!

It’s a great place to soak in N-Y-C! You can really channel the city’s soul from there. If you’re a tourist I would put it on the list of place to go.

<< Click here to see the pictures I took that day >>

The music in the video is Beethoven’s Symphony No 5 In C Minor from the Immortal Beloved soundtrack. Of all the Beethoven discs I have, it’s my favorite. The recording of Ode To Joy is to-die-for!!!  The movie is one of my favorites, too.

My camera is a Sony DCR-SX41. It cost $300 and I’m happy with it.

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