Christmas at the O'Leary's and a Visit to the Joe Mure's Winter Wonderland- Organizations That Help the Folks in the Rockaways!

"Joe Mure, Jr." in front of his Christmas Miracle of Lights on his front lawn in Neponset

in the Rockaways, Christmas, 2008.

I took the night off for some fun and laughs.

I went to the digital scanner at Print Space and scanned 4 hours worth of images from my a couple of summer days spent with stripper acquaintances in a rented trash house of kids in Belmar, New Jersey.

This past Christmas I met newfound friends, the O'Leary Family and Joe Mure, Jr. live in Neposet in the Rockaways. I spent a wonderful zitti filling Christmas Eve in a spectacular home of the O'Leary's and a tourist visit to the well-known Christmas Toyland of lights on the front lawn of Joe Mure's home.

Every year, Joe Mure set's up the Little North Pole. He told me today, "It's a holiday event that has two purposes. One, to put a smile on ever child's face and leave them a memory that we hope to last a lifetime and two, to help a special group of children who need our help those that suffer from juvenile diabetes . Juvenile diabetes is a disease that affects millions of children. Our goal is to find a cure and stop the complications associated with this disease.

The O'Leary Family equally works hard for the underprivledged for the non for profit organization "Rockaway Jetty" in the Rockaways.

The description on their Facebook reads:

SINCE ITS INCEPTION, THE ROCKAWAY JETTY'S MISSION HAS BEEN TO IMPROVE THE QUALITY OF LIVES OF CHILDREN IN THE ROCKAWAY COMMUNITY.

WE DO SO BY PROVIDING: FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE FOR MEDICAL OR EDUCATIONAL NEEDS. TUTORING, SCHOOL SUPPLIES, BOOKS, CLOTHING, VACATIONS/CAMPS/DAY TRIPS, AND TOYS.

If you are interested in joining their fight, please, go to the Facebook page and learn more.

"Friends of the O'Leary Family" (names to come) in Neponset

in the Rockaways, Christmas, 2008.

I wanted to get these up so, soon I will come back with more and something to write about this.

Peace on Earth at any time of the year!

Hard Heels Meet Hard Times

"It's really hard for me right now."

"Yes, it's hard for everyone right now," she said. I nodded slowly like a sprouting kvetch.

"Dancer in Manager's Office at Runway 69", NYC, 1993. Juliana Beasley.
Notice money safe in background.

Last night, Amy and I met a the Singe Vert , one of my favorite French restaurants. I rarely eat there, with my tight wallet, I just can't spring for pommes frites like I once could, but I always manage to lubricate or drown--depending on the mood--my taste buds with a dry white wine or two. That's less costly than a meal in than any place in NYC with nice faux French caffe posters and no more than 5-6 points on the Weight Watcher's rector scale.

I can always depend on banter and a cackle with the stunning and down to earth, Maia, a bartender with lovely Caribbean curls surrounding her delicate face. For that moment, that first sip, I am in heaven, and the lure of a drink seems healthier than daydreaming about future negative predictions of me rolled in a sleeping bag on the streets of NYC next winter. I hope, at least, I will take the Greyhound out to the Cali coast before I tank, jump on a plane to Honolulu and go couch surf at my friend, Debbie's apartment.

I am queasy. I've been stuffing my face with bread all day...my first excuse to go to the restaurant and gobble down two baskets of French bread. I arrive at Singe Vert, sit on the bar stool near the open door, and take off my jacket.

"I can't drink," I say as if I am walking around with a gaping bleeding wound.

Maia offers a wonderful potion of seltzer, fresh ground ginger and the bitter stuff in the small bottle. With ice. I sip away and gorge myself away to the other place--Land of Carb Denial. Anything to fill that wound. By the time, Amy (yes, the Miss Amy Stein) has arrived, I have started to rock back and forth on my stool to build up some heat in my body. I'm chilled. It's the first signs of spring and people are sitting outside and the door is wide open. I think it must be 57 degrees out there.

"Jessica and Her Boyfriend", Jersey Shore, 1995?, Juliana Beasley

"We gotta' get out of here. I'm freezing."

She suggests the perfect anecdote, sake in a Japanese restaurant nearby and happiness, it's empty. Empty enough for my nauseous stomach. And better yet, happy hour--sake at half price.

After a couple of petite ceramic bottles of sake and the gush of my latest drama, my stomach feels a lot more basic than caustic. I tell Amy, that just last night, I went to the bathroom half asleep, then fell asleep on the toilet and awoke bruised on the tile floor. I'm really proud of this...that I fell asleep on the toilet; despite the probable indecencies, most nights, I can't find a reason to sleep.

John, her super duper husband (no, it's just not fair and accept it) arrives, we have gone through so many little bottles that we forget how many. One thing is certain, we feel a little giddy--that's normal in each others company--but, not in the least bit stoned. Yep, for $2.50, no matter how many thimbles, we drink, we still sit straight up in cushioned hideaway lounge in the back corner. I, however, now have a headache, rumble through my bag of notebooks, prints and pharmaceuticals and grab for those fast acting liquid Motrin.

John is hungry. Outside, we say good-bye.

"I miss you guys", I say. They walk away and I walk towards the Path.

As I walk away, I remember, I didn't bother to tell her, I chipped an important and private tooth that day while eating a bagel with tofu vegetable spread. I had already sent out the alarms to Tia. She suggests the cheapest place in town to go to have it repaired. NO INSURANCE.

I'm home. I turn on my non digital t.v. with the bent rabbit ears, go into the bathroom and fill it with a think layer of hot water to soak the feet. I have learned how to give myself a pedicure at home. One evening, the kundalini teacher named Gurmukh Khalsa at Golden Bridge Yoga inspired the class to massage and give love to your feet at the end of the day. She and her husband do it together, so, I begin to think I should start doing it to myself. I doubt it's the same as incense burning and lovingly looking into a partners eyes and chanting "Sat Nam", but this is all I might get for a while.
Days past of trolloping off to the East Village nail salon for a mani/pedi. Dancer days done, of scooping hands into a sock drawer reaching for crumpled twenties and dollar bills. Dancer days done, of never having to visit the ATM. Done.

"Dancer Sitting on Customer's Lap", Runway 69, NYC, 1993, Juliana Beasley.

I sit up on the coach. A towel lays beneath my tender freshly soaked feet. I grab for that callous razor, I bought the other day at Duane Reade. I teased and flirted with the cute boy with acne who led me to the foot section.

Yes, I had arrived. I am in the old foot person's section. My pedestrial future ahead of me. Callouses, corns, genetic features of bunions from mother, falling arches, in grown nails. The day will come when I will be a Sleestack.

"If I can't put this razor together, I'm going to come back and you can teach me," I said.

He smiled, said he would be there to help and actually, I thought he looked as if I had brightened his boring evening of stocking adult diapers and tampons, side by side.

April 3rd, 2009. The latest news. Senseless maniacal murders in Binghamton. How many of these murders happen a year in this country, I wonder.

I've done it again. I've applied too much pressure on the handle and the razor shaves off too much. In any case, I'm enjoying this, watching the slivers of flesh fall onto the towel in little perfect Parmesan shavings.

I wake up this morning, a dream fresh in my mind...I will go to esthetician school. I need a job. And in hard times, everyone needs their feet to be groped and coddled.

**I took the above B&W photographs in a NYC club called "Runway 69" back in 1993. I knew one of the dancers from the Paradise Club on 33rd St., also in NYC. I was still shooting in black and white before I moved over to color. I actually photographed very little over the beginning years of making "Lapdancer". I feel inspired to scan some of these negatives from the past.

I want to mention that I put these 5X7's up and 11X14's up for sale at Melanie Flood Projects for meager prices. No one bought anything.

Alas, the other night at the wonderful opening of Shen Wei's opening of the "Almost Naked" show (more to come on that....), dear Rubin Natal-San Miguel of the fab Artmostfierce bought two of the 5X7's that I toted along with me that evening to Randall Scott's Gallery, newly opened in Dumbo. And he has preordered another.

"Three Dancers in Dressing Room at Runway 69", NYC, 1993, Juliana Beasley.

Merry Christmas in Rockaway Park!

"Boarding House Garbage Cans",
Rockaway Park, NYC, Christmas, 1995?

Was it Winter 2005? I was offered to spend the holidays with several of my friends around NYC. I declined and instead went to go down to Rockaway Park for Christmas. I have an objective, find my buddy Butch. I haven't seen in at least over a year. I miss the man with the scratchy drunken voice covering up a heart, so innocent and kind.

Butch was out of sight. No one seemed to know where he had been.

The last winter, he was staying in a smaller than small studio in a boarding house. They like to call this particular house, a crack house. I've seen a lot going on there from booze to heroin, but crack never passed my way. I wouldn't be surprised. Often, I walk through fire and don't feel flames scorching my flesh.

Back then Butchie's friend had bought him a new vinyl lazy boy, dark shiny brown with swerves of black almost like some mutant pit bull. He sat on that chaired and flipped through the basic channels. She had bought him a new bed since the last one he had stained in feces after a long binge alone behind the padlock on his door. She had made sure that "Meals on Wheels" came to his place seven days a week to feed him twice a day on the weekdays and once on each weekend day. I can't forget when he showed me the platter of food stored in Styrofoam. He removed it from the refrigerator and opened the lid and told me with pride ever item in the container.

This friend, this very kind woman--I never met--she died of walking pneumonia at, I believe, no more than 50 years old.

The evening, Butchie found out, he had vodka dripping from his mouth like a fountain. There was nothing, but a quart of Smirnoff that could make any sense to him. Between deep guttural moans of mourning and spewed anger to those around him--he was out of his mind.

Butchie Under Covers, Rockaway Park, NYC, 1995?

That night I came to visit , he was surrounded by the fly-by-nighters, the ones that came when they needed a bit of cash from Butch who would give them money from his disability and VA checks hidden in cash somewhere who knew expect the ones who stole it.

A circle of friends attempted to comfort him, as he flayed his body around, while legs shook unsteady beneath him. He is beginning to show the signs of some neurological disorder...years of drinking surely had made things easier to tolerate, but soon enough would make him bound to a wheel chair. The last gasps of unjust anger faded away and off, he fell asleep, an inebriated calm baby under a half made bed.

So, Christmas...2005. One of the regulars at the Kerry Hill Garden's told me that he was staying at the Peninsula Hospital. It was a frigid day, I walked under the A tracks towards the water and found the Peninsula. Charlie was going to meet me there outside of the building. My cell phone rang and it was my girlfriend's nieces wishing me a Merry Christmas.

"Why aren't you here?", they screamed in unison. "Where are you? We wish you were here!"

"I'm fine," I said. I'm photographing for my project."

..as I imagined them sitting in front of a fire in Narragansett, Rhode Island. They probably were wearing fleece tops, bottoms and footsies to keep warm. I kept a keen eye on any gang life. I held tightly onto two wrapped presents, one for Charlie and one for Butchie.

"Don't go down there!", they said to me before I left the pub. There are a lot of gangs down there. I walked swiftly looking into the interiors of busted car windows and walked quickly over chard's of glass.

Charlie was waiting outside of the Peninsula, smoking a cigarette. I had never seen him dressed so fine. A sports coat, covered with a wool winter coat past his knees. His hair was brushed to the side and brilliantined. He appeared as a ghost vision of my father, quiet, reserved and respectful.

Charlie at His Finest, Peninsula Hospital, Rockaways, NYC, 1995?

We went inside to the reception desk....

"Hello! We are looking for Edward McBride.", I ask. Charlie stands beside me.

Continued next week.

And for now, let me introduce you to a local Rockaway's Organization called "The Rockaway Jetty"

You can learn more about there group on Facebook. Her are some of the things they do:

SINCE ITS INCEPTION, THE ROCKAWAY JETTY'S MISSION HAS BEEN TO IMPROVE THE QUALITY OF LIVES OF CHILDREN IN THE ROCKAWAY COMMUNITY.

WE DO SO BY PROVIDING:

FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE FOR MEDICAL OR EDUCATIONAL NEEDS.

TUTORING

SCHOOL SUPPLIES

BOOKS

CLOTHING

VACATIONS/CAMPS/DAY TRIPS

TOYS.

ETC.

THE ROCKAWAY JETTY RELIES ON THE INVOLVEMENT AND DEDICATION OF ITS MEMBERS AS WELL AS THE KINDNESS AND GENEROSITY OF THE COMMUNITY AND OTHER LOCAL ORGANIZATIONS.

THE ROCKAWAY JETTY IS A TAX EXEMPT, NOT-FOR-PROFIT LOCALLY BASED ORGANIZATION THAT IS DEDICATED TO HELPING PEOPLE "ONE NEED AT A TIME."

Sante Fe Project Competition 2009

The word is out on the street. This week Sante Fe announced the winners!

Of course, I must admit, I had been waiting for their decisions with great hopes until the end of last week, when that special e-mail didn't come my ways.

I would like to highlight two winners, Brian Ulrich who was one of three in the category of honorable mentions and Micheal Christopher Brown . Micheal made it into the Juror's Choice Award. Both very different in their styles but both hard hitting in their metaphorical imagery. These are images that need no words. And however, different the work is of both of these artists, they manage to depict the lonely aftermath of two worlds, so very far apart.

Brian's work always amazes me with is iconographic simplicity and irony. He puts the pieces together like a detective playing with legos, building and putting the pieces together, into a seamless truth. Economic crisis equals photographs of an ATM machine that's been ripped off a wall. Circuit City is nothing but a big red shadow of a building, remnants of a logo ripped off the exterior, with an empty parking lot...who will buy this monstrosity? Will it become someday soon a homeless shelter for those employees who lost their jobs there?

Brian Ulrich, from Dark Stores, Ghost Boxes, and Dead Malls.

Brian Ulrich, from Dark Stores, Ghost Boxes, and Dead Malls.

Micheal, where hasn't he been? Inquiring minds need to know!

Micheal has the artistry to create not only meaningful documentary work, but work that feel like sad film stills, pockets of colors alive in the loneliness of desolate landscapes.

He takes us to the lonely and abandoned Russian Island of Sakhalin. Small figures are in a burrow of white. The people and interiors are smothered in snow. Glass shields them.When I look at Micheal's work, I feel like I am listening to a sweet shushed and eery lullaby.

Micheal Christopher Brown from series, Journey to Sakhalin.

Micheal Christopher Brown from series, Journey to Sakhalin.

Micheal Christopher Brown from series, Journey to Sakhalin.

Check out the others at the Sante Fe Project Competition Page:

http://www.visitcenter.org/programs.cfm?p=ProjectCompetition

And by the way, I found out today that I made it with "Last Stop: Rockaway Park" in the 25 finalist group. Check us out:

http://www.visitcenter.org/programs.cfm?p=Project09Finalists

Never keep trying!

A Little Bit of Meat!

Sorry folks...

It's been a long week, turning into another one. I so want to please you all with fabulous stories with many typos written from the heart, stories starting from photographs to memoir. I often don't have the time to sit down and write the goodness you deserve.

So, this might happen here....just turn off the brain and turn on the You Tube for some easy mindless gobbily gook!

In the meantime....here's a beef burger on me and Billy Mays, served up to the classic boy school way.

Enjoy!

I Want to Make You Smile!

"Smile!", My father in his kitchen in Philadelphia, 1979.

In 1979, I was on summer vacation at my father's house down in Phillie. He lived in the same house where I had spent the first six years of my life with him, my Mom, my sister, Eliza and our two dogs, Abygail and Maxine.

He never left and he died there. He worked less than two miles away, a morning walk in the summer months. He worked the same job for most of his 67 years. When he wasn't working, he was out in his urban garden, growing carrots, watermelons and his prized tomatoes. The cherry tree of my youth had lived and died and came back to live several generations. He taught me that birds ate the seeds of the cherries and then pooped them on the earth and so, began another tree.

He spent his free time alone, drinking and reading several pulp fiction books a week. He had a girlfriend who conveniently lived in California. His life was simple; some might say dysfunctional too.

That summer, we had gotten into a fight. I had teased him with what, I can't remember. I had taken the game too far. I pulled out my camera.

"Dad, please smile! I'm taking your picture."

Once, my camera had the power to my father and everyone else smile.

There is so much to say about the relationship between my father and me, a far distant relationship, from New Rochelle, New York to Philadelphia, sheltering me with a sense of security, one of which I did not feel or share in my mother's home. There is so much to say...

I loved him. I loved him across, a cheap kitchen table, me on one side reading the comics and him on the other reading and smoking Pall Malls.

And I wonder why now, I have decided to write about it. Is it because I found a photograph of my father, scowling with arms crossed, in a manila envelope or is it because on the opening of my group show at Mazzeo Gallery, my mother's second husband, Peter arrived.

There is so much to say between these empty spaces between words. There are thousands of unsaid words. This is a bookmark in storage which these days is a receptacle of stuttered and garrulous words streaming through my brain rapid fire. I could write for days on end if I let myself. I could divulge ever pathology. But, not tonight.

I hadn't seen Peter in 12 years since my mother's funeral. Before that I hadn't seen him for another 12 years.

At the funeral, I remember him well-dressed and poised. My friend's mother remarked later that my own father appeared tired and gray. I wanted to shoot her in the head for her insensitivity.

Peter got up in front of the mourners and spoke an reverent eulogy...still strong in my memory and weak in this shell of a recount.

Thank you Peter for coming to my show. Thank you for your recognition. I always wanted that. God bless you too.

A Little Inspiration from My Heroes, An Ongoing Soap Opera!

Charice Pempengco

True genius! If you haven't seen these lovely girl belt it out....I'm begging you to do so! She has been a complete inspiration to me; even if, the media has picked her up as a pure oddity. Charice Pempengco is from the the Phillipines and made it all the way to the Ellen Degeneres Show.

How long will she last once she goes into puberty and loses her girlish supernatural voice?
Wouldn't it be great if she could sing a little Courtney Love?

Keep coming back for more inspiration from fabulous women and other gender types!