Jones Beach

Self-Employed Working Musician

One of the greatest things about being a self-employed working musician is that you have a lot of spare time. It's the old cliche--you're broke, but you're happy. Today I took a trip with two of my favorite fellow self-employed working musicians Daniel and Sueyoung out to Jones Beach.

Daniel and I had ridden our bikes out to Coney Island last week. So I was vaguely expecting more of the same bizarre beach flavor. But Jones Beach is a totally different vibe. You pay about $10 to take your car in. And you're going to want to bring your own booze--a Bud Light is $5.75 at the concession stand.

As we set out for the beach, I was immediately struck by the number of trash cans. Jones Beach was put together in the 1920s. I think it was a public works project. The beach is manmade--workers dredged up sand from the sea bottom and raised the island from 2.ft above sea level to 12 ft. Apparently after they got done doing this they had them start building trash cans. You'd have to be a real asshole to littler at Jones Beach. There's a trash can within 10 feet of you at all times.

The Waves

I'm used to Texas beaches. In Galveston, the waves of languid brown water lap plaintively at your feet. Or slap you playfully on the shoulders. Texas waves in no way prepared for what I encountered today.

It may have been partly luck, but the waves a Jones Beach today were totally righteous. Within the first 10 minutes I was utterly exhausted. These waves demanded my full respect and concentration. In a moment of hubris I tried to harness a huge breaker. It promptly knocked me head over ass. As I'm tumbling in the undertow I feel my arm catch underneath me. The wave continues pulling my shoulder forward. I hear the click of my shoulder getting stretched one notch too far in its socket. Luckily I had warmed up with some yoga this morning. Otherwise I might be looking at a dislocated shoulder. It did hurt like the dickens, though.

I then walked down the beach singing to distract myself from the pain in my arm. The waves taught me a lesson today--I'm too damn old to be doing that type of shit. Especially because I'm a self-employed musician and I don't have health insurance. I walked down to the West Bath House and contemplated my own mortality. Nature is amazing and powerful and she must be respected and appreciated.

Solitude and Space

At this point we made a run into town and grabbed some liquid pain relievers. Upon our return things started feeling very magical. We wandered off down the beach--walked in for probably 20 minutes and found an empty stretch. The closest person was probably 50 yards from us. And then she left. Suddenly we had about half and mile of beautiful beach all to ourselves. We experimented with shouting obscenities. No one complained.

Rule #1 of Bed-Stuy: Get the hell out of Bed-Stuy.

Seriously, this neighborhood is great--rich in history and culture. But only if you can escape every now and again. I feel like that's true of New York City in general. Going into the city is a lot like going into the direct sunlight. You need to take precautions or it can be incredibly over-stimulating. Most of the people who live here have built little train-shields for themselves--an iPod and a pair of sunglasses works pretty well.

As an artist and a writer this kind of goes against everything I've ever been taught. I'm supposed to be observant. I want to take it all in--pure seeing and so forth. But there's simply too much information. Sometimes your brain gets sunburned. Sometimes I need to get out of the city altogether. That's when I start jonesin' for the Jones.

As you can all clearly see, I’ve renamed my blog. “Hudblog” just wasn’t really doing it for me. So I decided to go with the slightly-more-enticing, “Bed-Stuy for the White Guy.” Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe I should replace the word “for” with its numerical counterpart. “Bed-Stuy 4 the White Guy.” Final Answer.

The current couch-surfer at the Kosciuszko Motel is named Roy Pilgrim. I met Roy out at the Kerrville Folk Fesitval. He has a traveling soul. He recently blew on into Brooklyn like a ramblin’ tumbleweed. He’s 16 years old and one hell of songwriter. Anyhow, Roy told me story at dinner tonight that I thought would be a perfect BS4WG blog. Want to hear it? Here it goes:

Roy: Have you noticed it’s gotten a little shady down on Stuyvessant the last couple days?

Hud: Really? That street usually seems alright to me.

Roy: So I’m coming home from that party last night. And I’ve had a little bit to drink. But I’m doing my city walk. I look tough. I’m ready to tussle. And as I’m coming past the projects, this black car pulls up beside me. These two dudes start walking toward the car. And I’m crossing between them and the car. So they see me and one of them says, “Let me get that guitar! I gotta get some rocks!” I just put my head down and start walking faster. But I can hear them behind me. One of the dudes is still yelling “I gotta get some rocks!” And it sounds like they’re pursuing me so I book it all the way to the house.
I get home and I’m all out of breath from running all the way down Stuyvessant. And I tell Jah Jah and Duane about it. Jah Jah’s eyes lit up. “Patrol!” he shouted. He and Duane threw on their shoes and ran downstairs.

Hud: Damn, just when you start to get comfortable up in this neighborwoods some crazy shit like that happens.

Let this be a warning to all of you Bed-Stuy white guys out there--just because it’s springtime and the projects look all beautiful and shit, doesn’t mean that crack heads will not try to jack you for your guitar so they can get some rocks.

"I Froze My Ass Off at Coney Island"

If someone had been selling that shirt yesterday I would have bought it. Especially if it was a sweatshirt.

Wednesday in New York City was hot. Not Texas hot. But the kind of weather you can wear shorts in. And I've been working as a rickshaw delivery guy for the last month. So I'm eager to show off my ripped up legs. Anyhow, I go to the bottom drawer and pull out all my shorts on Wednesday night. Thursday rolls and I proudly declare--"It's shorts weather again!"

And I was fine. I walked around the LES all morning taking photos (got a really good one of this dude getting sprayed on the head with a hose) and I'm perfectly comfortable.

Get back home and Evan has the idea to go check out Coney Island--"It's such a beautiful day. " We take the train out there (by the way, take the Q and not the F) and as soon as I stepped out onto the platform I knew I was royally screwed. It was at least 20 degrees colder than the city.

The wind was the real killer. I looked on as a chagrined bunch of beach bums tried valiantly to toss the frisbee. The seagulls were posting up in the draft, flapping their wings once every 30 seconds or so. And I'm hiding behind every obstacle I can find to block the wind. It was like shoot the freak. And I was the freak. And the wind was the masochistic carnival-goer with a dead-eye.

If you're looking for a freaky-abandoned-carnival-on-the-beach vibe, there's no place like Coney Island. But for chrissakes bring a jacket.

Pink Snow

I walk by these trees every day on the way to the train. Over the winter they lost their leaves, like good trees do. And they began collecting trash--grocery bags mainly. Occasionally larger items would find their way into the branches: a pair of sneakers, an unraveled VHS tape, casually discarded undergarments. It was actually sort of picturesque. I still want to use the lyric "land of the grocery bag trees" in a song. But I haven't found an appropriate place to put it.

Anyhow, over the past week something exciting has happened. The grocery bag trees have burst to life. It happened with great immediacy--overnight. The trees are in heat. And there is pink snow falling in the street. At the base of the trees there's a 4'x4' plot of dirt where the roots go. Usually this small plot of dirt is pretty unsavory: candy wrappers, broken glass, and dog-shit. The pink snow has begun collecting in these dirt-oases. It has covered up the dog shit. Watch your step.

You must take the J-train

Buddy if you want to go to Brooklyn