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