One day in December of 1996, I borrowed a camera from a friend and scratched up the money for film and went about the neighborhood of the Lower East Side (which includes The East Village and Alphabet City [or the streets labeled Ave. A, B, C, and D]).
At the time I think I'd just finished the first draft of The Losers' Club, which was then about 500 pages long. Just like the character in the book, I was a lost soul (just as I am today I guess). I was addicted to personal ads, which, back then, even more so than today were a crapshoot. I would answer anonymous ads in the back of The Village Voice or The NY Press and, without seeing pics or hardly speaking to these people, agree to meet with them. Sometimes they wouldn't show up, sometimes they would totally exaggerate who they were and how they looked. Many were as lost as I was. I married two of them. Both women, my ex-wives, are lost to me now, and, despite the declarations of eternal love at the time, these days I can hardly even remember their faces.
I guess you can say, love isn't much. Love comes and goes like half remembered dreams. Love is conditional (always). Love is not eternal, despite how much you might feel it in your heart at the time. We're all pretty much alone -- cursed that way -- and that's how we go out into the night. Although it's sometimes too depressing to dwell on that, so we need to invent a fantasy that makes life bearable. This might also explain why, for a straight guy, I've watched an extraordinary amount of romantic comedies, foreign and domestic, in my day. I've always liked happy endings -- shit that doesn't happen in real life.
Back during the 1990s, my favorite time in the East Village, I went to clubs like CBGB (on the Bowery) and The Pyramid (on Avenue A.) and The Bank (Avenue A. and East Houston) and Robots (Avenue B and 2nd Street) and GREENDOOR (later known as Coney Island High) on St. Marks Place, where you'd sometimes see a Hell's Angel or two (their headquarter was just a few blocks away on 3rd Street) or Joey Ramone sheepishly sipping a drink, as just a regular patron in the corner; there were an infinite number of dive bars, lots of used bookstores (even great commercial ones, like Tower Books, on 4th Street and Lafayette, which boasted, on the stairs, a huge laminated poster of Arthur Nersesian's then self-published novel, THE FUCK-UP (about the East Village in the 1980s); oh yeah, and there were movie theaters, like 12 of them in a 14 block radius, including Variety PhotoPlays, where you saw foreign films and cultish movies you saw no place else. Then there were parks and free shit going on all the time. Poetry readings at St. Marks Church. Bands who would put you on their list for free. With $10.00 in your pocket, you pretty much had enough for a good night out. You rarely needed more. Anyway, it was a fun time, and I tried to get it down in The Losers' Club; I'm not sure I succeeded, but maybe others will come along and do better, and write about that time. Because The Lower East Side then, was a very special place, and you could be poor and a misfit, Latino or white bread, straight, gay, pansexual or trannie ... or just plain whacked-out and it didn't matter, you had a little corner in the world where you could be, a place where no one passed judgment.
These pics were mostly taken in Alphabet City, all on the same day in December 1996. Murals are mostly an outgrowth of Latino Urban culture, a way to get fame or notoriety (as a guerilla artist). It wasn't only in the Bronx that you saw great wall paintings; the Lower East Side had them too.
At the time I think I'd just finished the first draft of The Losers' Club, which was then about 500 pages long. Just like the character in the book, I was a lost soul (just as I am today I guess). I was addicted to personal ads, which, back then, even more so than today were a crapshoot. I would answer anonymous ads in the back of The Village Voice or The NY Press and, without seeing pics or hardly speaking to these people, agree to meet with them. Sometimes they wouldn't show up, sometimes they would totally exaggerate who they were and how they looked. Many were as lost as I was. I married two of them. Both women, my ex-wives, are lost to me now, and, despite the declarations of eternal love at the time, these days I can hardly even remember their faces.
I guess you can say, love isn't much. Love comes and goes like half remembered dreams. Love is conditional (always). Love is not eternal, despite how much you might feel it in your heart at the time. We're all pretty much alone -- cursed that way -- and that's how we go out into the night. Although it's sometimes too depressing to dwell on that, so we need to invent a fantasy that makes life bearable. This might also explain why, for a straight guy, I've watched an extraordinary amount of romantic comedies, foreign and domestic, in my day. I've always liked happy endings -- shit that doesn't happen in real life.
Back during the 1990s, my favorite time in the East Village, I went to clubs like CBGB (on the Bowery) and The Pyramid (on Avenue A.) and The Bank (Avenue A. and East Houston) and Robots (Avenue B and 2nd Street) and GREENDOOR (later known as Coney Island High) on St. Marks Place, where you'd sometimes see a Hell's Angel or two (their headquarter was just a few blocks away on 3rd Street) or Joey Ramone sheepishly sipping a drink, as just a regular patron in the corner; there were an infinite number of dive bars, lots of used bookstores (even great commercial ones, like Tower Books, on 4th Street and Lafayette, which boasted, on the stairs, a huge laminated poster of Arthur Nersesian's then self-published novel, THE FUCK-UP (about the East Village in the 1980s); oh yeah, and there were movie theaters, like 12 of them in a 14 block radius, including Variety PhotoPlays, where you saw foreign films and cultish movies you saw no place else. Then there were parks and free shit going on all the time. Poetry readings at St. Marks Church. Bands who would put you on their list for free. With $10.00 in your pocket, you pretty much had enough for a good night out. You rarely needed more. Anyway, it was a fun time, and I tried to get it down in The Losers' Club; I'm not sure I succeeded, but maybe others will come along and do better, and write about that time. Because The Lower East Side then, was a very special place, and you could be poor and a misfit, Latino or white bread, straight, gay, pansexual or trannie ... or just plain whacked-out and it didn't matter, you had a little corner in the world where you could be, a place where no one passed judgment.
These pics were mostly taken in Alphabet City, all on the same day in December 1996. Murals are mostly an outgrowth of Latino Urban culture, a way to get fame or notoriety (as a guerilla artist). It wasn't only in the Bronx that you saw great wall paintings; the Lower East Side had them too.
Here's a guerrilla artist portrait. A bomber is a subversive artist, making his presence and political views known.
You can see the socialist roots in many of these mural paintings.
Avenue D, somewhere. A lot of abandoned buildings at the time. Free space for squatters and pigeons alike.
This beautiful squat was on 5th Street between Avenue A and Avenue B. I was watched it burn down during the Giuliani administration, during which nearly all the squatters were expelled from the Lower East Side.
This mural references the Black Panther's salute and the call for unity among racial minorities. It wasn't corny then; it was heartfelt and sincere.
Latino tendency toward darkness:
Death, skulls, and dreams (which are given equal weight to waking life) are unique Latino obsessions. But it's not a culture's idea of "being cool," which is how it's often misinterpreted .. it most likely stems from aboriginal roots.
Death, skulls, and dreams (which are given equal weight to waking life) are unique Latino obsessions. But it's not a culture's idea of "being cool," which is how it's often misinterpreted .. it most likely stems from aboriginal roots.
I dug this dragonfly. Thought it had a disco flavor.
These ladies are on St. Marks Place, just outside an ordinary apartment building. Hardly anyone seems to notice them and of course they hark back to a different era, when building artisans were true artists, and the idea of leaving behind something beautiful -- a legacy -- simply because it could be done (without any thought to profit), made perfect sense.
This one is on the right side of same entrance.
The mural outside the Yaffa Cafe. And it's still there, I believe. Ah, many a night did I have a sunshine burger at 5:30 A.M. at this place, after a night of drinks and dancing. Yeah, I loved to dance. (The Cafe interior design recalled John Water's Pink Flamingos, kinda.)
The ever-changing window display of Trash and Vaudeville, a punky clothing boutique on St. Marks. It's still there. (I mention it in Permanent Obscurity too.) Many times, I'd meet personal ad dates outside of it for the first time. On nights where I got stood up (remember there were no cell phones back then), I'd just go inside the store and try to pick up a date. Of course, I rarely succeeded. But once, one girl, who was a little high, invited me next door to the St. Marks Hotel, where she was staying. No sooner did she close the door behind me than she pulled a switchblade. When I told her I wasn't into "cutting," she got pissed. "Won't you let me try at least? Just a little gash?"
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| PERMANENT OBSCURITY: Or a Cautionary Tale of Two Girls and Their Misadventures with Drugs, Pornography and Death by Dolores Santana (as told to Richard Perez) Richard Perez's PERMANENT OBSCURITY on Amazon |
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IS THIS EXPLOITATION NOVEL RIGHT FOR YOU?
"Notebook" for the novel --> http://permanentobscurity.com/
I need to emphasize that PERMANENT OBSCURITY is not "erotica," although it has BDSM overtones (leaning toward so-called "femdom"). It's really a dark comedy about bohemia and the difficulty of relationships (female/male and female/female) and finally the big question for anyone in the arts (or in the tabloid media): sudden fame vs. permanent anonymity. The style of the novel is inspired by '60s over-the-top sexploition films like those of Russ Meyer (FASTER PUSSYCAT KILL KILL, BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS) and those Something Weird Videos, like A SWEET SICKNESS and BAD GIRLS GO TO HELL [so-called “cautionary tales”]) -- updated to the Bush era (circa 2006).
PERMANENT OBSCURITY: Or a Cautionary Tale of Two Girls and Their Misadventures with Drugs, Pornography and Death by Dolores Santana (as told to Richard Perez)
Written in the 3 parts:
PERMANENT OBSCURITY: PART 1 - THE KINKY HOOK
Whereupon we are introduced to Dolores and Serena and their kinky shenanigans.
PERMANENT OBSCURITY: PART 2 - STRANGE HUNGERS
Whereupon Dolores and Serena grapple with relationship/sexuality issues, life-threatening drug dealers, irreversible money woes. Culminating in a desperate attempt at making a so-called "femdom" film.
PERMANENT OBSCURITY: PART 3 - NO MAN'S LAND
Whereupon Dolores and Serena find themselves in a place not expected. Namely, hell.
PERMANENT OBSCURITY: Or a Cautionary Tale of Two Girls and Their Misadventures with Drugs, Pornography and Death by Dolores Santana (as told to Richard Perez)
¤*.¸¸.·´¨`°*» PERMANENT OBSCURITY: the title and where it came from --> http://permanentobscurity.com/perm-obsc-origins-title.htm
¤*.¸¸.·´¨`°*» The subversive power of sexploitation:
pre-porn era sexploitation and its influence --
http://permanentobscurity.com/perm-obsc-sexploitation-1.htm
¤*.¸¸.·´¨`°*» BAD GIRL CINEMA (and its influence on the novel):
http://permanentobscurity.com/perm-obsc-origins-badgirls.htm
Buy now from AMAZON (U.S.) >> http://www.amazon.com/Permanent-Obscurity-Cautionary-Misadventures-Pornography/dp/0971341540
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~: About the Author:
Initially published small literary magazines, Richard Perez has also written for The New York Times (a newspaper he doesn't read.) His first novel, The Losers' Club (aka: The Losers' Club: Complete Restored Edition) has three foreign translations to date: Korean, Turkish, Italian. PERMANENT OBSCURITY: or a Cautionary Tale of Two Girls and Their Misadventures with Drugs, Pornography, and Death — his second novel — also reflects his infatuation with bohemia and willful nonconformists.
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