My cousin Sammy decided to take the train into the city last Saturday and said, "Meet me at Magnolia on Bleecker Street at 2pm." I said, "Okay."
And then I thought, What the fuck is 'Magnolia?' What am I going there for? It is on Bleecker Street, so should I assume there will be angry music? Bleecker Street is where punk rock was born--not London, as everyone assumes. Punk is more American than apple pie. If you don't know what Bleecker Street is, I'm sure you've at least heard of some musical acts made famous at an establishment located at the cross streets of Bowery and Bleecker called "CBGB & OMFUG" or "Country, Blue Grass, Blues and Other Music for Uplifting Gormandizers" which has sadly closed. Unable to pay their rent, apparently. Jesus H. Christ. The acts include Blondie, The Talking Heads, Patty Smith and a band called The Ramones. If you don't know who The Ramones are, you are probably as uncool as me, which is sad. I'm a woman who once tried to spruce up her look by wearing her regular wardrobe inside out.
A quick net search of "Magnolia Bleecker" turned up a bakery. That seemed like an odd thing to put in the middle of a punk rock Mecca. I assumed that the cupcakes were punk rock cupcakes with skulls on them and then thought no more of it, donned my jacket and Ipod and headed out to meet my cousin.
You know, I'm not really a fan of punk. I suppose I like early punk; I mean, who doesn't like the Ramones? That's like saying you don't like cupcakes. How genius are they? We're talking about a band whose music was all about lashing out at corporotized, bloated arena rock and yet the music remains so accessible that its the commercial background music of choice for the we're-gonna-pretend-we're-hip, not-your-boomers'-boomer-backed-companies of the new millennium--and really, there's something fucked up about that. And I love their hair. But you can't judge any movement without considering what came next, and what came next out of this fresh music socialism was an army of conformists, dressing the same, tattooing the same, playing the same songs and violently raging against anyone who didn't look exactly like them. I doubt Marx was seeing Mao Ze Dong's China when he wrote his manifesto. The conformity made for a snore, with the exception the Bad Brains. Sakes alive, they're good. The Sex Pistols are terribly clever, and then there's GG Allin, who is just a lyrical genius. I'm sure there's more, but punks annoy me, so I'm endorsing these three and no others. You think I'm being close-minded, and in response to that I quote GG Allin: "Suck my balls."
Outside my building, it was sunny and a little warm. I was surprised to see a cop directing slow traffic at the end of my street, and soon realized it was Chinese New Year. The streets were blocked off, drums and streamers peppered the sidewalks and young boys in those elaborate dragon head trains pounced along usually busy thoroughfares. I was shocked when I ran face first into two whole white people, bonafide Caucasians; What are they doing in our neighborhood?, I thought. I nearly got reverse racist and told Guai Lo and his bitch to go back to Tribeca. You see, Chinatown is just that: China. I am the only white woman here. They're getting used to seeing me, so I'm a little less invisible, but I have to say the Chinese definitely keep it real. They hate us, and that energy is just hanging the fuck out there. This was further enforced when I was smacked in the head with a stick and called Guai Lo for trying to touch the pouncy dragon's tassels. You could say that's a hate crime if you wanted to, but whatever. I respect when people are honest. A black girl once slapped me for having blonde hair in my Sophomore year of high school, and I was really mad about it at the time, but now I don't care much. When have I ever had to pay up on being able to cash in my melanin every day because I'm the same pallor as Tinsley Mortimer?
[Never heard of her, right? Me either until I got here and heard her name everywhere. Its wild: Tinsley Mortimer is a Paris Hilton who has even less talent. How decadent is that? She's a cupcake!]
So after I was hit in the head with the stick, I sort of smashed my way up Bowery to Bleecker. I saw CBGB & OMFUG, now a dry cleaner or some such boring thing, I can't really remember. Upon turning onto Bowery I saw my first pair of Docs, and I was kind of excited. I don't know whether it was the history, the Docs or GG Allin, who was shouting "Girls, girls, girls, girls...gimme gimme gimme some head," into my ears, but I was kind of stoked to be on such a reknown street. I slowed down to take it in, and what I took in was a bunch of boutiques and hipster coffee houses. Um...where the fuck is the punk? I was a little baffled. I walked for many blocks, but couldn't find any. I did however find two upscale papiers, a L'Occitane and more boutiques.
The contrast was striking. GG Allin was in my ears with his "Give me a girl, I don't care who, 'cause drink fight and fuck, is what I'm gonna do," and try listening to that while walking past Victoria's Secret at the same time. It's impossible to keep a straight face...or soul.
Outside the Magnolia bakery, there was a line of women with soft hair and trendy wool coats. The air smelled of yummy cakes, and my cousin, who was exiting with a little box of confections as I walked up, brought the cake smell with her as she hugged me. "Want a cupcake?" she asked, and handed me off a vanilla one, heavily iced in blue. I took a bite of it and nearly spit it out. Holy sweetness! The frosting wasn't frosting; it was antifrosting, like Magnolia had a particle accelerator in place of a mixer, like two grains of sugar supercollided and made antifrosting that annhialated on my tongue in a white, hot mess of pure energy and God's love. I gave the rest to her boyfriend immediately. It was too spiritual a cupcake for me. Where would I be without my pedantic woobie of agnostic doubt? Enlightened, but that's neither here nor there.
We walked, talked and played with the dogs at the dog run in Washington Square Park. It was a lovely day, but again, I didn't see any punk rock. There was still a block of Bleecker left when I gave up and turned around, so I'm keeping the hope alive that punk rock is on that block. If any of you know where the punk rock went, I'd appreciate an email. It'd be better than the ones I'm getting from New Yorkers as of late. The "You don't know anything, the upper west and east sides are so much better than downtown" emails. I have yet to see that. I mean, where's your antifrosting? Why do your streets lie in easy to navigate perpendiculars? Would a Chinese guy ever knock you over the head with a stick for being White Devil on the upper east side? No, I think not. So suck my balls.
Posted by The Bunny at 1:36 PM