bart plantenga dedicated to the memory of Christine Bullard Lydia Tomkiw & Blandine Brochet Copyright ÂŠ bart plantenga
BARNCOTT PRESS LONDON - AMSTERDAM - PARIS - NEW YORK
NY Sin Phoney in Face Flat Minor!
About the Author!
“NY in spring is backtalk & edgy. Attitudes leaking from cooped-up psyches.” - Guy Trebay
The Unloaded Camera Snapshots were launched as an exercise to document the “snapshots” of everyday life in Paris. & continued upon my return to NYC. & continued upon my moving to Amsterdam. The exercise consisted of “taking” at least 1 “snapshot” per day. This proved not totally successful so I also used snapshots from other time periods. I, like other New Yorkers, became “inured to the ravages,” as Flora Lewis described it, “around them they scarcely notice anymore.” This deadening of senses & morality allows us to believe we’re outwitting our environment. The Unloaded Camera Snapshot idea documents “snapshots” of everyday life at a rate of 1 per day. These zen blinks, pop flashes, heated moments, & satori-sloshed sidewalk haikus re-pollinated my existence with the fecund details of the quotidian. I was already wandering anyway, taking cues from Thomas Wolfe, Poe, Henry Miller, Jose Padua, using my third eye as a macro lens & suddenly noticing things again. It was like Robert Frank meets Saul Leiter in a loud Lower Eastside dive &, ultimately, in a fit of bravado, they smash their cameras & triumphantly take up pens instead, ultimately registering the magnified thereness of the world’s unavailability. As A.E. Housman pointed out: “Having drunk a pint of beer at luncheon, I would go out for a walk. As I went along, there would flow into my mind, with sudden & unaccountable emotion, sometimes a line or 2 of verse, sometimes a whole stanza...” bart plantenga
“Play it in plain C, I’ll flatten it out myself.” - Bert Lahr
NY Sin Phoney in Face Flat Minor
1. Shelf Full of Ashes The canister containing the cremated remains of his friend was heavier than I thought it’d be. The ashes coarser too, not at all like face powder. “Rosehill suggests a more substantial urn for permanent preservation.” “Naaa!” YS retorted, “He’d’ve wanted it this way, like a can of soup. Just add water.” Then he showed us the shelf over his bed. Reserved for the canned ashes of future dead friends. “& 1 day the shelf’ll get so heavy, it’ll come down off the wall & kill me, an avalanche of my friends’ ashes & someone’ll put a can o’ me on their shelf.” 2. Trash Is My Swirl The trash blew every which way, at once dense & deep. 1 had to be on guard for flying junk. Walk blocks with eyes squeezed shut & feel around for railings, handholds, brick walls. A scrap of newspaper that blew into my ankles said simply: “HELL”. Just 3 blocks from where 4 jewelry store employees were gunned down just yesterday. Where a man sneered at the brimming garbage can & called it “bitch.” Then knocked it over as if it were some irritating human or maybe an ex-wife. Kicked it once, twice, just to be sure she was “dead.” & then climbed inside her.
3. The Utility of Poetry JP was always busy escaping the very words that were bothering him as they lit the way to something more frightening. Ah, go ahead, call it revelation. He & I had the mixed [mis]fortune of appearing in “The Year Of The Poet II” in Downtown. I was walking up 1st Avenue a few days after his issue hit the newsstands & spotted a woman following the butt of her squatting, indecisive mutt, ready to shove a newspaper under him to catch what was to be 1 of those classic dog turd swirls, which instantly remind you of Dairy Queen in the 1970s. I stopped to stare – usually not a smart thing to do – unless you show affection for her mutt. & that I did & saw that the very page of Downtown she had used was indeed JP’s & there was his name in bold 30-point type right next to the dog turd swirl held in a kind of makeshift crumpled page tureen that she places carefully atop the overflowing mound of garbage in the twisted, rusted, city trashcan. 4. The Fit of a Sweater I meticulously folded the sweater my mom had knit for me 1 Christmas that I never wore like I’d seen them do in Soho boutiques. I placed it next to a trashcan on a gift box with the idea that it was winter & maybe a homeless man could use it. A week later I saw a guy wearing it & it looked pretty good & thought maybe I should tell him that my mom had knit that sweater for me! & that I wanted it back! But how could I get it back: jump him, bribe him, coerce him, or embarrass him? Tell the cops? I don’t know. Maybe just take a picture of him instead. Send it to my mom. Yeah. 5. Head in a Jeweler’s Window I stood in front of the Madison Avenue jewelry shop window, under the awning, out of the rain, shivering a bit, holes in my sneakers, mind wandering; it was late but was it too late to right wrongs with something as inept as jewelry? & they had already removed their jewelry from the velour busts & displays & into the vault. & I was left there staring at this phantom display, the faded velour, taupe bust, upon which the ghostly reflection of my head fit perfectly. 6. Hand Gun Porno The 2 men hovered over the glossy magazine, rifling through its pages feverishly, periodically letting out an “Oye!” & then, “Wow!” & on & on. I leaned into them, & over my shoulder expect to see the swimsuit issue or a smiling set of dream-drenched 38Cs, or hyper-bronzed bazoombas of perpetual awe. But instead I am staring at this glossy spread called “NEW GENERATION HANDGUNS.” & the 2 huddled in even closer, shoulder to shoulder, snickering & elbowing 1 another, imagining what they’d do with their very own “new gen” 38s. 7. Vocorder Sinatra for a Token The bus driver is singing a Sinatra tune through the synthetic larynx vocorder implanted in his throat as we sit in traffic due to crosstown back up due to construction on the West Side. “I am determined to get you to our destinations on time,” he announces. “if it weren’t for all these selfish beanbags blocking the intersections.” He sounds like a robot from a 1950s movie as he returns to his Sinatra: “You’ve gotta accent-chu-ate the positive, eli-mee-nate the negative, bum bumbum bum ... spread joy up to the maximum, bring gloom down to the minimum ...” or maybe somebody singing through an old bean can. & as we start to move again a few of the senior citizens are truly inspired & want to join in with the chorus or at least tap along with their walking sticks & it ends up being the most joyful waste-of-time bus ride any New Yorker has ever enjoyed.
8. Banging the Trees Every time the sanitation guys finish sweeping, the breeze drops more leaves as if trees are capable of spite. The maintenance crew is tired of the wind making fools of them & finally they seem to have come up with a solution. First they try shaking the slender trunks of the young saplings not yet 10 years old like they’re wringing the neck of an ex. “Pain-in the ASS!” But this produced mixed results. The leaves just weren’t letting go. So – this is “fuckin’ ingenious!” to quote their own assessment – they take their brooms & begin banging on the branches until the trees surrender a few leaves, then more leaves & finally all of their leaves & a sense of accomplishment, triumph even, settled in over them as they smugly bagged the last of these “pain-in-the-ass leaves.” 9. Safe Sex of the Passersby We pass 1 another with umbrellas open. Mine grazed hers – spoke into nylon – & hers grazed mine – spoke into nylon. This interaction causes our 2 umbrellas to spin in, & almost right out of, our hands like gears that mesh for just that 1 ecstatic instant. The torque & tremble of the handle represents her effect on me. I glance over my shoulder at her glance darting over her shoulder. The sensation of recognition like the pang of regret of something that could’ve been, or like discovering an old photo of an unconsummated love in a racy novel, as we each head into our own perilous shimmering intersections along 5th Avenue, is palpable although difficult to describe. 10. Killer & the Happy Trigger I am waiting for a bus that will probably never come as a gaggle of hooded gangsters-in-training shuffle by, pimped to a huff by their mislaid promise. The 1 with an enhanced sneer asks: “You wan’ dope?” I say “I don’t need any, thanks.” Maybe they misunderstand “thanks” for something else such as dicks, chumps, or franks, because suddenly 1 of them bolts out in front of me, jerks something out of his coat, aims it at my head & fires – “POW, POW, POW!,” blowing smoke from the “barrel” of his finger, which he held triumphantly over his head, now snickering. “I hit-chu & you messed up BAD.” They all chuckle so hard it looks like their necks are retracting & protracting from their torsos filled with clutter. “Real BAD!” YukYuk. & my departure blossoms inside them as an instant of misbegotten triumph on a diet of dubious presumptions. 11. The Whispered Gun Threat TW whispers his barstool confession; I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It sounds familiar like a movie trailer. “I been denied the dignity of even a rebuttal” by the Village Voice! He called it a personal attack on the thing he called his “person” by the music editor who is evil. But as all good hubris-bound paranoids, he quickly reupholsters this entire incident as somehow political, which allows him to justify threatening this much to famous guy with an AK-47 he may or may not have had access to. The editor, “revealing what a pussy he truly is,” promptly got a protection order against TW. I was wondering: “Don’t you think it’s weird that your playing the very macho game you so seem to despise in your writing?” “Not at all! Sometimes the only language people understand is that of a gun. Armed insurrection has its perks. You blow away the jerks.” It all sounds like a tagline to a movie he’d once panned – in the Voice – & was recycle later when suddenly he was going to save the world from itself as a stand-up comedian.
12. Towering Above BF has a birthday party that slid off the shoulder – no, really – its going totally giddy with booze & expressive swinging of bottles, the candles flickering from the various martial art moves of her soon-to-be ex. & then we hear POWPOWPOWPOWPOW! Silence. Some say they heard 4 blasts. SM says “It’s prob’ly just somebody watching reruns of Hawaii Five-O.” I hear 5 shots 12 floors up in that gleaming tower on I don’t know what street downtown. We quickly explain it away, fold it into our mythologies, poo-poo it – probably firecrackers, a blow out, a truck backfiring, balloons ... Yea. & then her soon-to-be ex – he’s nameless – went down for smokes & more beer. When he returns he is pale but almost smirking: “It wasn’t a truck; it wasn’t firecrackers!” His hand holding his forehead. “I knew it,” someone else declares. OK, finally we hear it, it was gunfire. The Arab grocer right there on the corner shot 2 armed robbers. We gaze down; cops have already roped off the scene with that flimsy yellow tape the police use. 13. The Last Leg of a Sip As I get to the bottom of my beer, I find myself suddenly mesmerized by 3 housefly legs floating in the backwash – “Typical Musca domestica,” some wise guy notes. “The family Muscidae...” – how many legs had I already swallowed? 3! “They taste food & beer with their legs.” “Aren’t they from the same family that makes the wine – the Muscadet family?” The guy laughs – the guffaw of contempt – because he pegs me for ignorant but I was just being funny. No, really. It is a good beer, so I simply gulp around the legs, wanting to point out to my bar mates that these legs look a lot like little scull oars festooned with delicate, decorative gossamer fringe. Or, what the heck, I’ll just gulp everything down, fuzzy legs & all; keep track of the after-effects; that’s me, honest & courageous to the last. 14. The Macaroni Church I thought of progress & the purchased anxieties that shape its dénouement at the flea market. I remember a time when pasta was macaroni & hair salons were barbershops or beauty salons. I also remember the filigreed, ivory sculptures in the homes where my mom worked as a cleaning lady. You saw the too-much time involved, the intricateness & thought why bother? & now, here I am facing a woman pink in the face as an adverse effect of the constrictive confines of the excessive contours that define her extrapolated body; she wheezes – body as perp, as strangler – showing me her macaroni sculpture on a slab of particle board made with Elmer’s glue & gold spray paint like she’s just outdone Rodin or something. “It’s easy,” she notes. “It’s s’posed to be a church.” &, totally against all instinct, I suddenly feel sorry for this lady & wasn’t that just big (or petty) of me. 15. Belly Buddha Sideshow Her name for SA was Baby Buddha, & he was just what or whom she needed: A nice guy with absolutely NO pretensions. None. As an adopted kid he was anything but anchored, focused or anything that had to do with holding onto the earth to comprehend it. But he means well. As a Hansom cab driver with a top hat balanced precariously on his bird nest hair he looks like something plucked from Dickens. & he’ll give you a quick careening through Central Park & along the way tell you he used to be in shape – karate, stuff like that – but he is currently fascinated by his passage into a new phase: that could be kindly referred to as his Baby Buddha phase. Watch SA eat! & watch him balance a beer goblet on the upper ledge of his belly. Let’s have a generous hand here for SA. & watch how the girls take to this cuddly Teddy Bear. He also talks to his horses & feeds them giant carrots, carrots he claims are better than carrots fed to humans. Sometimes to show his
affection for CB he’d bring her a grimy paper sack of horse carrots & peel them for her in her kitchen with his pocket knife. 16. Prosthetic Poetics I edit poetry anthologies written by school kids. Poets go in as last-stab oracles into a system that breeds dreams that crumble on contact & open kids up to the secret sides of their squashed selves. Sometimes they expose too much pain, torment & domestic violence – they write that they want to kill their keepers – & this requires editing because, as my boss puts it, “You can’t have them bite the hand that feeds you.” In the course of “learning to touch the truth inside” kids learn to replicate introspective backdrops, flatter the expectations of administrators, teachers, & parents by writing about hope, butterflies, drug-free success, sunflowers bursting through cracks. They have an innate sense of the brittle constitutions of their elders & so they learn to flatter them. These efforts are generally too little too late & not really meant to save kids from despair so much as allow adults to congratulate themselves. In any case, you suspect the kids save their most unutterable depths of despair for games where they blast & choke hopeful innocence in funny & disturbing ways on playgrounds & dusty lots. 17. Rolling Hot Wheels The kid, dressed in the same war camouflage worn by a father he does not know, slaloms toward me through litter & glass down the wheelchair incline, with a sneer in the shape of a cleaver scar. He turns to me & says, “Que pasa?” Like a knife thrust or something meant to deflect a punch. I ignore him & so he zooms out ahead of me on his skateboard, turn around & yells, “You DISS me, I kill you!” Looking through the aim sight already mounted inside his head, in a menacing voice that sounds way beyond the ken of his 8 years. 18. Sexy Poet on White Piano I notice that Fred McDarrah’s photo from 1962 looks just like a photo from 1992. Somehow life had stopped being better although everyday drabness seemed less of a heroic imperative to overcome back then. The best photo in the exhibit features Diane DiPrima, who, AV notes, “musta been 1 hot babe,” in 1959, perched on that white piano in that cafe, her white slender-fit chinos highlighting her every muscle & lithe portion of leg & ankle, wrapped in Roman sandals, twined around themselves. I stare & stare, contemplating self-hypnosis as some new emerging photographic technique that would allow me to enter the photo & ask her/you whether poetry readings at the Gas Light Cafe were magical back then & whether you still stood behind the lines: “w/out imagination there is no memory” & “history is a living weapon in yr hand.” 19. Street Talk Chump Hooded boys slouch in front of the Brooklyn Public Library, clinging to some things they thought they knew about each other & using those details to small down one another & in the little league of criminality reaching for bigger bats. They bask in their collective menace, cultivating the yuks that accompany the jollies from how passersby break stride & walk way around them. & the short 1 with sideways crunkled visor cap in the gang that has committed numerous gleeful atrocities – bending bike wheels, pushing girls off swing sets, smoking evil weed – was proud that some were considering him important enough to want offed. It made him feel bigger than he ought to have ever felt at such a young age – like a boy on stilts for the first time. He’s a somebody precisely because they wanted to make him a nobody. He bragged & gloated until sunset.
20. Passing Passive The man stumbling along Bedford stopped, looks perplexed, like he is staring at his stunt double about step into his scene. His arms reach out to the sky, then to me, declaring: “I love you, I love you!” His arms reaching out so boldly that his entire body seems to follow his arms on their way to embracing me. That he falls short of his goal with a pacifier in his mouth that he offers to share with me did not, in my mind, undermine the veracity of his enthusiasm: “It’s a good 1 I stole from a real baby.” 21. Bomb Shelter of Mind MB, home late, whispers into my ear: “Something happened on the way home,” from the whatever club on the A train. She can now laugh about it because we all have to laugh at the indignity of the incomprehensible sometimes. This guy, deep inside the bomb shelter of his mind, went crazy at the West 4th Street stop & started spitting in her hair. “You do know about the new vaccine-resistant strain of TB goin’ around?” Suddenly it wasn’t so funny anymore. We are laying there in bed & you can feel when people are just lying there not asleep when suddenly in the middle of the night she gets up to wash her hair, scrub her pillowcase with a hard brush. Wipes her whole body clean with an alcohol-based skin cleanser & tosses the wash cloth in the garbage. The next morning she furtively stuffs the sopping pillowcase into a plastic bag, takes it with her to dump in a trashcan far from home, which will soon be carted off to Staten Island where she has never had any desire to go anyway.
22. Dialectical Vulgarianism Crossing in a daydream, I suddenly noticed a Camry barreling toward me like a Kamikaze. The light was red & traffic was backing up. But it did not stop, horn blasting as I leaped out of its way with the elegance, it thought, of a toreador. “Come on! You gotta red light!” She stopped short, turned down her radio; “Get the fuck outa my way!” I walked back to her car with surprising composure; “Where you goin’ now? Nowhere. Stuck, like you deserve. Besides, I’m a pedestrian in a crosswalk...” “Fuck You, sauntering so arrogant across the street!?” “I wasn’t sauntering, I was dreaming.” “You’re a fuckin’ asshole.” “I pity the guy who wakes up to you in the morning.” “Fuck you, I live alone.” “No wonder.” “Fuck you, asshole, your kind I don’ need in my morning.” & then I noticed my fly had been open the whole time & I was unsure whether this fact had bolstered or undermined my argument. 23. Drive By Shoot MB is French & asks me, “What is that thing they do in Los Angeles when they ride in cars & shoots at people?” “Drive-by shooting?” “Oui, drives-by shooting.” That’s what happened to her boss, an up & coming young fashion designer, in Soho, on West Broadway, near Brentano’s, 1 early Autumn eve. “THEY shoot at him & then drive away quick. They miss him by this much only.” She held her arms apart. “3 feet?” “Oui, he was true shaken up.” But it wasn’t because it was him so much as the fact that he was just any him at that moment, like a tic independent of anything we might call the sympathetic nervous system.
24. Rat Brake The young plump mom with hair like a haystack on fire, pushes the baby carriage past the family court building dark & wet with rain, until she notices something on the walk is impeding her progress. She pushes & curses, pushes & curses but this doesn’t help. The carriage is busted or is it the brakes? In any case, she is stuck. It is only after she backs up, walks to the front of the carriage & squats there that this something of a lump stuck to the front wheel that is impeding her progress & is ruining her morning becomes totally clear – a dead rat splayed out on the walk, wrapped around the wheel like a mink stole for a Barbie. 25. Cubist Fashion Tourists The plump woman from “over there,” Bridge & Tunnel, where walking is just not done unless its power-walking, is wearing a tee shirt emblazoned with thick raised gold letters: I’M ON A SEAFOOD DIET: WHEN I SEE FOOD I EAT IT. The shoulder pads inside her tee shirt look like falsies that have mischievously & of their own accord drifted from their appointed perch under her sad bosom to the top of her shoulders now performing as shoulder pads. In any case, foam lumps that make her look more like a roughed-up football player about to be cut from the team than a woman about to conquer Greenwich Village with her guidebook rolled in the palm of her hand. 26. Crimes Of Fashion LH said her “monster”, her hubby, her soon-to-be-ex, got into a fight on the A train after somebody criticized the sartorial decisions he’d made that morning. Ironically, it must be stated, he’d always chosen his clothes to heighten his invisibility; tailored but nondescript, ensuring carefree daily passage. So, when he confronted this no 1 who had forgotten his way to becoming someone with a certain snooty indignation, this someone yanked out a knife of some persuasion. Whereupon hubby yanked out a knife of even greater dialectical persuasion. & so, here they stood, face to face, knife glimmer to knife glimmer in the rush-hour throng, on a speeding A, ready to puncture flesh in the name of hot couture. 27. Virgin Behind Bars The Church of the Nativity on 2nd Ave. sometimes leaves its doors open as wide as Mary’s cracked ceramic arms with hints of exposed rusty skeleton. You can usually find her propped in the doorway there on the cement stairs. & who carried her out there every day? Did he believe he’d get good accommodations in heaven this way? The nativity scene has a lush, velour interior & is, unlike the Virgin, pristinely preserved because it is located behind a locked gate, preventing the faithful from getting too close. Too many Marys had disappeared or been damaged. Too many without shelter had sought refuge here. Too much trust had been costly & unwise. So, the faithful leave their flowers on the sidewalk where they are soon trampled upon by the unheeding hordes who go this way & then later, that way, never noticing The Mary Behind Bars. 28. Nice View If You Can Get It At the Slope party it was too hot for anyone to even think of acting like they weren’t themselves. “Where’s the slope in Park Slope?” I keep asking, figuring witty has something to do with repetition. But, annoyance or dignity prevents even 1 and all among the revelers from responding. & then I say: “Nice view” as I look up the ladder through the open hatch to the Brooklyn rooftop. But this sight is not beheld by me; it is I who is beheld by it – like a thorny stem held in the pinch of
a sighing schoolgirl’s hand. I nod, pointing up to NA’s legs as they extend out from under her skirt like burning branches with their embers tucked into a flame. & with each stoke & step, stars rise up to the sky to blend with the more distant ones. “Look at the broiling stars. Such a clear & glorious view. Beautiful ... beautiful.” 29. PeeWee On Mulberry It’s 8 AM Tuesday & Peewee, the mutt with curious patches missing from its dull hide, is already misbehaving. The surly-voiced old woman in a stained house dress of exhausted blossoms, with her elbows dangling out the window yells, “I see yuh got Peewee his coat.” The old lady on the other end of Peewee’s leash yells back: “Yea, yesterday we were freeeeezing. So, I got out his coat. Real leather. S’like winter comes earlier every year.” The wind blew headlines – TERROR ON MAD AVE: Couple Gunned Down In Posh Boutique – through our legs. She turns to her lingering PeeWee, leans over him to whisper aloud: “Come on, PeeWee! Wha’s mattah?! Come on, behave or I’m gonna lay into you like the last time.” Her voice tapering off & blending into a gritty breeze. 30. Fear Curdles Imagination Walking home from the reading, I feel that the glamour of the Fez, with its gold curtains & marbleized café tables has enlarged us beyond anything our words ever could. I embraced the 1 compliment – “I liked your piece” – I receive that evening like you would a stuffed animal saved from a dank basement. I repeat it over & over to maintain my high but accidentally walk right up the back of a woman under the dark Brooklyn trees. I, as this someone out of nowhere, who has startled her can feel her pangs of vigilance, that gastric leap of intestine into reverie, that quick fulleyed glance over the shoulder, that wobble & thump! of slate sidewalk, that faint tic of perpetual apprehension that releases gallons of acidic epinephrine into our systems to eat away at our most hopeful organs & will certainly prevent any niceties from passing across her lips. 31. The Hot Dog Of Contempt MB’s scrunched-up, funny stare was not for nothing: the hot dog in Downtown Beirut has been prepared in their microwave where we’d not long ago spotted extended cockroach families snuggling inside like refugees. The cooking times were taped to the oven’s door: FRANK 1 minute PASTRAMI 1 1/2 minutes HAM & CHEESE 2 minutes CHEESEBURGER 2 minutes CHILI 6 minutes. She gazes at the frank-on-bun made of something just like bread. She rotates the doughy missile in her hand to look at it from various angles because the bartender has treated it more like it was the plunger to unclog the toilet than something to eat, let alone savor. Its contemptuous crumminess was only mitigated by her hunger. It was raining outside & she had to have something in her stomach. Her bold gesture of hunger over precaution draws a very clear picture of her face. 32. I Am-Nesia MB walked all the way to work with the melody of the pucker that produced the whistle that made all streets & stairways sing – & a Bloomingdale’s bag full of potato peels, tins of month-old
Chinese food, love-stained cocktail napkins, nail clippings, mussel shells, unopened letters from a Congressman, & other items that stank, really stank. She walks this bag some 25 blocks all the way to work, where someone in the office asks her what she did this weekend. “MB, do you smell that horrific stench?” Whereupon it suddenly dawns upon her: She holds up the bag full of the weekend’s garbage. It just hangs there from her magnificent gesture for what seems very silent minutes. & this is how wonderful her weekend had been. 33. Slit Wistful Wrist The man sits cross-legged on the sidewalk, corner of St. Marks & 2nd Ave., predicting “In Watermelon Sugar” in the 3rd at Aqueduct, as if he is an extra in a crazy film they forgot to shoot. He claims to be a war vet – who doesn’t these days?! Not that it gets you much – & then turns & lifts his wrists to reveal 2 bloody, upturned sneers, offerings for us to inspect as 1 might a nosegay before a prom. The blood oozes down his arms in rivulets rippling to the beat of his racing pulse. I imagine him sitting next to me in Mr. Kenney’s 8th-grade Geography class, tracing the long slender coast of Chile. Is this what has become of meditation? Of contrition? The G.I. Bill? Humility & enterprise? No 1 drops coins into his cup because they prefer a beer to a lost cause like betting on a 3-legged racehorse named “In Watermelon Sugar.”
• The snapshots continue, 365 in all, available as a Kindle Edition from Barncott Press.
About the Author bart plantenga is the author of Beer Mystic, a novel that circumnavigates the globe in a unique pub crawl. He is also the author of the short story collection Wiggling Wishbone and the novella Spermatagonia: The Isle of Man and the companion to this book: Paris Scratch. His books Yodel-Ay-Ee-Oooo: The Secret History of Yodeling Around the World and Yodel in HiFi plus the CD Rough Guide to Yodel have created the misunderstanding that he is one of the world's foremost yodel experts. He is also a DJ & has produced Wreck This Mess in NYC, Paris & now Amsterdam since 1986. He would like to thank Chris Potash for publishing the original 16-page chapbook of NY Sin Phoney in Face Flat Minor long ago. *