From the Shadowlands Haunted Places Index website (www.sjgr.org/haunted-places/newyork.htm), New York state section: –"New York City–Bay Ridge Apartments–Haunted by numerous spirits." –"New York City–Clinton Street Brownstone–Haunted by a young girl who died there." –"New York City–Hotel Des Artistes–This ghost likes to touch people." –"Manhattan–Brittany Hotel–Corner of East 10th and Broadway, Phantom music and lights, people hearing
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"Uhhhhhhh…I can’t feel my feet. I can’t feel my feet." Dopey laughter drifts out from the darkness in response. And then comes the harsh response: "That’s not because of the weed." Pause. "You idiot." And laughter. A million freezing light-years away… Actually it’s just New Paltz, upstate in Ulster County, at 3:45 in the morning,
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"The high council of Gor is a council of spiritual warriors that are part of the Hierarchy of Light. They’re spiritual beings. And that is the council that I am a Ritual Master on." Talking here with Sondra Shaye, founder of Park Slope’s Archangel Healing Light Center, where she offers a number of services and
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It’s amazing that the last political whimper of the late, decade-long era of apparently suicidal American complacency involved the question–inconceivable now–of whether illegal aliens from Mexico should be granted amnesty. Or, taking it further, whether amnesty ought to be extended blindly to illegal aliens from all the world’s municipalities, including presumably Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Algeria,
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Jersey Shore Diary Oh the rain keeps a-fallin’, as the great Freddy Fender sang… The point was Jersey coastal exploration. Alan Cabal had heard somewhere about a ghost town called Seabreeze, full of stray dogs, down there on the far side of the state of New Jersey, along the Delaware Bay. That part of the
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QUIK DRAW HOMELESS ARTIST 5 MIN. I DRAW YOU HELP HELP ME HELP. Check out the fallout from the New Economy meltdown. Get a load of this San Francisco youth begging for change on 7th St. in the South of Market neighborhood, cringing on the pavement, pop-eyed, clutching his sign: HELP HELP ME HELP. It’s
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By the summer of 1981, mid to late 70s townie civilization was expiring. With its stoners and its stoner jocks, with its shambolic, rusting sedans, with its macho denim slackers blasting Molly Hatchet from cassette decks, as the day cooled down into the weed-smell of evening, and all through the muggy afternoons guys polished their
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Back when I was a child, down at the fishing hole on a sultry summer day, my friends Skipper and Chucky and I used to cast our homemade lines into the black water, dangle our bare feet over the edge of the dock and sing a happy fishing song. "O friendly fishes, come and bite!"
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Mariana Sadovska amidst mushrooms–toadstools, moist fungi with umbrella-shaped caps. Sadovska, 29, is a Ukrainian singer who’s spending a year in New York as artist-in-residence at the East Village’s Yara Arts Group, and when she blasts into Ave. A’s alt.coffee on a torpid afternoon, it’s like someone’s just dropped a ruby into a crate of onions.
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What are these progressive ideas, Bernie? Nervous enthusiasm: "Well, okay, there’s a number." That’s Bernie–as in legendary subway vigilante Bernhard Goetz–over there folding his lean body into his chair amidst the shadows of a 14th St. apartment. Postwar tan brick building, one of those middle-class lux jobs on a still-dingy block, a stretch that sweats
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