Holly Northrop Blog

So yeah, the MTA strike. Wow, seems like some crazy distant fucked up nightmare but nope, I'm pretty sure it happened. I seem to remember walking to the WTC from the East Village, but compared to some folks, I have NOTHING to bitch about. Some people walked for hours and hours just to get home so they could go to bed, sleep and then get up and do it all over again in reverse. Yeah, right. And to those few bloggers/reporters/music critics that are fat and comfortable elsewhere in the country, vomiting up pearls of wisdom like, "Leave town, chumps." I say Fuck You. Most of us aren't sucking on the tits of daddy's trust fund pretending to be all grown up. Laughing and pointing at 8 million people is the most stupid thing in the world—chump.

Oh, Holly, it's Christmas.

Ah yes, but it is times just like the MTA strike, where I am walking and walking and walking while the truly unthinkable is happening right in front of me that I like to do a little thing called "Review". I have lived here for five and a half years and in that very short time I have witnessed, and on two or three occasions waded through: the WTC collapse, the Blackout, the Republican Convention and now the MTA strike. This city has amazing stamina and continues to make my jaw drop with its tolerance. I only saw a few instances of outright anger and violence over the traffic gridlock. Most folks knew that we were all just as fucked as the next guy. But walking along with a few hundred of my fellow citizens, the subway strike reminded me of the Blackout, which reminded me of the WTC disaster. Only this time it was Christmas and I needed to get to the WTC instead of run away from it. I think the only thing that will ever remind me of the RNC is when Bush invades NYC and starts rounding up all the liberals, ferrying them over to Staten Island, for 'Cheney's Final Solution'.

Is it wrong to compare the president to a communist dictator who would extinguish large groups of folks if he could get away with it? Well, if NYC had oil buried deep within its Manhattan Schist, they would be blasting for that instead of the new City Water Tunnel #3 and all kinds of eminent domain laws would be passing left and right. So no, I don't think it's that much of a stretch.

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Jasmine arrived in Newark on Monday night 3-hours before the MTA strike and after a 13-hour bus ride from the bowels of PA. She then got up early Tuesday morning and went to work at the stationary store in Hoboken and she has been working everyday since. Awesome. She is pretty miserable and once again, my work here is done and I didn't even have to do anything. Except change her room into my office, insisted she sleep on the couch and make her work every damn day she is home. I suck but so what, I'm supposed to. Whore-Ray as they say. Now we just have to make it possible her to support herself. Or as Martha likes to say, "How much do I need to give you to make you go away?

Jasmine's grades are in.
Genetics: C
Journalism: B
Journalism & Mass Media: B
Religions of India: B
Italian: D

She passed Italian! I can't believe it. Oh sure it is with a low D, but who cares, she passed. Now we move on to second semester. Second semester is where the grades usually drop off and Jasmine constantly has to go to the hospital. Stuff like; she cuts her finger and it won't stop bleeding, she doesn't drink enough water and becomes dehydrated and then there is usually some kind of, oh let's just say 'scare'. First semester is usually Death and Sorrow. This year, Grandma Northrop had a small heart attack over Thanksgiving and just two days after Jasmine had gone back to school. No the two aren't related, I don't think. Anyway, they released her from the hospital a week before Christmas and she is healing slowly.

More reasons to fear that I might be turning into my mother (outside of the obvious), I found myself eyeballing fake Christmas trees at K-Mart. Not just the green ones either but a white foil one. The only logic I found to not getting one was that Zoë would still eat the tree regardless of whether is was real or not. I would rather her eat real green trees rather than white plastic ones. This is what I was thinking about while I stood in K-Mart and rolled the white metal tree branch into a curly cue, not how ugly these things are but whether or not my cat would eat it.

ABUNDANCE OF THE HEART
Christmas was low-key this year. Martha and I having already opened our big ta da gifts weeks ago. I love my new speakers and her iBook is always by her side. We bought Jasmine a few little things, here and there with the promise of a trip to Target. Funny, even with just little things we still managed to spend a shit-load of money.

I had one surprise for Martha and it turns out that she bought me the same exact present, the deluxe version of Office Space. Martha bought Jazz a 'vintage' My Little Pony that is still in the original packaging. Vintage is now considered 1986, people. I got a bunch of books, unheard of music and a new purse.

I made one of my famous Dark Chocolate cakes, and then I made a big batch of Peanut butter cookies with dark chocolate Hershey®'s kisses. Martha suggested that I sell my cakes, cookies and pies over the internet. Put a link right up on my site. Hmm, I don't know, would you buy a pie from me?

All day Sunday, I drank a considerable amount of Cider minus the liquor, substituting a drunken buzz for a buzz-buzz. But with all three of us either on the rag, or PMSing we were like a bag of ferial cats. Christmas day was at times, rather long, even with a three-hour nap right there in the middle of it. I don't know, I think that there is so much fucking chocolate in the house that it is just making all of us a little nuts.

Add to that, I am now under constant surveillance for any movement towards the new cat laser that Santa brought. It's the latest sensation sweeping this here cat nation. Lily is a Red Dot-Alcoholic. It is quite unnerving to be followed everywhere I go. But I understand, kind of. Lily's world consists of just the apartment. That is it. She hardly ever looks out the window, never has, just not that interested. Plus, she is a really weird cat. The front door to our apartment could stand open all day and she would never leave. So when something new and crazy like a laser dot gets loose in the apartment, well that's just madness and it must to chased. She understands that it has something to do with me and usually happens when I am in the office, so she waits. She waits, meows and paces, until she gets tired and naps near me, just incase it pops up again. She is so fucking cute I'm going to have to crush her skull.

I had to shoot a neighborhood of Staten Island on Sunday and honestly, it was kind of fun. We had to drive, which usually sucks but in this case, it was the best way to move around the big ole land of weirdness. It reminded me of all the places I used to live smashed into one island.

We were in a suburb that was so exclusive and isolated that after having driven around the island looking for other cool shit to shoot, I would guess to say that Egbertville is not the norm. I kept thinking that the neighbors were going to call the cops if we didn't hurry up and get the hell out of there. This was suburbia and I'm walking around with one camera around my neck and one camera in my hand while an SUV with Jersey plates slowly follows behind me. I would have called the cops on me.

One thing that I had read about and had wanted to try to photograph was The Boatyard at Rossville [The Elephants Graveyard]. Martha and I hugged the edges of Staten Island trying to get near the abandon tugboats that were scuttled in Arthur Kill. We couldn't get close enough by car and the only way I could figure out how to get the shots I wanted was to swim or wade out there at low tide.

Or I could stand by the edge of the road, with my telephoto lens, right next to the 200-year-old abandon family graveyard that is nestled between the wheatgrass and a hillbilly shed with a 'No Trespassing' sign clanging off a metal spike that has been jammed into the ground at my feet. All the while, a crazy black dog, tied to a tree, its metal chain pulled taut, barks its fucking head off at me. Not too much pressure, eh?

But I didn't bring my telephoto and there is no fucking way I will EVER let Arthur Kill water, or any local water, touch my skin. What are you kidding? I already have hives just by walking around here. So I shot a few Holgas and made Martha take a few shots with her high powered digital.

Staten Island is very leafy, except around the massive Fresh Kills area. That's all flat and funky looking. At one point on 440, if you look all around you, out every window, the landscape is flat. In every direction are the man-made hills of NYC trash, glazed over and ready to be called a park. There are no houses, trees, or people but there are plenty of birds. Thousands of them. Yep, nothing but birds and a dead cat by the side of the highway.

In a bizarre way, I like it over there. Yeah, I know, I am driven to odd trash. Martha made such a big stink about it but honestly we live in Jersey so what is the big deal. I am certainly interested in shooting more of it. It is unlike any other borough, that's for damn sure.

WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION
As of Monday, Jasmine will be home for the holidays, although I'm not sure for how long. She has been subpoenaed to appear in District Court on January 6th for a Criminal/Summary case in which she is a witness for the Commonwealth of PA. All this goes back to when she saw a kid get hit by a car while she was out partying with her friends. That night, Miss Yappy not only called 911, which I support, but then she hung around and gave a fricken statement to the police. Now look at what good that did. PA has charged this kid with something, (none of our business but my guess is possession) and now Jazz has to testify AGAINST him. But the biggest pain in the ass is this. On January 6th she is supposed to be here working. She is supposed to work her ass off to save money for her rent. Classes don't even start back up until the 16th. All that needs to happen is for PA to move this stupid trial one week ahead. Just one week and then she will be back in her apartment. Now I don't know. She'll have to call them to try and negotiate a better date. Yeah, right, bargain with a DA. Have fun with that, peanut.

SANTA LAND
My office has turned into gift storage & wrapping central and we still haven't bought a Christmas tree. We are waiting for Jazz—well I am, anyway. Martha keeps holding out for another free tree to appear in the Magic Trash Room, I think we might want to take the plunge and go buy one. I know it is hard for her to hear but a free tree comes around only once in a lifetime, if you are lucky. Wednesday looks like it might be the all-important day. Jazz is off and she and I can drag one home after work. I love doing that kind of stuff on the Path. It is such an urban thing to drag a tree onto public transportation. It's like when people move via the subway. It really is something to see.

BIG SNOW BALLS
I spent $746 in one visit to the dentist last week. Yep. That's' right, the dental wars have begun. The whole time she was digging around in there, I kept trying to remember when the last time I built a snowman was. I think it was when Jazz was small and if that is true, well then this winter I need to get the hell away from all the dirty city snow and roll one out. Life is short.

I get to shoot one of my favorite things this year. Christmas. I'm going to walk down 57th street and then 5th Ave, shooting all that I see. I love that kind of shit. Block after block of Christmas explosions. The Voice is going to run it in as a slideshow over the holidays. How cool. That is unless MTA strikes and then I won't be walking around up there. Oh no. I'll be walking around near The Path trains along with 8 million other people. I'll be the one with the tree.

After a few days of negotiations, I managed to convince Martha to let me open one of my Christmas presents early. I already knew what it was, the surprise element wiped away by a steady email stream between the two of us about various brands, woofers, tweeters and pricing. I was getting new speakers and Martha was organizing a deal with a guy she used to work with. Once we decided on a pair, they arrived rather quickly. I came home from work and there, behind the doorman, were two 4-foot tall boxes. Taped to one box and in plain view of about two-hundred people was a packing list with Martha's complete credit card number (including expiration date) flapping in the breeze.

After we got the boxes in the apartment, and called the credit card company to place the exposed credit card on hold, I had to make the case as to why we should take the speakers out of the box—for space reasons, of course. And if we went so far as to hook them up, well then, we could remove the nasty boxes AND the enormous Harmon Kardons that the new speakers were replacing.

Speaking of the Harmons, I have had those speakers since Jasmine was two. I even remember the day Jim brought them home. Originally, they cost about as much as our rent, which at that time was around six hundred dollars a month. Jim got a deal because they were the floor models at the stereo store in the same mall where he worked at a photo lab. Much like Hyde.

We were living well beyond our means in a two-bedroom one-bath condo in a condominium village called Southglen Commons just on the inside of Littleton Colorado. We were living in Littleton specifically because it had the best pre-school in the Denver area. Yes, that's right, it was all just down the street from Columbine. If I had been a completely different person, not gay or a vagabond then Jazz probably would have been a sophomore at that school, instead of a disgruntled one in Pittsburgh in 1999.

While we were not the lowest form of white trash to live in Southglenn Commons, we did live above them. The two guys who shared the two-bedroom below us were perfect in so many ways but to me their main function was to keep the gaze of the neighbors off of us. They were young, loud and drunk most of the time. They listened to heavy metal and I'm almost positive they sold drugs. To live below us during those years had to have been ridiculously loud and only someone who was louder, and more fucked up would have been able to stand it. Jasmine was two, three and four while we were there. All she did was scream her head off while running from one end of the apartment to the other. She would scream just for the pure joy of screaming. It was great. Between Husker du and Jasmine, the only neighbors we could have had were young drunk fuck-ups. Any other normal hardworking asshole would have constantly complained and probably called the cops. All things I totally understood then and now. I knew how lucky Jim and I were to have such crackhead neighbors. They never fucked with us for two obvious reasons. We looked like dirty poor hippies and we had a kid. This was back in the day when there was still honor among thieves.

One night I woke up to red and blue flashing lights swirling around on the bedroom ceiling. I screamed at Jim to hide EVERYTHING and ran from our mattress on the floor to the big living room window just in time to see the Denver police dragging both shirtless boys from their apartment and through the snow towards the flashing police cars. As I watched the cops shove each boy into a police cruiser, it made me sad to think that they were gone. Thankfully, that apartment stayed vacant for the rest of our time there.

Before the Harmon Kardons, I had a pair of Panasonics that drove my mother to attempt murder on several occasions. They made it to college and beyond, a feat that should not go unnoted. After all, they survived nine crucial years, (1977-1986) before being regulated to 'second pair' and spent their twilight years hooked up to the TV blasting The Smurfs and My Little Pony commercials. Jim and I never threw anything out because we started out with nothing. We bought other folks yard sale crap and kept it all until it disintegrated. The bright yellow dresser that Jasmine grew up with was 'found' on the curb a block away from our apartment in Pittsburgh. I was alone and on foot so I pulled it down the alley, the asphalt slowly shaving the veneer off the bottom. When I got about three houses away, Jim came out only because he had heard this god-awful sound coming from out back. He had looked out the window and noticed my red head over the fence tops, slowly bobbing up and down to the rhythm of a loud scraping noise.

Ah, yeah... so, um... right. As my neighbor's can tell you, I have new speakers and deep down I am only thirteen. It takes every bit of my adult fiber to keep the sound at a reasonable level. All I did Saturday was sit at bottom point of the perfect sound triangle in the living room, listening to music. They are great and I hope to get a good twenty years out of them. Sometime around 2025 I should be bugging Martha for a new pair.

I don't know about all of you but I am not really into the idea of winter this year. It moves me not one bit to see the white fluffy stuff all over everything. Usually, at the very least, I find inspiration in the clean white covering and have an overwhelming desire to shoot black and white film. But not this year, or at least not yet. Christ, I'm not even ready to admit that it's Christmas time. It all happens to fast. We just had Thanksgiving and the anniversary of my mother's death and now we have my birthday, Jasmine's homecoming, Christmas and then New Years—all within a four-week period. All that up, down and all around makes me a dizzy mess. Plus, there is such a huge let down on the backside. This probably explains why I've been getting so lost in music, to the point where I can't seem to pay attention to much else.

I've started going to the record store and buying Christmas presents for myself and bringing them home for Martha to wrap and place under our invisible tree. She's doing it too and it's kind of fun. I don't get to play with the CD's I've bought but I know what to take off my big list. Despite the extensive use of internet shopping for actual gifts for others, I still have to go to the fucking mall.

On Tuesday after work, I will be at above-mentioned mall, either wanting to kill someone or begging to be killed. Ah, yes, the ying and yang of the hollydaze brings out the murder/suicide tendencies in me. I should just get it over with and quit stalling because if I wait—to go to the mall—it will only be worse. Each passing week, consumer frenzy expands, doubling in size, until it finally it all explodes on December 26, when stores practically give all their unsold crap away. If I go now and take care of a few things, I might not end up with such a massive headache.

I am either sick again or allergic to every single thing around me, no matter where I go. I sneezed all weekend long, the crazy, rapid-fire kind. The kind where you can't even take a breath in, so after about the 3rd or 4th sneeze you begin to pass out from lack of oxygen. In a panicked attempt to breathe, you start choking and sneezing at the same time while your eyes tear up and you think to yourself, 'Oh Jesus Christ, if this doesn't stop, I'm gonna swallow my tongue!' I did this several times over the past few days and not just for the benefit of my family and pets. I did it on the subway, (always a crowd pleaser) and I did it in grocery store, where no one seemed to notice. I started to get gooey at Macy's but managed to pull it together before it got crazy in the shoe department.

Oh yes, speaking of shoes, I now have winter boots. Mother Nature forced my hand and off we went to the death star mall. It snowed and I needed boots, period. So China wins while political principles takes a backseat to actually cash on the barrelhead. Funny, seeing how my vote doesn't count anymore, the only thing, the only real power I have is with my cash. Consumerism is politics. The theory is that if I don't like a company's policies in, say Indonesia, then I'm not going to buy their products. Unless of course they are the only game in town and I need what they are selling. Then I have to chomp on it and vow to do better.