CSI Whatever

I Happened to turn on the television to see some show called ‘CSI: New York.’  It began at some fancy loft art-opening at which the patron and a wench go up onto the roof and start having MTV sex.  In media res they are shot from behind with a bow, the arrow pinning their naked bodies to the wall.  The credits kick in with The Who’s ‘Baba O’Reilly’ a song which I thought had been completely pimped out some years ago in a car commercial, but no, the old whore can still turn tricks.  The next scene brings us to a rock club where a promoter has been killed by a having wheatpaste poured over his face.  Inside, they question the manager of a band called ‘Rough Sex.’  The show pretends to a gritty urban realism (one of the cops was apparently involved in the music biz and grunts, ‘I had a little taste of it.  And that was more than enough for me) but actually displays the cheapest Hollywood stereotype of said reality.  I turned the channel to Solo Boxeo.  Now that’s television.

Requiem for Kokie’s

“If there was a bar in hell, it would be Kokie’s.”

Ran into a friend today who for years lived in an apartment directly over Kokie’s and it got me reminiscing about the only coke bar badass enough to state its business on the awning.  Toothless workers, terrible drugs, a sleazy clientele.  Williamsburg will never be so charming again.