A Boy In The Band – Friday Fictioneer

david-stewart Photo David Stewart greenwalledtower.wordpress.com

I couldn’t help myself when I saw this picture, plus my buddy took it.  Made me think of lazy summers sprawled on blankets with a sweetheart, drinking wine out of paper cups.  Also made me want to be a musician.

Welcome once again to Friday Fictioneers.  To be inspired by a photograph in 100 words or less. Thanks Rochelle. https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.


                                                            A Boy In The Band

No one said it was fancy.  Sure’s a far cry from CBGBs or the Mudd Club.  Hadda go out and get me a white shirt.  Got one at the Salvation Army for 6 bucks.  Has a stain on the tail, but tucked in it don’t show.

Can’t wait ta tell Patti and Lenny I’m fine-ly playin the big time.

There’s food, and we’re gettin paid.  Ain’t that somethin? 

It’s so nice and cool, a breeze blowin through my hair.  Like being in a church, just with no windows.

Woulda played for free, even without the food.


Posted in food, friendship, humor, Love, music, New York City | Tagged , , , , , | 52 Comments

Father And Son

I was in a cafe putting honey in my tea observing a young dad and his four, perhaps five year-old son perched on stools drinking hot chocolate.

The kid says, “Dad, how come mom never lets me have cocoa in the morning like you do?”

“I only see you once a week so I try to make it special for you.”

My heart (and post needs) pinched urging me to stall and eavesdrop further.

“Why don’t you like mom anymore?”

“I love mom, but we fight too much Kenny and it’s better, at least for now, that I’m not there.”

I have such mixed feelings about children and divorce, or in this case, separation.  Is it better to fight in front of your kids putting them through all that drama, just so they have parents under the same roof, or is what this guy said healthier?

I had prizefighters for parents swinging at each other well into the night, so for me, when they finally split it was for the better.  At least I got some sleep.  But if you saw the pleading look on Kenny’s face, you’d think otherwise.

“Dad, I won’t tell mom about the cocoa cause, she’ll go nuts.”

“Yeah Kenny, that’s probably a good idea since we know what happens when she gets mad.”

“Is your arm all better?”

“Almost. It hurts sometimes, when I sleep.”

“I’m sorry dad.”

“It’s okay.  I’m just so happy to see you.”

They hugged, and I knew it was time to leave when tears started spilling into my heavily honeyed tea.


Posted in Family, food, Home, kids, Love, New York City, Women and men | Tagged , , , , | 28 Comments

Lateness Won’t Be Tolerated

A casting agent we all know and want to smack, coined this phrase.  images-5It’s meant to rattle and intimidate you down to your socks.

Be on time or else.

But here’s the thing, New York is a late town.  Things happen here. Trains stall, buses breakdown.  Weather creates havoc like flooding and delays leaving you in the tall grass, or at least stuck on the number C train.

It’s hard not to have anxiety when you feel threatened over something you have little control over such as unintentional lateness. images-4

Like trying to keep the tide from coming in.

So where does this disciplinarian get off shooting buckshot at your feet – a martinet of legislated misery making you sweat en route to a job you all but killed yourself to get?

Makes me angry alright.  Would like to forge a legal complaint with Human Resources if only models had an HR to complain to.

I know a woman who peed in her pants after getting lost on her way to a location, she got that shook-up.

Here’s the kahuna of questions.  What’s the worst that could have happened?

That they fired her – sent her home with her lip-pencil between her legs…say, we’re sorry, but we had to start without you?

Did she really need to pack Depends in her tote, just in case?  images-7

Thrashings and lashings, caning and maiming as this lateness isn’t tolerated?

Lets haul us off to jail in cuffs and leg irons by some grizzled cop with a nightstick.

And who knows, maybe one of us will make the front of the New York Post with the headline…MODEL LATE FOR THE LAST TIME

Free publicity.

Life is so short.

I will be the late Susannah Bianchi soon enough without having to worry in the interim,  I’ll be late.

Besides, haven’t you ever heard of a fashionable entrance?



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Long Lost Love

It’s funny how one remembers things.

I was looking into a store window on Madison and 76th, a few steps from The Carlyle, when it dawned on me it used to be an art gallery I often visited.

Step back to 1979 – I’m a young twenty-two year old taking the city by storm.  I have Vogue covers and stars in my eyes being in New York for only a few months.

I’m introduced to a man already in his 50s – Austrian, urbane – a leader in the art world where German and Austrian impressionists are revered: Egon Schiele, Gustov Klimt, Paul Klee, Max Beckman, Otto Dix to name a few…these were his charges representing them nobly.

I’ll call him Edsel, meaning noble in German, I realized used to occupy this space now filled with expensive linen and over-priced bedspreads.

The showroom was in the front, with an office in the back.

He had a receptionist, so when visiting disappearing where he’d hold court, you never felt unnerved or compromised being in the presence of a man twice your age.

He was tall and imposing dressed in gray trousers and a custom-made button-down… Belgian loafers on his feet. A burly man with a shock of thick, white hair cascading off his forehead like a blanket of snow.

As you entered his sanctum sanctorum, he’d always be lying on his couch reading Art News or something similar he’d happily put down to greet you.

I knew nothing about art, even though he kindly loaded me up with books, none I still have.  A pity really since they were all first editions.

I’d sit in a chair facing him, and he would talk.

This is what I remember.

He married a very rich woman who helped establish him in the art world.  Their union, producing no offspring, had after many years become cold and dry.

He wanted to leave, but his wife would threaten suicide, causing them to live separate lives in the same house.

He had a photograph on his desk of a beautiful dark haired lady in profile, her long hair piled way up on her head.

I resembled her, realizing, why he may have always been so happy to see me.

One day, shy as I was, asked about her.

She was his great love who lived, I’m going to say in Switzerland, but I’m not totally sure. It was Europe in any event, and they’d meet half way to consummate their affection I knew was real the way it still danced in his eyes as he spoke of her.

Finally, after many false attempts, he decided to leave his wife.  Apparently this woman was going to have his child, so it was time to lead from the heart honestly, rather than obligation and fear.

The plane carrying her crashed, killing everyone on board.

He never got to see or hold her again.

It seemed to crush him, even years after telling me about it…the regrets, the sadness.

That’s what I thought as I peered in that old window, if it could only talk, thirty-five years later.

Edsel died in 1996 at 83 leaving behind a legacy of art and knowledge for these great German, Austrian artists he championed so.

But what he also left was love, turned to dust, melting in a blue sky.


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Nice Girl

Nice Girl sounds like a horse in the fifth at Hialeah.  images-2

I’m actually, with veiled modesty, talking about me.  Yesterday I found a letter in my mailbox addressed to the Esther Meyowitz Passover Fund in Bayside Queens.  How it got to me is a mystery, and I must remember to ask my mailman if he fell on his head.

Though a crime, I opened it finding a check for 25 dollars from a Mr. and Mrs. Floyd Greenblatt.  How nice, I thought, they were sending a tithe in memory of Esther I just assumed was no longer with us.

I did what any nice, nutty girl would have done – went upstairs, wrapped the check in Kleenex to divert any thieves, and resent it to the fund adding an anonymous ten dollars that happened to be my laundry money.

By this time, I felt I kind of knew Esther.

I then took a mini survey to ask what others would have done if they found the Greenblatt’s check in their mailbox.

I got 5, are you crazies.

3, you opened it?

2, would have left it for the mailman (who might have sent it to Peru) and…

1, get a fucking life Susannah.

But before I could feel stupid I heard Esther say, thank you Susannah.

imagesShalom, peace in Hebrew.

Written for Lori Waterhouse, my favorite nice, Jewish girl.


Posted in Faith, Fashion, friendship, Gratitude, humor, Love, money, New York City | Tagged , , , , , , , | 31 Comments

In An Alcoholic Home

stock-photo-fake-dictionary-dictionary-definition-of-the-word-alcoholism-181992131Both my parents were drinkers, and not of the modest variety.

My father died of cirrhosis of the liver at forty, while my mother, with ice tinkling in her glass, terrorized everyone and everything in her path. Even the goldfish were afraid of her.

As a kid growing up with serious drinkers, you never knew what to expect leaving its mark on you as an adult.

Why are you so edgy Susannah….always waiting for the other shoe to drop? A question I’ve been asked my whole life.

Well I’ll tell you, and it took 10 years in a 12 Step program to educate me on why I’m the way I am.

Imagine being raised by wolves, but just not as well.

I’d come home from school every day not sure what I’d find.

Would my mother be in the kitchen blissfully baking, or in my room breaking my 45s over her knee?

Would she be happy to see me or threaten to cut my pigtails off with a steak knife? She actually did, leaving me with one wacky hairdo.

And when my father rolled in at 6 o’clock already plied with several shots of Seagrams, the two of them squaring off like heavy-weights who couldn’t stand – would it be one of those all-nighters when I’d crawl under the bed with Fluffy the cat quietly crying into her fur?

At eight years of age, I had a chronic case of eczema my skin flaking like piecrust as a result of nerves. I threw up a lot, but not voluntarily.  To put it in a nutshell, I was one fucking wreck.

If you know anything about being a child of an alcoholic, this is not rare.

You grow up with nothing nailed down.  Your parents, who are supposed to be your protectors, instead are your biggest predators.  You become a mini adult if you want to survive.  And we know how that goes.

You get your own breakfast that turns into Froot Loops on toast.  You’re punished for poor grades because you’re too tired to study, your parents drunken antics making it impossible to sleep.

Even after you cleverly call the cops pretending you’re a sleepless neighbor smitten when they come break it up, you’re still just a scared little kid with a nervous stomach and an itchy scalp.

Now you’re in your twenties galloping around the globe not having a clue to what life’s about.  Your dad is already 6 feet under, your mom playing a wobbly game of croquette in Connecticut and can’t be reached.

So you sought out men for answers who looked through you like dirty glass.  The love you never got at home made it hard to come by, simply because you had no idea what it was supposed to look like.

This is why you rarely feel bad not having kids.  You actually had one…you.  You raised yourself without any help stumbling and falling the whole way.  It took therapy, a brief stay in a nut hospital and years of Al-Anon meetings to make you understand, your failings were not your fault.

There are millions of people like me.  I’d sit in church basements and hear my story over and over again.  You got hit with an iron too? Your mother put vodka in her breakfast orange juice while your dad passed out on the lawn?  Wow, maybe they knew each other.

I had 10 concussions by the time I was twelve. How many did you have?

And for the record, I truly believe all those hits in the head are responsible for my sudden hearing loss, regardless of what anyone says.

Alcoholism is more than a loaded liver.  It’s a twister destroying everything in its path.

I’m just sorry it took me this long to understand who I am and why, and to forgive the two people who were so sick.  Yes, alcoholism is an illness right up there with any other having  no idea the harm it caused.

And to our noble credit…the ones left standing…wear our scars well.


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Pinocchio Syndrome

images I hate being lied to over anything, big or small.

As you recall, every time Pinocchio told a lie his nose grew. What I long to say to a man fibbing his little ass off is…don’t you wish everything got bigger when you lied?

I used to date a guy who lied about everything. If he said it was raining, I’d stick my head out the window to check.

He was a cop…it was during my blue collar period where I was gaga over any guy with a semblance of a tool belt, Charlie’s nightstick nestling in his holster having hot appeal.

There was also the telephone repairman who got my attention by saying, “Hey, pretty girl…wanna call Japan?”

A twenty year-old’s hormones are not very selective, or apologetic for that matter. Who cares if we’re doing it in a police car. It’s cheaper and handier than a hotel.

Both these men told me whoppers…Officer Pinocchio lived with a woman and had a son. When I confronted him he said, “Oh I meant to tell ya,” as if he forgot to mention he had cats.

Jamie, whose biceps were the size of baseballs from all that drainpipe climbing back in the day when wires were stapled, was gay, said I looked like such a little boy he just couldn’t help himself. Thank goodness it was in the 70s before I could catch anything other than a cold he being a nature boy from Colorado. Have you ever done it in the grass? Like screwing on the beach, it looks better on paper since there are no mosquito bites.

My mother lied too, not necessarily to me (though she did say pizza wasn’t fattening), but to my dad and the wives of men accusing her of fooling around with their husbands. She could have played one helluva game of poker with her Mona Lisa smile denying any involvement whatsoever even offering them coffee and her recipe for sponge cake.

I hate to lie going to great lengths not to by evading the issue. Camille, bless her little duplicitous heart, taught me how to cheerfully change a subject so the question flees into flattery towards the other person who forgets what they’ve asked. “You really like my hair this way? I look like Uma Thurman…really?”

It’s a honed skill, and one that keeps those fibs from infecting the atmosphere. The worst kind of lie is when it involves a third party, like that call at midnight from a suspicious boyfriend. “Is Camille there? She said she was spending the night.” This is a harder nut to crack but not totally impossible.

“Hello, hello? I don’t know who this is but I can’t hear you…sorry…click” Trouble with that one is it can only be used once, possibly twice after he says,”Isn’t it time to call the phone company to report this?” It’s a fib wrapped in cellophane since you don’t actually lie about the person in question…just your phone.

“Hello, hello? I don’t know who this is but I can’t hear you…





Posted in humor, sex, sexual relationships, Uncategorized, women, Women and men | Tagged , , , | 51 Comments

Clooney For President

I love George Clooney, married or not and must say – Mrs. Clooney is a real looker.  images-1 But who else would the Cary Grant of our time choose to walk alongside him. images-4

He was interviewed by an idiot after giving a large sum of money to a cause.  The guy, much too snide and smug said, “So George, what made you fork over all that cash?”

Without missing a beat, George said, “Because I can. “That’s when I knew, I’d gladly fly to Como on my own nickel to personally wash his windows.

Generosity is relative.  Most of us aren’t blessed with the wealth of a George Clooney, but we can still give what we have.

I saw an embroidered pillow that said: Give Till It Hurts – but we don’t have to go quite that far, but point well taken.

When I’m asked, “Why did you just give that bum half your sandwich,” I say, “Because I can.”

That seat on the subway I give up to another who really looks as if they need it more than me is simply because, I can.

If I don’t have cash, my usual state of affairs, I’ll smile and ask, “How ya doin today?” Or tell someone they look nice currency coming in many different forms.

We give what we have, because we can – we were blessed with that choice.

Love you George.  images-3


Posted in Gratitude, humor, Love, money, travel, Women and men | Tagged , , , , , | 30 Comments

6 A.M. Pick-Up

Not to be terribly self-deprecating, but I’m not at my gorgeous best first thing in the morning. I’m clean, that’s about the most I can say.

So to have a man flirt with me while I’m ordering a bagel made me take pause wondering what he was so enamored with – couldn’t be my old ripped yoga pants and hoodie that makes me look like Richard the Lionhearted.  I’m also wearing big black glasses, so I look as if I could do your taxes.  Hmm, maybe that was it.

He was cute…tall, blonde, in chinos and nice shoes. Shoes tell a lot about a person.  If they’re polished, a sign of self-esteem – slick and new, monied or in credit card debt.  But this guy liked himself alright by the looks of his attire not to mention sass since he was grinning and cooing like a dolphin – opening line…

“How do you maintain that slimness eating all that starch?”

After turning around to see if he was speaking to someone else I said, “It’s a bagel, not a baguette, and it’s 6 in the morning. I have all day to burn it up.”

Why I felt the need to explain is a mystery, but I imagine I was flirting too…just without powder and gloss.

Audrey behind the register said, “Our bagels are only 290 calories…with no butta of course.”

Then she added, “Susannah here (now he knows my name) loves butta. Her bagel I’m sure is a 1000 calories, and don’t farget the honey.”

Thank you Audrey, my gluttony is now public not to mention feeling I’m in an infomercial.

“Why don’t you get oatmeal with that honey, or yogurt and fruit?” said Mr. Chino with a wink.  “It’s so much better for that slim body of yours.” It’s because they cost triple what a bagel costs, but kept that to myself.

“I run after this, so that would be just too heavy a meal.” Meanwhile the natives behind us were getting restless so I went on my merry way.

Suddenly I hear, “Mind if I sit with you?”

And I said in the most charming manner, ‘”Yes.”

I know what you’re thinking.

Why didn’t I jump at the chance for a little male companionship? He was 12…alright 20…and young men and their brandished bravado bore me. I prefer a man who has sailed the 7 seas, you know, like Sinbad who would never suggest oatmeal, unless of course it came on the rocks…matey.



Posted in Beauty, Fashion, food, humor, New York City, Women and men | Tagged , , , , | 42 Comments

Animal Instincts

There I was once again, unable to sleep, so I went to Google Images for a little midnight refreshment -a whole lot better than hot milk, even with a shot of scotch.  Nothing like an animal to relax those weary bones.

images-6 Don’t ya just love sex first thing in the morning?

images-2 I think we took a wrong turn.

images-13 Why is Jimmy Fallon on so fucking late?

images-17 Hey, a baby’s a baby.

images-11 I’d like the wild salmon please.

images-3 I think it’s time for another Botox appointment.

images-5 I am trying to watch the movie.

images Do I look like Colin Farrell, just a little?

images-10 Don’t even think about makin a shoe outta me.

images-14 Sometimes you just need a friend.

images-15 Shit…got soap in my eye.

images-3I said go to your room.

images-6 Please God, let Lent be over…I was nuts to give up nuts.

images-9 Could this thing be any bigger?

images-10 Catch us on Dancing With The Stars following Kate.

images-22 Can’t beat the Pony Express.

images-18 Don’t kid yourself, I’m the real Snoop Dog.

images-1 Are you by any chance the Velveteen Rabbit?

images-15 So, Sen-a-reeta, you wanna fook?

images-11 It was your idea to come to London.

images-20 Don’t worry, you can sleep with me.

images-17 Good help is hard to find.

images-21 Just practicing my right hook.

images-13 Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.

getPart Yoo-Hoo.

Call me crazy, but boy, do they make me smile :)





Posted in animals, humor, Love | Tagged , , , , | 24 Comments