Photo by Derek Berg
Just 2.5 months until Halloween. This evening, outside Beetle House on Sixth Street between First Avenue and Second Avenue.
Basquiat — he didn't die — he got licensed.
Although the video was posted at 6:22 this evening, it isn't clear when the fight actually happened. It looks a bit sparse for that time of day.#NYShitty🗽💩; Drunken Brawl at #NYC’s #FirstAve Station Spills Onto Rails — Good Samaritan Rescues Man, Rival Tosses Belongings Back Onto Tracks pic.twitter.com/JE9zb4aHLE
— New York Shitty (@NyShittyNews) August 11, 2025
I love music. We had a piano in my big Boston Irish family; my mother sang Handel, my father loved John McCormack. An aunt gave us the Benny Goodman's Carnegie Hall LPs — I flipped for "Sing Sing Sing." In high school, I wore out my Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington records, but convinced I'd never learn to play jazz, I became a writer instead.
As a young Newsweek correspondent fresh from Yale University, he arrived in London in the mid-1960s — a time when the postwar generation, with its taste for avant-garde fashion and rafter-rattling rock, was aiming to blast the bowler hats from the heads of the country's traditionalists.It was there that he met the Beatles, whom he had derided as "poor foreign imitations" of the American rock 'n' roll originals in a 1964 article for The Yale Daily News.
"Whenever the first strains of ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ begin to twitch my stirrup bones,” Mr. Lydon wrote, "I send out silent screams for help to Chuck Berry, Elvis" and others "who have long defended the American way of rock."His view changed after the Beatles' landmark 1965 album, Rubber Soul, with its nuanced and introspective songwriting. The album seemed to change the Beatles' view of themselves, too. "You don't know us now if you don't know 'Rubber Soul,'" John Lennon told Mr. Lydon in a 1966 interview. "All our ideas are different now."