From the Publisher: “Short Skirts and Whiskey Shots by Andrea Janov is a collection of alternative lifestyle emo-punk poetry about living in New York and going to gigs there. Following on from her first book, Mix Tapes and Photo Albums, these eighty-eight pages, split over three sections; A fifth floor walk-up, A forfeited security deposit and A terminated lease, will take you on a gritty, day to day journey through punk-rock living in a big city.
Short Skirts and Whiskey Shot captures that liminal part of our lives, that time past adolescence, yet before adulthood. This collection is deeply rooted in the people and the streets of New York City. It thrives in the bars, the clubs, the tenements, the subway. It celebrates the dirty streets, the beer soaked nights, and those who sweat liquor. It explores the idiosyncrasies, the innocence, the excesses of the city.
From a tenement building in Alphabet City that had not changed much since the turn of the century to the trendy clubs and dark bars this collection explores, finds, loses, and regains itself. It claims the space and the right to be reckless, as a woman. It explores the uncertainty of being on your own for the first time, exploring the world, and getting a little lost along the way. It veers off the intended path, it course corrects, it celebrates what we learn on those detours. It does not make apologies.
It’s a collection is for all of us who tried. For those who lived without heat, without doors, with too many roommates, in walk‐ups with tuberculous windows, just to have a shot. For those who made it. For those who decided on something else…”
More info About the Author: “Andrea is a mess of contradictions, fan of parallel structure, and nostalgic pack rat who writes poetry about punk rock kids and takes photos of forgotten places. She believes in the beauty of the ordinary, the power of the vernacular, and the history of the abandoned. Through her work, she strives to prove that poetry can be dirty, gritty, and accessible by revealing the art in what we see, say, do, ignore, and forget every day.
Raised by rock and roll parents, she learned the importance of going to concerts and ignoring the ‘no trespassing’ signs in her childhood. She spent her adolescence in a small town punk rock scene where she moshed, fell in love, and produced a few cut-and-paste zines, before escaping to New York City and causing a ruckus in Alphabet City. After meeting her husband in one of those Chelsea bars she has settled in Pittsburgh, is at the whim of a feisty terrier, works in tech, and still prefers Jameson neat.”
Author Site
7B
The table is cluttered is with empty beer pints
and towers of rocks glasses –
sticky, dripping with Jameson.
An old friend is in town,
one I’ve missed for years.
We are at one of my usual dives,
the one with the photo booth and
best jukebox in New York City.
We sing along to the songs
we screamed along to in high school.
The songs that still mean so much,
yet mean something different now.
Our sweaters and hoodies are draped over
the backs of chairs;
the air inside the bar is so thick
the windows fog over
so densely we can’t see
that it has stopped snowing outside.
The sheet of photo booth pictures –
our arms around each other laughing,
sticking out our tongues,
flashing the horns.
Forgetting the time and the distance that separate
who we are
from who we used to be.
A Love Letter to the 2 Avenue Station F/V
I’ve been in quite a few subway stations,
but you,
Second Avenue, are…
…unique.
…one of a kind.
…like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
…a portal to hell?
Really, it’s almost as if your air
has been replaced
by already inhaled bad breath
that our lungs are incapable of re-breathing in.
You are somehow
electrified by the third rail
until the atmosphere is boiled in the urine
emanating from the walls and the floor and the ceiling.
You are defiant.
Protesting the closing of the city’s grimy dives,
it’s ethnic groceries,
it’s all-night bodegas.
You are fighting.
Resisting the luxury hotels,
the high-rise apartments,
the high-end boutiques.
You are proud of your dirty
clandestine past.
You don’t feel the need to be scrubbed
or whitewashed.
You, Second Avenue F/V stop,
are the last to say,
“Give me your tired,
your poor,
your huddled masses yearning…”
St. Mark’s Place
I used to be a messy person.
Not the type of messy person who
left laundry on the floor
or dishes in the sink –
but the type of messy person
who drank too much Jameson, Patron, and pinot noir
then ran around New York City.
The type of person whose friends
were tired of looking after her.
I was careless with my body and friendships.
I threw my heart around
and let it bounce through dark streets
soaked in whiskey and tequila.
I drank away regrets.
I drank away any sort of genuine feeling.
I drank to forget.
I burned bridges
and scared people.
I was drowning
but having a good time going under.
Fuck it all.
Living from moment to moment,
acting on momentary desires.
We could die tomorrow,
live it up tonight.
I pushed everyone away,
surrounded myself
with people who were just as lost.
Screw anyone else’s feelings.
I knew they’d be gone eventually anyway.
Friendships were reduced to drinking buddies
and brunch crews.
Together
or alone –
I could always find someone
to pass the night with.
These poems are published here courtesy of the author and publisher and should not be reprinted without permission.
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