Rewrite and translate this title Bright Lights, Big City: Max Blagg Writes About His Adventures In Downtown New York to Japanese between 50 and 60 characters. Do not include any introductory or extra text; return only the title in Japanese.

My actress girlfriend was now appearing nightly with Jesus Christ on Broadway and I spent time visiting my upstairs neighbour Steve Shevlin’s loft and its constant stream of interesting visitors. Steve and his wife Maria were the soul of New York kindness. Steve was learning to play bass and would soon help to form a band called the Senders. He had briefly been a boxer and still had the silk dressing gown with his name embroidered on the back. (Years later, going to visit my lover, Clarissa, on Thompson Street, I was shocked when she greeted me wearing Steve’s dressing gown. Steve and Maria were long since divorced and I had introduced him to C at a Senders gig a few weeks before, never dreaming he would so rapidly replace me.) David Johansen and Syl Sylvain were often at Steve’s loft and the first time I met the guy with the big hair, Johnny Thunders, who was too busy straightening out his works with a pair of pliers to say hello. Steve had gone to high school in Queens with Johnny and had already regaled me with some amazing stories about their teen years. Johnny often guest-starred with the Senders and after I got to know him a little better, he asked me to write some song lyrics. I churned out a few amphetamine-inspired ditties: Ditched for a Diesel, 80% of Mom & Dad. Sample lyric: “I’m bad, I’m bad, I know I’m bad / But it’s 80% of mom and dad,” a doggerel variant on Philip Larkin’s classic poem about parents. I gave them to Johnny, hoping to clean up on royalties when he hit the big time, because he always had that charisma of a real star. But a few years later, Johnny was dead in New Orleans from tainted smack, and the only trace I ever found of my lyrical contributions was the three-letter title of his song M.I.A.

On New Year’s Eve, the New York Dolls headlined at Mercer Arts. By midnight I was legless, tripping out and tipping over on my cheap platform heels. I tumbled down the central staircase and came to rest on the granite floor, both heels torn from my shoddy 8th Street shoes. Unharmed because the alcohol content in my body had reduced my flesh and bones to an unbreakable rubbery consistency. (True fact, ask any seasoned alcoholic.) Steve’s wife, the divine Maria, got me into a cab and took me home to East 10th Street safe and unsound as I was. I tossed the platforms and went back to my trusty Fryes. The hotel that housed Saint Adrian’s was falling apart like the rest of the city. It had once hosted the likes of Diamond Jim Brady but was now a welfare hotel filled with the homeless, prostitutes roaming the halls, junkies clogging the plumbing with their works. When the leaks in the ceiling above the bar began turning into Niagara Falls the owner decided to abandon ship. Two months later, while Eric Emerson’s band was rehearsing, the entire hotel tumbled into the street, taking the Mercer Arts Center down with it. The Magic Tramps managed to flee before the roof collapsed on the ballroom. Eric, however, could not avoid his fate. He OD’d a year later on Hudson Street.

My actress went on tour and never came back. I got mugged and moved out of East 10th Street three blocks west, a more peaceable kingdom. The entire top floor of #114 Saint Mark’s Place, between 1st and A, $200 a month. It was also closer to my next job, waiting tables at Phebe’s on the Bowery (still a going concern), where Jackie Curtis, Holly Woodlawn and all that mad crew from the Ridiculous Theatrical Company would come after the plays they put on at La MaMa just down East 4th Street. Jackie was still cruising on the decidedly mixed reviews of her latest two-hour amphetamine epic, Vain Victory. Nobody wanted to wait on them because they never tipped, overplaying the ‘starving artists’ card. I got to know Jackie better at Slugger Ann’s, her grandma’s beer joint on Second Avenue, where Jackie sometimes tended bar. (Nan Goldin took a highly unflattering portrait of me and the artist Juan Sanchez Juarez drinking at this bar, which appears in one of her early books, with David Armstrong, The Other Side.) Here endeth this stroll down Memory Lane. I quote myself out loud –  “Count one, count two, three, four and five / How come, lucky fucker, that you’re still alive?”

@maxblagg

My actress girlfriend was now appearing nightly with Jesus Christ on Broadway and I spent time visiting my upstairs neighbour Steve Shevlin’s loft and its constant stream of interesting visitors. Steve and his wife Maria were the soul of New York kindness. Steve was learning to play bass and would soon help to form a band called the Senders. He had briefly been a boxer and still had the silk dressing gown with his name embroidered on the back. (Years later, going to visit my lover, Clarissa, on Thompson Street, I was shocked when she greeted me wearing Steve’s dressing gown. Steve and Maria were long since divorced and I had introduced him to C at a Senders gig a few weeks before, never dreaming he would so rapidly replace me.) David Johansen and Syl Sylvain were often at Steve’s loft and the first time I met the guy with the big hair, Johnny Thunders, who was too busy straightening out his works with a pair of pliers to say hello. Steve had gone to high school in Queens with Johnny and had already regaled me with some amazing stories about their teen years. Johnny often guest-starred with the Senders and after I got to know him a little better, he asked me to write some song lyrics. I churned out a few amphetamine-inspired ditties: Ditched for a Diesel, 80% of Mom & Dad. Sample lyric: “I’m bad, I’m bad, I know I’m bad / But it’s 80% of mom and dad,” a doggerel variant on Philip Larkin’s classic poem about parents. I gave them to Johnny, hoping to clean up on royalties when he hit the big time, because he always had that charisma of a real star. But a few years later, Johnny was dead in New Orleans from tainted smack, and the only trace I ever found of my lyrical contributions was the three-letter title of his song M.I.A.

On New Year’s Eve, the New York Dolls headlined at Mercer Arts. By midnight I was legless, tripping out and tipping over on my cheap platform heels. I tumbled down the central staircase and came to rest on the granite floor, both heels torn from my shoddy 8th Street shoes. Unharmed because the alcohol content in my body had reduced my flesh and bones to an unbreakable rubbery consistency. (True fact, ask any seasoned alcoholic.) Steve’s wife, the divine Maria, got me into a cab and took me home to East 10th Street safe and unsound as I was. I tossed the platforms and went back to my trusty Fryes. The hotel that housed Saint Adrian’s was falling apart like the rest of the city. It had once hosted the likes of Diamond Jim Brady but was now a welfare hotel filled with the homeless, prostitutes roaming the halls, junkies clogging the plumbing with their works. When the leaks in the ceiling above the bar began turning into Niagara Falls the owner decided to abandon ship. Two months later, while Eric Emerson’s band was rehearsing, the entire hotel tumbled into the street, taking the Mercer Arts Center down with it. The Magic Tramps managed to flee before the roof collapsed on the ballroom. Eric, however, could not avoid his fate. He OD’d a year later on Hudson Street.

My actress went on tour and never came back. I got mugged and moved out of East 10th Street three blocks west, a more peaceable kingdom. The entire top floor of #114 Saint Mark’s Place, between 1st and A, $200 a month. It was also closer to my next job, waiting tables at Phebe’s on the Bowery (still a going concern), where Jackie Curtis, Holly Woodlawn and all that mad crew from the Ridiculous Theatrical Company would come after the plays they put on at La MaMa just down East 4th Street. Jackie was still cruising on the decidedly mixed reviews of her latest two-hour amphetamine epic, Vain Victory. Nobody wanted to wait on them because they never tipped, overplaying the ‘starving artists’ card. I got to know Jackie better at Slugger Ann’s, her grandma’s beer joint on Second Avenue, where Jackie sometimes tended bar. (Nan Goldin took a highly unflattering portrait of me and the artist Juan Sanchez Juarez drinking at this bar, which appears in one of her early books, with David Armstrong, The Other Side.) Here endeth this stroll down Memory Lane. I quote myself out loud –  “Count one, count two, three, four and five / How come, lucky fucker, that you’re still alive?”

@maxblagg