If there be a hipster among us, let him be the first to cast stones.
So I bought a shirt that says Brooklyn on it while I was in Brooklyn.
The story behind where I left my other shirt is what's important.
May I continue to dance naked with the drag queens of Bushwick, tired in their faces and humble in their loins.
I am a stanza in the song of life.
This is not Gaga.
My eyes open as the cracking of quail eggs.
I see the elegance in so many glasses accumulating on a table: coffee mug, water glass, Bloody Mary Collins, Champagne flute, whiskey thimble.
This is a timpani devotedly to be wished.
This is music I understand implicitly.
My body is a temple ... in Chichen Itza.
Weathered and dilapidated, yet intriguing to the brethren that make a pilgrimage to it every weekend as it moves up and down 8th Avenue.
My howl will be heard in the belly of Brooklyn as I scream at the theater geeks of Hell's Kitchen.
Karaoke is a means to an end to get Japanese businessmen to cut deals.
Calm down, queen.
You are not getting signed for a weak rendition of Pokerface you performed for a bunch of PBR-swilling hipsters on a Wednesday in Midtown.
Our time will come.
It will be a Thursday.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Champagne Flutes and Teaspoons
Can every day be prosecco and coffee with a faux-collar sweater in New York on a Wednesday with nothing to do?
Give me a life as translucent as this prosciutto I wear as a monocle.
If Tom Waits and I produced a child, he would growl phlegmy giggles from a basinet constructed out of Champagne boxes and hung from bass strings.
I am desiring not of a partner, but rather a playmate to go in on a bottle with me so that I don't get looks when I order one alone.
While I could be sleeping, I could also be boring.
I want my life to be sweetbreads and chanterelles, with polenta dredged in robiola and tomato.
I will not accept Splenda as anything but for the weak.
If you need sugar, there is no substitute.
I love that New York rewards you for drinking during the day.
I feel that my most rewarding drinking happens during the day.
While I'm quite skilled in evening imbibing, it is an afternoon on the porch with Tom in the kitchen where my socialization is at its prime.
There is a beautiful time of day when the clothes people wear change from outfits to costumes, and it usually coincides with the popping of a second cork - a harbinger of an imminent nap, and still no playmate.
One of my biggest regrets is not being able to see myself as others see me.
My eyes must be ravenous.
Every person that passes me by looks back as though I just unbuckled my belt ... or theirs.
Some smile.
Most don't.
One of these days I am going to dance on the subway when the mariachi duo strikes up a tune.
If the refrain is easy, I may even sing along.
For now, I will continue to sip on brioche bubbles and stare into the face of New York with a shit-eating grin on mine.
I get this city.
I get this afternoon.
I get it.
Now, to be had.
Give me a life as translucent as this prosciutto I wear as a monocle.
If Tom Waits and I produced a child, he would growl phlegmy giggles from a basinet constructed out of Champagne boxes and hung from bass strings.
I am desiring not of a partner, but rather a playmate to go in on a bottle with me so that I don't get looks when I order one alone.
While I could be sleeping, I could also be boring.
I want my life to be sweetbreads and chanterelles, with polenta dredged in robiola and tomato.
I will not accept Splenda as anything but for the weak.
If you need sugar, there is no substitute.
I love that New York rewards you for drinking during the day.
I feel that my most rewarding drinking happens during the day.
While I'm quite skilled in evening imbibing, it is an afternoon on the porch with Tom in the kitchen where my socialization is at its prime.
There is a beautiful time of day when the clothes people wear change from outfits to costumes, and it usually coincides with the popping of a second cork - a harbinger of an imminent nap, and still no playmate.
One of my biggest regrets is not being able to see myself as others see me.
My eyes must be ravenous.
Every person that passes me by looks back as though I just unbuckled my belt ... or theirs.
Some smile.
Most don't.
One of these days I am going to dance on the subway when the mariachi duo strikes up a tune.
If the refrain is easy, I may even sing along.
For now, I will continue to sip on brioche bubbles and stare into the face of New York with a shit-eating grin on mine.
I get this city.
I get this afternoon.
I get it.
Now, to be had.
A minor tirade
Milk carton runaways were my make-believe friends. I knew them by their names and secretly, I knew where they were hiding. Moreover, I knew what they were hiding from. I wasn't so much hiding from it, but rather attempting to rationalize the hatred and fear that surrounded me.
Reading what I wrote when I was younger makes me realize why kids today end their lives so early. I should have had a mentor, a coach, a friend who taught me wisecracks, comebacks, or the power of enlightened silence. Thankfully, I learned all those tools myself. It drips from my writing: the incessant need for tools, weapons, implements, an arsenal, and love.
We need to show our children that awkward happens forever, not just between the ages of 9-14. What was once pimples and unibrows eventually becomes obsessing over text message innuendo and anonymous sex just to feel something. It is our uneasiness toward our own adulthood that should appeal to the next generation. Facebook stalking happens at all ages. Hopefully, the stakes are lower when you're 12, but from the nature of periodical evidence it's entirely plausible they're pretty damn close.
Reading what I wrote when I was younger makes me realize why kids today end their lives so early. I should have had a mentor, a coach, a friend who taught me wisecracks, comebacks, or the power of enlightened silence. Thankfully, I learned all those tools myself. It drips from my writing: the incessant need for tools, weapons, implements, an arsenal, and love.
We need to show our children that awkward happens forever, not just between the ages of 9-14. What was once pimples and unibrows eventually becomes obsessing over text message innuendo and anonymous sex just to feel something. It is our uneasiness toward our own adulthood that should appeal to the next generation. Facebook stalking happens at all ages. Hopefully, the stakes are lower when you're 12, but from the nature of periodical evidence it's entirely plausible they're pretty damn close.
Off to Grey Dog
Sweating icicle daggers onto the sidewalk below me, with each step another casualty.
My tardiness is deadly for the daydreamers on 16th Street.
For them, time moves as snails over nasturtium petals, a slothful eclipse of orange and grey.
My heart, however, beats three paces ahead of my gait and my body is a shaky steering wheel in a foreign car.
The skin on my lips begins to peel from backpedaling into forward-thinking stratagems of how to abscond my vanity.
It really takes a 14-hour work day with a 37-minute break split into two followed by three hours of binge drinking with strangers and a six-hour nap on the train to look this disheveled.
I don't believe in outsourcing.
My tardiness is deadly for the daydreamers on 16th Street.
For them, time moves as snails over nasturtium petals, a slothful eclipse of orange and grey.
My heart, however, beats three paces ahead of my gait and my body is a shaky steering wheel in a foreign car.
The skin on my lips begins to peel from backpedaling into forward-thinking stratagems of how to abscond my vanity.
It really takes a 14-hour work day with a 37-minute break split into two followed by three hours of binge drinking with strangers and a six-hour nap on the train to look this disheveled.
I don't believe in outsourcing.
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