Category Archives: Memoirs

A diary of my early years in New York. Mostly tragic.

Hey you kids! Get offa my lawn or I’ll call the polis.

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I haven’t checked this space in weeks. I was unaware that comments were left regarding my absence. My Bride brought them to my attention. All apologies for my negligence. I’ve also done very little reading and commenting on other blogs. The thing that drove me to contribute and participate in this community these past 5+ years has dried up and blown away. *PFFT* Just like that. The tank is empty. The bus is not in service. The bakery ran out of yeast. Pick a metaphor or make up your own.

In September I went away with My Bride to Napa Valley for a well-deserved, badly-needed holiday. Shortly thereafter I wrote a post about it. I read it. Then I read it again. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was so bad, so mind-numbingly dull, that it knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t realize I was capable of such banalities. It was no better than a poorly-written Facebook post. When Betty White hosted Saturday Night Live, her opening monologue included a dig at Facebook; that when she was young, being forced to look at people’s vacation pictures was considered a form of punishment. And that’s what reading this post was. Punishment. Then I scrolled back, back, way back and they ALL seemed wholly inadequate to me. I couldn’t bear to look at them anymore so I didn’t. I had an epiphany. The bad kind. A few weeks later I tried writing another post but when my fingers touched the keyboard they turned to stone. If I want to write bad Facebook posts, I’ll open a bad Facebook page. lol. OMG.

In the interim, I filled my new-found free time with reading and I was able to cut through three extraordinary books in a row, which did my ego no good whatsoever. Have you ever read a book that was so well-written that when you turned a page, you wanted to tear it out and eat it? I read THREE of those, one after another.

I know my colleague Graham was unimpressed, but I think Hilary Mantel’s writing is plump and juicy. It took me forever to finish Bring Up the Bodies because some of her paragraphs were so perfectly constructed that I had to back-track and reread them over and over. I’ll never be able to write like that and if I can’t write like that, I don’t want to write anything at all.

Then I read Lionel Asbo by Martin Amis. So funny. I’ll never be that funny on paper. Neither will you. (Unless, of course, you happen to be Martin Amis and you’re reading this post.) I attended his reading in Brooklyn when the book was released and it was his voice that I heard reciting that sharp dialogue and those twisty sentences.

Then a real surprise. I read The Richard Burton Diaries. Yeah…the actor Richard Burton. It was an impulse purchase. I remember it getting a good review last year. Burton was an astonishing writer. Who knew! What an interesting life that guy lead. Gallivanting around Europe. Making films, some award-winning, some terrible. Hobnobbing with interesting people. Bored by the politicians, fans, journalists and glitterati he was forced to meet. I devoured it (a 600+ page brick!) while in my commute, office, commute, office, commute, office, commute, office rat trap. Obviously, we can’t all be married to Elizabeth Taylor (twice!) but is this really all I’m cut out for?

I lost my mojo, brothers and sisters. I thought I had a nice little groove going here but my groove ain’t a groove at all. It’s a rut. And, please, I’m not fishing for compliments or begging for approval, despite all appearances to the contrary. I’m too old and numb for that. But I was moved by the comments left and I felt I owed an explanation. Did anyone Google that Bukowski poem that Christy quoted? “…pulled down into the gluey dark.” C’mon, man. That’s pretty good. I got choked-up when I read it. It was brought to my attention at vulnerable moment. I’ll try to not let that happen again.

napa

Saturday, September 14th, 8:15 a.m., The Leonardini Vineyards, Napa Valley. Breakfast, coffee and the newspaper. NOT a rut.

A dark walk home from a long time ago

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binWhile rummaging around in the basement, I found a plastic storage box containing my journals from when I first moved to New York City as a young buck [mumble-mumble] years ago. 1,000+ single-spaced type-written pages and a bunch of hand-written books. There’s stuff in there I don’t want My Bride or Daughters to read so I am of a mind to destroy them. But every time I try, I start reading and get sucked in.

Here’s an excerpt. It’s interesting from an historical standpoint, both mine and in regards to the city. We’re both much different people now. I dedicate this post to all the New Yorkers who bitch and moan about gentrification. Forget your misty watercolored memories. This is the way it was.

*     *     *

March 10, 1993

I saw some horrific things on the way home this evening. If anyone in my family saw even ONE of these, they’d hog tie me, throw me in the trunk and drag my ass back to Ohio.

I got off the F train at Second Avenue and walked east on Houston. I passed Orchard Street and saw two black guys standing uncomfortably near a parked car. I got closer and saw a white guy sitting on the sidewalk with his back against the passenger door. He had a hypodermic needle in one hand and was trying to remove the cap with his other hand. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t grip it. How does he expect to inject himself?! Maybe that’s what the two dudes were there for. As I walked by, I heard him tell the black guys, “I’m from Amsterdam, you know.” It was 4:00 in the afternoon in broad daylight! There were people everywhere! I walked on.

I was waiting at the light to cross Essex and I saw a homeless guy on the other side of the street sitting on the ground, completely hidden under a filthy blanket. It was cold and wet out and the blanket looked heavy and damp. I felt awful for him. The light changed and as I crossed the street and got closer, I could see he was shaking. As I walked past him, I looked down at the heap and could tell that the shaking wasn’t from the cold. He was masturbating. In an instant, my sympathy dissolved into disgust.

Then I was waiting for the light to change at Suffolk Street and the guy in the car in front of me was getting a blow job! A girl was in the passenger seat bent over the shift console. The light turned and he drove away with a big stupid grin on his face. Guess what I felt that time? Envy.

The bums were kind of staggering around as usual. I passed the pay phone a half block from Clinton Street and out of the corner of my eye I could see  there was a little kid using it. She was a little girl, about eight or nine years old. She was wearing a dirty pink winter coat that had a hood with a fake fur lining. She had the phone off the hook and was holding it up against the ear of her Barbie doll. In this sea of ugly humanity, this poor child was playing with her doll. She doesn’t stand a chance. She’ll be eaten alive.

Why, in God’s name, did I leave Fort Greene? Brooklyn was great! South Portland is a beautiful street. Even though I was the only white guy on the block I felt, at best, welcomed  and if not that, at least tolerated. I’ll never feel close to the idiots who live in this shithole neighborhood. What was I thinking?

*     *     *

The modern day irony is that today, that same apartment, those same streets, are well outside my range of affordability. I couldn’t move back there even if I wanted to. Other, less dreary, posts pilfered from my journals can be seen here, here, here and here.

*     *     *

My semi-annual visits to Cleveland to see my family have taken on a whole new and fabulous dimension since a casino opened in the heart of downtown. They took a once-elegant department store and filled it with liquor and gambling. Huzzah! I took this clandestine photo of the dealer relieving me of $20, simply because there was an unfavorable roll of the dice. What nerve! Good-bye money. Now, that’s entertainment.

photo1111

Set the way-back machine to 1992

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Here’s some more fodder from the journals I unearthed. Nothing shocking here. Just a beautiful slice of life. As of these writings, I was still living in Brooklyn. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the Lower East Side of Manhattan was just a few months away.

*     *     *

Monday, November 16, 1992

I walked over to Brooklyn Heights to get a haircut. I fired Anita, even though she brushes her tits against me (intentionally, in my opinion). She charges too much ($28) and doesn’t always do such a great job. Picking a new barber is angst-inducing, to say the least. I impulsively walked into Golden Fingers on Court Street. I sat down, looked around, and suddenly realized it’s an Arab barber shop. Nobody was speaking English and there was strange Arabian music playing. [Note: Yes, that’s what I called it. “Strange.” I was going to edit that bit out because it sounds awful but thought it best to present these entries warts and all.]

Everyone sitting there, including the barbers, had thick, black, curly hair. Do these guys know how to cut straight hair? I could rework David Crosby’s Almost Cut My Hair into Arabs Cut My Hair. Ha ha. My barber had B.O. I told him to not cut it too short and no blood, please. He laughed but I wasn’t kidding. I’m happy to report that my man did an excellent job. He hands were fast, fast. I was out of there in no time. And cheaper than Anita, too. Only $17. But I missed the tits. It’s kind of far but all the barbers in my neighborhood only have black customers and I don’t know if they’d have any idea how to cut my hair.

I spoke to Klinger a few hours ago. He’s playing an open mic at the New York Comedy Club. He wanted me to come down but I don’t think I can make it. I’m a lot funnier than that guy, but he has bigger balls. Ambition trumps talent. It always has and it always will.

Sheila called me out of the blue. I told her that the common thread running between her and Joann is that on separate occasions I tried to seduce each one of them and they both, miraculously, found the strength to resist my animal charm. That made her laugh. Leave ’em laughing, right? She’s got a boyfriend she hates and occasionally calls me to complain about him. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Good God, I don’t care.

I met Cindy at DeRobertis on 1st Avenue and 11th Street. I finished her biography and we needed to pour over the edits and layout prototypes. She was grateful. No, not that grateful. I had a deliciouoso cream puff and a cappuccino. We walked down to St. Marks Bar. They remodeled it not long ago. People—and by “people” I mean the usual Lower East Side malcontents who are always spoiling for a fight, any fight—are bitching about the new décor but I don’t mind it. I asked the bartender what part of England he’s from and he said he was from Ireland. I apologized profusely, then I tucked my tail between my vagina and crawled out of there, humiliated.

At work, I passed two girls who were talking in the hallway. We all exchanged pleasantries. I turned the corner and there was a magazine rack there. I stopped to thumb through the magazines and I heard one of them say, “I passed him on the street the other day and he was talking to himself out loud.” She said it like it was scandalous. Do you know what? Not only do I not mind, I like it! If two sorority chippy investment bankers think I’m strange, then I must be doing something right.

Gay friends and other ruminations

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I’ve decided to poach from my recently excavated journals for another post. This one is from September 28, 1992. Long time gone. I have a cripplingly poor memory. Consequently, these journals have been a revelation to me.

*     *     *

P said there’s a woman in his office who wants me to take her daughter out on a date but first she needs to see a photo of me. He said it’s because she doesn’t believe I’m white. [Note: At that time, I was virtually the only white person living in a black neighborhood—Fort Greene, Brooklyn—which has since been gentrified and is now overrun with white people.]  That’s insulting! Who is she that I can’t meet her on my own merits? Has her vagina been dipped in platinum? Still…I gave her the photo of me on the balcony in Cozumel and felt stupid doing it. On Saturday, I’m taking M to a matinee. I jokingly asked her if she was going to “require a feeding” and she said, “What am I, a cow?” No, my sweet, you are definitely not a cow.

On Sunday P and I got on the G train and paid a visit to D for dinner. [Note: D owned the top two floors of a beautiful, old, Brooklyn brownstone, which included a roof garden.] The train skipped Bergen Street so we had to get off at Carroll Street and catch the Manhattan bound F one stop. Fucking subway. When we got there it started to downpour. We sat in the kitchen while D cooked and you could hear the hard rain fall against the greenhouse on the roof. It sounded like bacon frying. We smoked some pot and had a few beers. I faded into the background and listened to the two of them talk. Let me tell you something; everyone should have a few gay friends. They are endlessly entertaining. Especially after smoking some weed. They were arguing about the proper way to cook a pot roast, calling each other bitch and slut and all sorts of other horrible things. Yelling about adobo seasoning, whatever the hell that is. God, I was laughing my ass off. Some of the funniest, kindest people I’ve ever met are gay. It’s too bad I have no proclivities towards experimenting.

I didn’t have to work today so I made a good breakfast with three cups of strong coffee because it’s getting chilly out. The sky was crisp and blue so I went for a walk on the Lower East Side. As I passed Delancy Street, I was propositioned by a hooker, of all crazy things. I approached this cute Latino and she gave me that look and I thought to myself, well, this is kind of nice. Then as I passed by she said, “Do you want a date?” Oh. That. I got really embarrassed and checked to see if my shoelaces were untied. They weren’t.

I sat at a sidewalk cafe on 2nd Avenue and 6th Street to read the Times and watch the big parade. There was a really old guy sitting in front of me and everyone seemed to know him. They all stopped to chat. Cops. Old folks. Club kids. Blacks. Whites. Latinos. Everybody! I wonder who he is? I walked to the Orpheum and bought a ticket to the new Mamet play that’s in previews. $27.50. I’m surprised it’s opening down here and not on Broadway. [Note: That was Oleanna with William H. Macy and Rebecca Pidgon.]

I ended up shooting pool at Julian’s. That stairway has the most God-awful stench in all of NYC. And that’s saying something. Urine, body odor, vomit and Olde English 800 malt liquor all in one noxious whiff. Blame it on 8-0-0, indeed. [Note: That was the ad campaign slogan at that time.] I’m going to start using the rear entrance that lets out onto 14th Street, even though it kind of dangerous. The guy forgot to turn the timer on so he only charged me $3.50. I always feel stupid because I’m such a bad shot and I assume everyone is watching me but the truth is nobody cares. The guy behind the counter came out and taught me how to rack the balls for 9-ball. He also tried to explain strategy but I didn’t understand him. It’s not that his explanations were vague. It’s just that I’m as dumb as a brick when it comes to geometry. So I still don’t know how to play the game properly.

Ate dinner at an Italian deli/cheese shop that has a few tables in the back. Ate off a styrofoam plate and used plastic utensils. Low key but so damn delicious that I almost passed out from bliss. Took the 6 train to the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge and walked home over the bridge. Stopped midway to watch the sunset over the Hudson River. All alone, but not lonely.

Dreaming is free

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Here’s another one I found in my recently excavated journals. There was no date on it but I estimate it to be around 1991.

*     *     *

lotto dreams

The New York Lottery was $33 million dollars.
The night shift word processors all chipped in
because
we hate our lives.

I volunteered to call for the winning numbers
to confirm for all
what we already knew in our hearts:
The continuation of our sorrow.

Prior to dialing
I clandestinely copied the numbers
off of Nancy’s ticket.

After hanging up, I misrepresented to all
the numbers I copied down
as the winning numbers.

Nancy’s face was crimson with joy.
It looked as though she might hemorrhage
so I stopped the masquerade
and revealed
my deception.

Everyone was quite cross with me.
But later that night
Nancy came up and thanked me.
As she explained:
“Now I know how it feels to win millions of dollars.”

*     *     *

Here’s the current installation in the atrium of the Museum of Modern Art.

photo 3moma(1)

Some artists work in oils. Some in clay. Some prefer gouache. There’s a multitude of mediums to choose from. Can you guess what Wolfgang Laib uses?

photodream 2

This is Pollen from Hazelnut, a site-specific work that’s constructed from pollen Laib collected near his home in Germany. It’s sifted onto a slab into a fuzzy cube. Mrs. Wife asked how anyone with severe allergies can step into the building without being overwhelmed and I didn’t have an answer for her. All I can say is that pollen does not permeate the air.

photo 1(moma1)

I love this big, open space. There aren’t many like it in Manhattan. I always look forward to seeing what an artist will do when handed the keys to the car, but I was underwhelmed by this. If meh wasn’t such a tired, worn out cliché I’d use that, but since I’m above clichés, I won’t. It’s best to view this from up on high. I had to tamp down an urge to walk through it and leave footprints. Kick up a big yellow cloud. Turn it into a participatory installation.