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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.