Franklin Ave

I was wearing my short-sleeved black shirt from Barney's and the same Levi's jeans I've secretly been wearing for two weeks straight now when I made the trek out to Crown Heights to attend the Franklin Park Reading Series. My author Blake Butler was reading that night, and it's always fun to see him, so I was looking forward to the evening. I was almost there when it occurred to me that I was on Franklin Avenue, the site of my late brother Michael's law office. I don't know why this had never occurred to me before. I've been to that reading series at least once or twice before. I decided to walk the two blocks there to see how much it had changed, if at all.

As I was walking there, I marveled at how much the block has changed since the years I used to get taken to "the office" whenever I had been kicked out of school, which was often. Back then, it was mostly bodegas, and men peddling beef patties. Mmmmm...patties. What a strange word: "patty." Now, it's like organic restaurants and trendy bars and such. I wonder if my brother would have been happier there if the gentrification had happened earlier? He hated Franklin Avenue so much, and hated being an attorney, too. Towards the end of his life, I sat with him in his SUV in Queens and he told me that he had a dream to become the captain of a boat. I said, "well, why don't you do that, then?" "I can't," he replied, and then he started crying, and I held him. I felt so sad for him, feeling trapped in his life. I've structured my own life in such a manner that, if I ever needed to, I could just quickly gather up my books and outfits and cat and up and move to California. No kids. Just one family member left in Queens. And she thinks I'm crazy, so a sudden departure wouldn't raise any red flags with her. I would miss Paula and Luther, though. And Mary, and Kayleigh, and Cathy, and Kateri, and Heidi, and Michelle, and Sherie, and William, and Rory, and Greta, and Tina, and Amy, and Alyse. And the rest of y'all. I don't think Michael had the luxury of escaping his life. He was much more influenced by and dependent on his parents than I was. Plus he had that house and that very messed-up wife of his.

I peered inside the office, which is now some kind of investment firm. The front entryway seemed unchanged, but further in, it was totally different. They had gutted my brother's office, it was all hip now, like a f*cking loft or something, and I suddenly was going to cry. There were, like, these people inside, sitting and working. Like he once did. I wanted to run inside and scream at them and tell them to get the hell out, but instead I snapped this selfie of myself in front of the old office at 722 Franklin Ave. And then I went and saw Blake read a passage about the deaths of a million people in America, and Nikki was there, too, and I felt better for some strange reason. For the first part of the reading, I was sitting at the bar, gazing at the bottles, facing away from the readers. Then, I remembered that my purpose on earth is to help other people, and that one of the readers might feel slighted if they spotted me facing away from them on their night, so I turned around at that point. I feel very moved and grateful every time I think of my brother and how his job and his wife killed him, while my job and the people I work with restore me to life--every day--and the sociopaths I date have very little affect on me. I don't think it's luck--I haven't lived a good enough life to deserve luck. It's more like grace.

Same-saminess

For some months now, I've been playing a game with my colleagues. I wear the same pair of Levi's to work every day, to see if anyone notices. But no one notices! I suppose this is one area where men have an advantage over women? If a woman wore the same pantsuit to work every day, she would be quickly gathered into a chokehold and escorted noisily out the door by security. But no one cares what I wear, as long as I don't smell. (That's an in-joke for you, Tina and Amy!)

I guess no one really notices jeans. But there was a time when wearing a jean was revolutionary. Jeans have been around since the 1700s, but I believe that in reality they were only fully integrated into our culture post-WWII when factory workers demanded comfort as they inhaled their deadly fumes, enjoyed early mortality rates, and made our Rockefellers rich. And, strange as it may seem, I believe they were only fully cemented into the cultural melange when Ariana Grande was forced by the NFL to wear them instead of her planned super-short skirt, when performing at the Super Bowl a few mere months ago. She ROCKED those jeans. Are you shocked that I, 41, know who Ariana Grande is? You shouldn't be, because the old have...Google...! How else would we know where to search for cheap Boniva and Cialis amongst the pharmacies of Canada?

But, same-saminess is really my thrust here. WHY do I delight in wearing (mostly) the same outfit to work every day, give or take a variation in blouse? Why do I eat exactly the same thing every day during lunch hours for months, and then loathe when I start getting comped (to my great shame) by eateries? Do I have a form of OCD? (Yes. And I have a doctor's note as proof).

Today, I got emotional with a colleague, and I regret it now. I prefer the same-saminess of placid greetings and pleasant exchanges with work acquaintances. I don't regret at all what was said today (I was merely defending myself--and my colleagues). But I regret the emotion my words were said with. I don't get emotional much. As many people know, my primary battle in life I fought with my mother, and now that I have literally vanquished her, I don't really entertain many other emotional battles. None could really compare. I really wish I could say that I was comfortable living in a world in which I was submissive, where my commitment to my job could be called into question as a matter of course, on a regular basis, but I can't. That's just me.

Nostalgia outfit

Over the past month or so, I've been suffering from an attack of acute nostalgia.  I don't know what brought it on.  Perhaps my mid-life crisis, which makes it hard to listen to songs from the 1990s?  Perhaps because the NYU students in my neighborhood (and yours) have been getting ready to graduate, and my heart goes out to them - their hopes, their futures, the unsteady job market that I hope does not thwart them. 

The 1990s were my prime, musically.  I was just out of college myself, and I had bought a Sinead O'Connor record and heard the rock, breathed it in, felt it come down over me like a veil.  I saw most of my heroes play live often - the Sineads, the Juliana Hatfields, the Jeff Buckleys, even the Morrisseys (what a strange phase that was).  Then I moved to San Francisco, and I discovered the used cd stores of the world, and was introduced to Barbara Manning and Lisa Germano, among others. 

Years passed, and my own catalog of songs grew.  I knew that one day I would record an album "just for fun," and that I would play songs with my imaginary band and take over the world.  Then, cold reality set in ... it's hard to make a record, and it's harder still to get people to come to see you play.  It's hard to imagine that you'll become a rock star when your songs consist mainly of homoerotic flourishes.  I put my rock star fantasies on hold.  By doing so, I became less and less interested in music (today I barely even listen to my headphones, and I don't even have a speaker for my computer at home).

But when I heard that That Dog was playing a show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg, I had to go.  I'd wanted to see That Dog perform for years.  They opened up for Weezer once in Los Angeles, and I flew in partly to see them, but Alia was pregnant then, and she stalled and stalled until finally I went to see them by myself, but just missed them.  Another time, in New York, they were opening up for the Amps and the Foo Fighters, but again Alia stalled and stalled and I missed them again.  Then they broke up.  I thought all was lost, and that I would never get my chance to hear those songs from "Retreat From the Sun" that I loved so much. 

Anyway, Zon and I went out to see them on Friday.  From the very first song, my heart sank, and I realized that they suck live.  The ladies were a little too cutesy for my taste, and Anna was using some jive open tuning for every song.  Still, I stayed to hear them play "Minneapolis," and it was awesome, even though Anna punted the solo.  I practically ran out of the Music Hall of Williamsburg after that. I was wearing a "nostalgic" outfit ... something I thought I might have worn in the 90s ... an "ironic" orange-red polo from Lacoste and a pair of grey Levi's, plus some Pumas (of course). 

I don't know when this current wave of nostalgia will end.  Usually, my method of keeping nostalgia at bay is to have sex with one different NYU student per year, just to prove that I've still got it.  I sort of did the same thing this month, though it was disastrous, life-altering sex that I wish I could take back for his sake.  But then, this show, and a different sort of temporary salvation.  For one magical night at the Music Hall of Williamsburg, a band named That Dog cured me of my regret and poignant, bittersweet sorry - just by making me realize that I missed nothing - nothing! - by not seeing them 15 years ago.

Alternative earth - day 1!

I had a particularly good day today. I was wearing Alternative Earth, Jil Sander, Levi's, and New Balance. Nadia took me to see Matthew Bourne's "Swan Lake" at the City Center, and then I took her to B.R. Guest's new burger establishment, Bill's Burgers, in Rockefeller Center. Once, when I was a temp at MTV, I lunched daily at B.R. Guest's Ruby Foo's, reading my paper at the bar. One day, after, like, my 15th day in a row eating lunch there, the manager of Ruby Foo's and his assistant manager came over to me and presented me with a gift copy of Zagat's. Like, "get out. There are other restaurants in Manhattan, you dolt." I wonder how long it will take before I get a gift Zagat from Bill's Burgers? I've already eaten there about five times in less than two months.

After Nadia went home, I went to the gym and then went to G, where I ran into the gym god that I like. Deciding to go immediately on the offensive, I punched the gym god on his massive arm, and then chatted him up a bit. When he was leaving, I went to give him my card, but he indicated that he was seeing someone, but that I was definitely "tempting." Tempting! I love it! Thank you, outfit.

Afterwards, on the corner of 22nd and 8th, a black fellow chatted me up. A black fellow! I never get chatted up by my bruthas, for some reason. And they are very, very hard, I find, to get into bed. But this one was a bit horny, and when I told him my name was Gregory, he said, "Gregory, I want to have sex with you." I declined his offer to go with him to the Gym Bar, but gave him my card. Then I rushed home and took off my magical outfit, laying it aside neatly. I decided to try an experiment and wear the exact same thing the next day, to see if more crazy encounters would ensue. Thus ...