Lonsdale

After visiting a friend one evening in the East Village, I stopped by a restaurant and sat at the bar to order a solo meal and read my book. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an attractive young lad looking at me intently. Eventually, I glanced in his direction and he came over to talk. Immediately, I noticed his very strong London accent, and I thought what I thought about that.

"Are you enjoying the music?" he asked, smiling.

"I guess," I replied. "Mostly just trying to read."

"How," he asked, "can you read while the Beatles are playing?"

"Oh, I'm not a tremendous fan of the Beatles, although I do like 'Paperback Writer.'"

"What?!" He seemed incredulous. "Well, can you at least admit that British music is the best? British everything is the best. I mean, the Beatles! The Rolling Stones!"

"Well," I replied sensibly, "there would have been no Rollings Stones without Muddy Waters, and there would have been no Beatles without Chuck Berry. I can appreciate that the Rolling Stones mixed elements of American blues music with elements of American rock 'n' roll and got some interesting songs out of it, but I'd say that their music was a synthesis of what other people had already created."

The cute London man glared at me with great pathos.

"Why," he asked, "are you so anti-British?"

"I'm from Antigua," I replied.

"Oh!" He brightened. "Do you know who the greatest Antiguan ever was?"

"J. Rowan Henry," I said.

"Who?"

I began to describe some of my late father's activism as head of the Labour movement in Antigua, activism that eventually led to Antigua's independence from Britain and would have meant he would have been overwhelmingly elected as its first President. Until, of course, his untimely demise ...

"Oh, no," he said, dismissively. "The greatest Antiguan is Viv Richards," and then he walked back over to chat with his friend.

I sort of smiled at this exchange, but I gamely googled Viv Richards and saw that he was a cricket player. Immediately realizing that the London fellow was insane, I literally picked up my plate and walked to the other end of the bar, completely out of sight of the young man. But about five minutes later, he found me.

"Did you google Viv Richards?"

"Yes. That's why I moved over here."

"Oh, why, because he was an athlete?"

"I suppose."

He snorted with disgust and left me again. I hurriedly paid for my dinner and left the restaurant. Unfortunately, he was outside smoking with his friend.

"You," he said. "What do you have against the British?"

"Um, because they're usually people like you. People who have never even visited Antigua, but who try to tell me who the greatest Antiguan was. I was born there. My family lives there. I've read dozens of books about the island. And I'm certainly..." (here's where I jumped the shark!) "...not going to stand here and listen to some youth of a country that oppressed my ancestors..."

"You know what?" he said. "Fuck you! Just ... just fuck you!"

I was going to say, Ah, some of that legendary British wit! But I wisely kept my own counsel, especially since his friend had at that point had to restrain him from physically attacking me. I walked home, burning with the shame of letting some drunkard get me angry.

In my adulthood, I've had to do serious work around my prejudice against British people, along with people of other ... groups. A sane person shouldn't be prejudiced against anyone - or, at least, they should not reveal their own stupidity by discussing it in public. Two of my own authors, the amazing Caitlin Moran and Simon Van Booy, have taught me that British people can be cool, and kind, and down-to-earth, and incredibly smart. (Smarter - shocker! - than even me). It's a wonder it took me so long to learn such an obvious, elementary lesson: all people from a country do not act the same. Why did I spew such vitriol against this dolt?

In my adulthood, my anger towards the British led me to eschew certain fashion labels. I turned up my nose at Penguin, at Paul Smith, at Burton. I made an exception for Burberry in the 90s because I was highly amused by how American rappers had appropriated the brand as a symbol of excess. They lampooned it, even though the joke quickly became real and now, I think, that joke is on the young people of today, who listen to this materialistic music and grow angry that they do not have Louboutins and Cristal. I love the semiotics of clothing choices.

Long story short: I saw these briefs on a model on L'Internet. They're from Lonsdale, a British sporting goods company. So I ordered them and they arrived looking, ahem, a little skimpier than they were depicted on the site. No matter! I made my 30 euro purchase, and now that night, that unfortunate blip on my evolution towards enlightenment, has been absolved. Observe! The power of fashion. 

Bookcourt

Wearing black Levi's and some old short-sleeve Paul Smith shirt with what appears to be sea anemones on it, I went to Bookcourt in Brooklyn. Two of my authors, including the lovely Simon Van Booy, were on a three-person panel on romance and philosophy. My author Andrew Shaffer (GREAT PHILOSOPHERS WHO FAILED AT LOVE) brought a prize wheel with him (!) from Iowa and they did a little philosophical game show. My ticket was called, and I sat in the hot seat and answered some question about philosophy. I don't remember what the question was, but I won a chocolate. I know that John Reed from the Brooklyn Rail, whose voice I sometimes hear in my head like a moral compass, would say that it was corrupt of me to win at a game that I had helped set up. But what is the book business if not corrupt? (I love the word "corrupt" - my father called me that once when I was a child, and I still hear it as though pronounced with his voice's rich, majestic timbre.)

The room was full of hot straight guys, which always puts me in a bad mood. The other panelist, Todd Colby, was the only guy there whom I thought could be "funny," but a quick Google search the next morning revealed that he has a wife. And also that he has terrible luck and has barely survived fires and such, so probably not the best match for me, anyways. I like to be the unlucky one in any relationship, and I usually am.

Remember when a guy's ambiguous sexuality could become fodder for a years-long, ultimately unrequited crush? (I still think of you now, Steve from Zido's.) Now, thanks to Google, my hopes are dashed within hours, not years. I'm sure that's for the best. Now, after meeting him, I am sure that my email address will be added to Todd's mailing list, and I will get emails soon inviting me to a reading he's doing in Brooklyn somewhere. Thanks to Google, I will file these emails away in a folder called "To be wistfully ignored," a folder that, strangely, is full to overflowing. (Anyway, don't people realize that people who live in Manhattan, like me, pay extra every month so that we don't have to go to Brooklyn?)

Several of my most existential questions that evening received an answer, or, rather, a temporary salve, in the form of the reading, the ersatz game show, and a nice dinner afterwards with Mary, who accompanied me. But my most pressing question, in the end, was not answered to my satisfaction. Why does Andrew Shaffer have a prize wheel?

Love: the debate

I went to a panel discussion on love last night at the Algonquin. Two of my authors were on the panel, Ben Greenman, from the New Yorker, and Simon Van Booy, from outer space. Also on the panel were the unbelievably adorable Rachel Shukert, and queen of darkness Ariel Leve, whom I want to be my new best friend. (I don't think she'd have me, though). I was impressed with Ben's outfit - as he proved at the panel, he is a mildly sarcastic, intelligent, dark comedian - but he didn't feel the need to dress that way. Does that make sense? I mean, he could have come in in leggings or a tunic or in drag or something - he sounded like he was in drag. But because of his confidence in his message, he didn't feel the need to dress oddly - he kept it simple, with a navy blue shirt and black pants. I have a similar fashion policy. There's no need for me to have tattoos and piercings - I feel the piercings are part of my personality, and should be inferred. That's why I dress in muted beige tones, mostly.

I was saddened somewhat during the panel discussion, because it made me realize that, by Ariel's standards (and my own), that the only person I've ever really dated was Joshie Zerkel, twelve years ago in San Francisco. One romantic interest per lifetime - is that the usual formula for happiness? I remember taking him to the restaurant Stars in San Francisco for Valentine's Day. I had scouted it out the week before, assuring myself that the prices weren't too outrageous. Then, we got there on Valentine's Day, and they had, like, a whole new menu. (!) But that's history...

I was happy reading Ben's forthcoming book, though. It's called WHAT HE'S POISED TO DO, and like Ben's fashions, it toys with your perceptions a little. With that title and the cover photo, I was expecting it to be kind of raunchy. But I am finding each story to be a heartbreaking masterpiece - sort of a "Missed Connections" for the Charlie Rose set. In almost all the stories, letters are sent (sometimes postcards) or letters are not sent. I can only read one story at a time - to read them quicker would be to have the book end quicker. It's soooo sad - and it makes me want to write letters and not send them.

Simon and Pedro (and Jennifer)

One of my most fancy-dressin' authors, Simon Van Booy, convinced me to venture into Brooklyn last night for the Tin House reading. I texted him that I was waiting outside, as I'm shy, but after 45 minutes, I gave up and went into the reading alone. Of course, he was sitting inside already, enjoying the reading. Simon!

I ran into New York Times notable author Jennifer Gilmore there, and her husband Pedro, who Simon seemed fascinated by. They chatted for a while, while I gossiped with Jennifer. Then Simon sweetly gave me a ride back into Manhattan in his Audi. Much like my mother did whenever I drove her anywhere, I gripped the handrest until my knuckles went white, and kept pressing with my foot on an invisible brake. We discussed love, and I was taken again by Simon's innocence on the topic. Sometimes, I give him tips on dating etiquette, but I am un-datable myself, so I secretly hope he doesn't take my advice.

I was going to get dressed up for the reading, to make some doomed effort to attract a gloomy, literary fellow, but you can't out-dress Simon, so I had a bizarre outfit on - grey, acid-wash jeans, a dark grey shirt, and a purple sweater from the Gap. The Gap! And there were no literary fellows there anyway - just one cute guy who seemed to work there, and was thus off-limits, and every other guy in their 50s and up.

In this photo Simon and Pedro both are working their well-honed, individual looks. Work it, Simon and Pedro!