Clip a loaf

A bird shat on me today. Are you one of those people who think that's good luck? I'm not.

I can remember with great clarity the occasions in my life where I bird has hit me with an ass apple. The first time, I was working as a temporary Census worker. God, it must have been 1990. I was crestfallen when it happened; I thought life was a bit of a charnal pit already - I was a fat kid with a part-time job, living at home again with my sadistic parents, on summer break from college. And then to top it all off, I had to make my rounds to the homes of strangers in Queens, covered in excreta.

The second time it happened, I was wandering in Midtown during a patch of, ahem, under-employment. I think I had just seen David Dinkins walking in the street, and, while that did thrill me, it probably offered me no succor, as he was unemployed himself at the time. What could a sighting of David Dinkins do for me?! I remember feeling overwhelmed and forming this thought: What has God wrought? Literally. I was thinking in complete sentences back then, as if I was writing my thoughts down in a little book. And then a bird hit me with its sphincter spear.

Today, I was walking from CVS with a bag full of pills when I felt what I at first thought was a blast from a bb gun. I put my hand to my head and drew it back filled with stool. But what did it mean? I know that birds are God's emissaries on Earth, so what was God trying to tell me? I'm actually in a good place in my life right now. My meds are working. I get a great deal of personal satisfaction from my job. I just purchased a li'l Netbook, and now will be tap-tap-tapping away at my unpublishable novel. I'm not seeing anyone, and so have a little extra money in my pocket.

This is a picture of me in the bathroom at work after I had washed my head off. I'm wearing some Barney's shirt, which I recently shortened the sleeves of. A little speck of the bird's toilet orphan is on my shoulder, but you'd never see it unless you looked for it.

I remember a scene from Orwell's Animal Farm in which a flock of birds "mutes" on some farmers. My English teacher at the time told us that "mute" in this context meant to "clip a loaf," as it were. I can say in all sincerity that I have had a very Orwellian day today.

Pizza party!

It was Annie's bday, so I took her to that Max Brenner restaurant in Union Square, where we had a delicious supper. Annie never warns people when her birthday is approaching ... she only tells you months later, so you can feel terrible about forgetting it, and she can be a martyr of a sort. But now I will have the last laugh! I've saved Annie's bday in an internet program, so I get a reminder about it every year. Now, every year I tell her she's an old hag like me, and then I take her out to dinner so we can have some food for our Boniva to dissolve in.

I laughed out loud when I saw the t-shirt she was wearing! It's an inside joke that not too many people know - Annie and our friend Kristin have a fake band named Pizza Party, that exists only for them to take funny "album cover" photos and post them on their Facebook pages. I remember looking at these posts once and feeling both impressed by their wit and a little jealous that I wasn't in the band. I wish I had the link. I just googled "kristin anne pizza party" to try to find the link again, and instead I found a link to a segment on New Jersey's News 13 where Kristin embarks on a unicycle ride across the state, in the hope of inspiring "locals to live their dreams." I quickly closed my browser window ... sometimes we find that we don't know our friends as well as we thought. And perhaps that's for the best.

Here's the unicycle segment link:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaD3ZXZVK50

!

White people

I hesitate to post about this, because it might offend some people, but for all my life, I have tried to avoid buying articles of clothing with pictures of white people on them. I have nothing against you, white people! But there are so many of you - in my neighborhood, my career, my social life - I don't need to see you depicted on my clothing. Plus, as a minority, I feel that I should be going above and beyond to find positive portrayals of black people to wear. Trust me when I tell you, it's hard to find positive portrayals of black people on clothing. Sigh.

As I've mentioned on my blog before, an old boss once tried to give me a pair of cufflinks with white babies depicted on them! "Oh, no!" I practically screamed at him. "I'm not going to walk around this place with a pair of white babies on my wrist!" It helps the story if you imagine that the place of work was Sotheby's, where I was the only black man employed, aside from the art handlers.

Imagine this, then ... after a weeks-long search for the perfect pair of khaki pants, after I had ventured bravely into what is consistently my fashion Waterloo, Urban Outfitters, found a pair of khakis that I loved (slim fit, a slightly olive tint), laundered this pair of pants (thus rendering them unreturnable), and then hung them up ... Imagine my shock at looking closer at the pocket after something had caught my eye ... closer, still closer ... and then realizing, with a sinking feeling, that a bunch of white children - practically microscopic but still there! - were cavorting around inside the button.

I have many racial hangups, it's true. This story illustrates just one of them.

Kiss & Fly

Susan somehow convinced me to drag my ass out to Kiss & Fly to see a bizarre live taping of the "Judith Regan Show." I went not only to prove that I can still lurk around at hip clubs at my age, but also because I wanted to meet the legendary Judith Regan, who used to work for the publishing company I work for. One of my colleagues has saved a voicemail from Judith in which she starts off all nicey-nice, but then begins screaming at him so loudly that, years later, the sheer terror she must have inspired is still palpable. Because I had a crazy mother, I find crazy ladies really fascinating, and I go out of my way to befriend and mollify them. But I was unable to get close to Judith at Kiss & Fly, however - that dirty old Dennis Hof from HBO's "Cathouse" was in my way. :(



Susan and I were watching Vicki when Susan muttered to me, "Look at Vicki. What is she going for here - winter, spring, summer, or fall?" I cracked up, because I love catty fashion commentary! Then Susan told me that my evil college journalism nemesis Tom McGinty is up for two Pulitzers this year! I swear, if Tom McGinty wins a Pulitzer, I will plotz. Back at Utica College, he won every single award ever created, and tried to discredit me as a less-than-serious journalist! I will never forgive him for referring to me as the "part-time Arts & Entertainment Editor of the Tangerine." As my life has taught me, people hate the arts ...


Right after this picture was taken, some creeping fellow asked if I would come say hello to his friend, who was giving me the eye, and who apparently owns some gas stations. Even though I was not attracted to his friend, a gas station owner is a step up from my usual love interests, who are generally unemployed and sort of psychotic and detached. I went and said hello, but I guess I didn't make the cut, because I was dismissed after that. "We like to meet a lot of people," the creeper said. Apparently, the creeping friend and the gas station owner flew home that night in the gas station owner's personal helicopter. Ah, well. I guess I should count myself lucky. With my luck, I probably would have been thrown from the helicopter mid-flight.



Susan became drunkenly obsessed with getting a picture taken with Dennis Hof, and I took the opportunity to slip out and head home to bed with the Colonel. A typical night for the Gregster. No Pulitzer in hand, no digits from the gas station millionaire - but all the overweight cat I can snuggle.

Cleaning day

I took Friday off to clean my apartment, which is something I do from time to time, though I do find my efforts futile in a way. I spent the whole day taking recycling downstairs, doing laundry, putting away clean clothes, and throwing things out. I also did two hours of cardio - an hour on my stationary bike, and one hour on the treadmill at the gym. While exercising, I sped-read my way through four months-worth of old New York Times's that I had stacked on my computer, and which had become an oppressive mountain of late. When newspapers stack up like that, I am consumed with terrible guilt - as a book publicist, I know that there might be some tidbit in one of the papers that I could parlay into a booking for one of my authors. So I can't bring myself to throw them out! That's why, when I finally got to the bottom of the pile, I was reading a New York Times from October 30, 2010. Once, a long time ago, I threw away an even bigger stack of papers and magazines that I had been saving in a plastic tub - at Vicki's suggestion - and I cried myself to sleep that night, and have been haunted ever since by what I might have found, what I might have been made to believe.

After a hard day like that, what better way to unwind than with a terrifying movie in which a hard-working book publicist is stabbed to death and then dumped off a building? That's why I went to see "Scream 4" with Chris and Kirk. Here I am, wearing a Helmut Lang t-shirt I'd found that day on the bottom of a drawer, along with my "punk-rock" pants from John Varvatos. If I ever get stabbed to death and dumped off a building, I hope I'm wearing Helmut Lang. What a fabulous way to die.

Richard

Richard was in town with his boyfriend Patrick, and we went to Westville for brunch. I commented on Richard's militaristic coat, and then I photographed him, as the military look is hot, hot, hot right now. I know Richard from Lehman Brothers, and, during my time there, the other assistants and I were always curious as to how Richard remained employed. Richard said during brunch that it was his perfectionism that made the higher-ups hate him, but I seem to recall that it was his penchant for taking off every single religious holiday on the calendar (and there are many). But who am I to grouse about someone's work ethic at Lehman Brothers? When I was there, I was cultivating a serious drug habit, and took a great many days off myself (once without any notification at all, which was shocking - SHOCKING - to Human Resources). I was also cultivating a serious inclination toward bluntly sexual office banter - once I told Ali Behbahani that my PIBs (public information books) were as "sweet as honey," while winking lewdly at him. That was really gross. And when Ted Kalem touched a fax machine near me once and said "That's hot!" I replied, sweetly, "Thank you." He gave me a dirty look. At our group head Gary's clam bake at his Westchester pool house, sitting across from Ali, wearing swim trunks, I literally exposed myself to him, and he turned pale. But what could they do? My boss was their supervisor, and he was a scary person. Once, I called him to give my two weeks' notice, and he intimidated me into staying! He literally refused to let me quit. These days, of course, I am old and tired, and being a sassy secretary doesn't hold the same thrill for me. I'm not even an assistant any more - although I was one for years after I left Lehman Brothers. Looking back, I really am sorry that I refused to do your expense report that time, Nik Puri! I'm sorry that I was so loud in the office, Marilyn and Armita. I hope you are still in touch with "Mr. Frank." Wherever he is, I am sure he is closing in on the bottom line as surely as if he contained a homing device within him. And I'm really sorry to you, Ali, for "taking it out." Richard, I'm glad we stay in touch, even though there isn't even a Lehman Brothers anymore. Most of all, for reasons that may be obvious to everyone, I'm sorry I never met Dick Fuld.

Show's over, Synergy

For some reason, I've been obsessed with 80s cartoon "Jem" lately. I know, I know, I'm old. And gay. I spent a weekend recently googling Jem, and discovered many unexpected things. Did you know that the woman who provided Jem's singing voice is now the bassist for the band Luna? Or that Christy Marx, the show's creator, may be thinking of reviving the show and doll line? I didn't, but I do now.

Jem's signature line, "Showtime, Synergy!", of course, was the signal for her computer, Synergy, to project a hologram of the Jem character, usually with pink hair and a sassy pink outfit (often with a sash) over Jerrica Benton's body. And then she would sing and dance with her band, and engage in a surprisingly lethal feud with a rival band, the Misfits. Sometimes I wonder if that's what drew me to Jem - the fact that she was just an illusion. Or was it because it was the first time I saw anyone wear a sash? Who knows?

Whatever the appeal, Jem really did it for me. I was thirteen when the show debuted, and I would rush home from high school and set up my little tape recorder next to the t.v. so I could tape Jem's songs. I still remember some of them by heart. The theme song. "Music is Magic." "Let the Music Play." Now that I think about it, I was perhaps a little too old even then to get that into a cartoon. And certainly, I had to keep my obsession a secret from my parents, who enjoyed punishing me by withholding access to my favorite things. (Plus, my mother had already chastised me for wanting to see "Dreamgirls," saying, "I don't know what kind of young man wants to see three woman on stage, singing." My mother was truly outrageous!)

Recently, in a meeting in our department at work, the topic of Jem came up. I grasped my imaginary star earring and said: "Showtime, Synergy!" I expected everyone's eyes to light up, remembering that immortal battle cry. Instead, I was greeted with embarrassed silence from the other members of the publicity department. Clearly, no one remembered Jem's lines, and, in fact, everyone wondered why I did. I was going to say Jem's other immortal line, "Show's over, Synergy!" but I figured the message behind that line could be inferred already, from the silence.