New York, N.Y. Part 1...
Finaly a wireless signal!
June 28, 2006
I was welcomed to vacation by a Vegas airport shooting on our 3-hour layover from hell. I could go into all the reasons I hate Vegas, but that would be tedious. Instead I’ll just pull a Trenchard and say “You wanna know? Read my chap book.” (Yeah…it’s finally coming out 6 months late). In the middle of consuming a veggie cesadia 2 or 3 shots rang out a few feet outside the airport restaurant. 5 or so women shrieked, the bartender froze and Sarah and I ducked under our table. Apparently a crazed middle aged white man with a noticeable bear gut had run through security snatched up a toddler at knifepoint and then been instantly gunned down by Las Vegas Police. The baby was fine, the man was not. I still don’t know his motives. My Internet has been too sporadic to GoogleNews it myself. We remained in the restaurant for the next 30 min. or so till the officers could decide whom to keep for questioning. 3 drunk businesswomen at the nearby table asked if drinks where on the house while we waited. A man and his son with a “God Bless America” T-shirt shot her a dirty look saying, “I don’t think that is very funny”, outlowd, and finishing with “some guy was just shot and all you can think of is yourself” under his breath.
Its funny how much violence affects us in person. I wonder if he takes a moment of silence at night watching Fox News, or if he just tosses back another bud and changes the station to the family guy.
July 1, 2006
He’s got cornrows more intricately patterned on his scalp then the Subway systems many interlocked and intertwined lines and his fingers are small but steady. He grips the pole keeping steady with his ashy brown toddler size hands pressing so hard that the pale parts of his fingers turn pink. I stair at him and smile. I’ve taken to staring at even more children in New York then in California, they are the only people who aren’t scared to look and occasionally smile back. Here I feel honored just to get a pleasant nod in acknowledgement of smile offers directed toward strangers, neighbors and people I’m crammed against for greater parts of an hour on the J train. The little boy doesn’t smile back at me, he just stairs with gigantic brown eyes at the quickly moving world around him. A man gets off the train holding a baby and the woman falling asleep next to gets up just in time to realize she has missed her stop and her “baby Daddy” now standing outside at the station waves mockingly and laughs as the train takes off and she mouths “You fucking asshole son of a bitch!” through the window. She begins to cry gasping and heaving with her tears hidden poorly by the window reflection she leans against. All I want to do is walk over, touch her back and say, “leave the inconsiderate SOB.” But I can’t, this is NY.
July 3, 2006
I saw John Stewart in Washington Square Park today. He looked as fucked as the rest of us. 10-O’clock shadow and all with a toddler. I wonder if he ever rides the “J” or if Brooklyn is in his vocabulary. An idol, or a least a figure head in front of me and I consciously try not to stare while obviously staring to make sure I’ve spotted him accurately. I mean: white, middle aged, in loose multi pocked thin hemp-like pants? Really? Even John Stewart dresses like a Yuppie in Manhattan come July.
My neighborhood is a Chapel show skit cliché waiting to happen. The “Hasley” stop, 24 Wierfield, just two sops from the café-cool parts of Williamsburg Brooklyn N.Y. There’s a Korean convenience store owner just around the corner. He stairs diligently at every black boy under 17 that comes in, but holds my orders till I have time to visit the ATM and come back. To make up for it, 4 black men call me “Jungle Love” as I make my way home after picking up tofu and Noodles everyday on my way home. I don’t think I’d care except here they don’t know I have Iron Triangle creds, so catcalls come off condescending and borderline threatening. Here, I’m just another 4-year-degeree bitch looking to change the color of the Jamaican line.
July 4th, 2006
Happy 4th? Its poring rain in Brooklyn…take that Red White & Blue! The only Fireworks you’ll be getting here will be from Electrical fires set off by lightning and fueled by ghetto rooftops. It’s ok though, because as far as the locals on Wierfield are concerned it’s been 7/4 for a week. Any excuse to shoot explosives into the air at 2am is good enough.
Everyday I become more Dyke-like in my clothing choices. I’ve moved quickly from trying to appear more approachable to sensitive beach town types to attempting to give off a “Don’t fuck with me” feel when anywhere outside the artist alcoves of the Island. I realize even more now the negotiations ahead of me. I have become all the things I feared and loathed and simultaneously reached most of the realistic and even some of the outlandish goals I set for myself. I am no longer as comphy with the section eight lifestyle. I got used to cops coming whether you called them or not, rather then just never showing up.
Despite my constant state of being enamored yet disgusted by this place, I’m finally starting to feel a bit more adjusted. Wondering through the Asian Ghetto, Little Italy, SOHO, NOHO, Alphabet city, Greenwich Village, and soaking in Christopher St all alone helped me ground. I needed to purposely forget that I had no idea where I was and learn parts of the city in the way I learn most direction: Trial and error by foot. Everywhere else in the world I have been screwed by my lack of automobile direction sensibilities…but it pays off big time in the Big Apple because nobody has a bleeding car hear unless it’s a stretch Hummer on rent for the night.
June 28, 2006
I was welcomed to vacation by a Vegas airport shooting on our 3-hour layover from hell. I could go into all the reasons I hate Vegas, but that would be tedious. Instead I’ll just pull a Trenchard and say “You wanna know? Read my chap book.” (Yeah…it’s finally coming out 6 months late). In the middle of consuming a veggie cesadia 2 or 3 shots rang out a few feet outside the airport restaurant. 5 or so women shrieked, the bartender froze and Sarah and I ducked under our table. Apparently a crazed middle aged white man with a noticeable bear gut had run through security snatched up a toddler at knifepoint and then been instantly gunned down by Las Vegas Police. The baby was fine, the man was not. I still don’t know his motives. My Internet has been too sporadic to GoogleNews it myself. We remained in the restaurant for the next 30 min. or so till the officers could decide whom to keep for questioning. 3 drunk businesswomen at the nearby table asked if drinks where on the house while we waited. A man and his son with a “God Bless America” T-shirt shot her a dirty look saying, “I don’t think that is very funny”, outlowd, and finishing with “some guy was just shot and all you can think of is yourself” under his breath.
Its funny how much violence affects us in person. I wonder if he takes a moment of silence at night watching Fox News, or if he just tosses back another bud and changes the station to the family guy.
July 1, 2006
He’s got cornrows more intricately patterned on his scalp then the Subway systems many interlocked and intertwined lines and his fingers are small but steady. He grips the pole keeping steady with his ashy brown toddler size hands pressing so hard that the pale parts of his fingers turn pink. I stair at him and smile. I’ve taken to staring at even more children in New York then in California, they are the only people who aren’t scared to look and occasionally smile back. Here I feel honored just to get a pleasant nod in acknowledgement of smile offers directed toward strangers, neighbors and people I’m crammed against for greater parts of an hour on the J train. The little boy doesn’t smile back at me, he just stairs with gigantic brown eyes at the quickly moving world around him. A man gets off the train holding a baby and the woman falling asleep next to gets up just in time to realize she has missed her stop and her “baby Daddy” now standing outside at the station waves mockingly and laughs as the train takes off and she mouths “You fucking asshole son of a bitch!” through the window. She begins to cry gasping and heaving with her tears hidden poorly by the window reflection she leans against. All I want to do is walk over, touch her back and say, “leave the inconsiderate SOB.” But I can’t, this is NY.
July 3, 2006
I saw John Stewart in Washington Square Park today. He looked as fucked as the rest of us. 10-O’clock shadow and all with a toddler. I wonder if he ever rides the “J” or if Brooklyn is in his vocabulary. An idol, or a least a figure head in front of me and I consciously try not to stare while obviously staring to make sure I’ve spotted him accurately. I mean: white, middle aged, in loose multi pocked thin hemp-like pants? Really? Even John Stewart dresses like a Yuppie in Manhattan come July.
My neighborhood is a Chapel show skit cliché waiting to happen. The “Hasley” stop, 24 Wierfield, just two sops from the café-cool parts of Williamsburg Brooklyn N.Y. There’s a Korean convenience store owner just around the corner. He stairs diligently at every black boy under 17 that comes in, but holds my orders till I have time to visit the ATM and come back. To make up for it, 4 black men call me “Jungle Love” as I make my way home after picking up tofu and Noodles everyday on my way home. I don’t think I’d care except here they don’t know I have Iron Triangle creds, so catcalls come off condescending and borderline threatening. Here, I’m just another 4-year-degeree bitch looking to change the color of the Jamaican line.
July 4th, 2006
Happy 4th? Its poring rain in Brooklyn…take that Red White & Blue! The only Fireworks you’ll be getting here will be from Electrical fires set off by lightning and fueled by ghetto rooftops. It’s ok though, because as far as the locals on Wierfield are concerned it’s been 7/4 for a week. Any excuse to shoot explosives into the air at 2am is good enough.
Everyday I become more Dyke-like in my clothing choices. I’ve moved quickly from trying to appear more approachable to sensitive beach town types to attempting to give off a “Don’t fuck with me” feel when anywhere outside the artist alcoves of the Island. I realize even more now the negotiations ahead of me. I have become all the things I feared and loathed and simultaneously reached most of the realistic and even some of the outlandish goals I set for myself. I am no longer as comphy with the section eight lifestyle. I got used to cops coming whether you called them or not, rather then just never showing up.
Despite my constant state of being enamored yet disgusted by this place, I’m finally starting to feel a bit more adjusted. Wondering through the Asian Ghetto, Little Italy, SOHO, NOHO, Alphabet city, Greenwich Village, and soaking in Christopher St all alone helped me ground. I needed to purposely forget that I had no idea where I was and learn parts of the city in the way I learn most direction: Trial and error by foot. Everywhere else in the world I have been screwed by my lack of automobile direction sensibilities…but it pays off big time in the Big Apple because nobody has a bleeding car hear unless it’s a stretch Hummer on rent for the night.