This Mess We're In
The first thing I do when I land in New York is listen to all of Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea, which makes me inexplicably sad. It takes about as long to finish as the trip from JFK into Manhattan, and I watch the Bronx and Brooklyn scroll by while I lean my forehead against the taxi window, then the Battery Tunnel and 7th Ave. and a tiny apartment and pad thai in the West Village while Polly Jean's long-distance relationship takes twelve tracks to fall apart.
The second thing I do is freeze. Remember a few weeks ago, when I crowed that New York was all balmy October weather and endless sunshine? As if to mock me, I returned to New York a few weeks later and it snowed on me. Snow fell on my squid-covered head and my lightly-lined leather jacket, on my two pairs of tights (one over the other), and my inadequate shoes. Sometimes the snow turned to freezing rain and sometimes it flew down the street in great horizontal gusts and sometimes it turned to slush on the ground, which I had to be very careful not to slip on. The wind destroyed umbrellas. Cheap and broken umbrellas, discarded in frustration, overflowed garbage cans on every corner. It was unseasonably cold. New York, if you are going to be this way, I cannot love you. There are people wearing shorts in San Francisco right now--shorts! Winter is a deal-breaker.
I would not walk out of the house into this weather. I would not cross the street in it. Nevertheless, hundreds of people traveled all the way into the wilds of Brooklyn for a masquerade ball in a theater that used to be a Presbyterian church. I am deeply impressed by their commitment. Popular costumes include the Red Queen and any number of Black Swans. Best costumes include Zombie Steve Jobs and M, who came dressed as Amanda Palmer. I kind of hoped that his Amanda Palmer was half of a couples' costume with a girl dressed as Brian in a bowler hat and that they would alternately argue and ignore each other all night. I danced to an awful lot of Beats Antique and stared at the ceiling truss. The next time I am in New York, I will arrange a gig in advance.
I visit with Molly the painter at her apartment near Wall St. She has only lived there for a couple of years, but Molly has the strongest nesting instincts of any human I have ever seen. Her apartment is encrusted in art. It is a coral reef of paintings and fliers, old glass bottles, and vintage furniture. Her cat has washed ashore on a row on vintage carpet-bag purses. I understand this place. We drink tea with other pretty, clever women, and discuss the formative powers of Anais Nin (who does not age well on re-reading) and Batman: The Animated Series. I make a solemn promise to see Sleep No More the next time I am in town. It occurs to me that I am practically the only person I know who is not contributing writing or art to Coilhouse. It occurs to me that I don't need to take on another project.
I wander Soho. I take the subway. I conduct a 30-minute phone interview with a reporter while walking through the Village. I try to get a feeling for how Manhattan hangs together. I try not to get run over by taxis. I try not to buy a $400 leather jacket from All Saints. I chat in Russian with my Uzbek cab driver.
The world beats dead, like a slackened drum.
The second thing I do is freeze. Remember a few weeks ago, when I crowed that New York was all balmy October weather and endless sunshine? As if to mock me, I returned to New York a few weeks later and it snowed on me. Snow fell on my squid-covered head and my lightly-lined leather jacket, on my two pairs of tights (one over the other), and my inadequate shoes. Sometimes the snow turned to freezing rain and sometimes it flew down the street in great horizontal gusts and sometimes it turned to slush on the ground, which I had to be very careful not to slip on. The wind destroyed umbrellas. Cheap and broken umbrellas, discarded in frustration, overflowed garbage cans on every corner. It was unseasonably cold. New York, if you are going to be this way, I cannot love you. There are people wearing shorts in San Francisco right now--shorts! Winter is a deal-breaker.
I would not walk out of the house into this weather. I would not cross the street in it. Nevertheless, hundreds of people traveled all the way into the wilds of Brooklyn for a masquerade ball in a theater that used to be a Presbyterian church. I am deeply impressed by their commitment. Popular costumes include the Red Queen and any number of Black Swans. Best costumes include Zombie Steve Jobs and M, who came dressed as Amanda Palmer. I kind of hoped that his Amanda Palmer was half of a couples' costume with a girl dressed as Brian in a bowler hat and that they would alternately argue and ignore each other all night. I danced to an awful lot of Beats Antique and stared at the ceiling truss. The next time I am in New York, I will arrange a gig in advance.
I visit with Molly the painter at her apartment near Wall St. She has only lived there for a couple of years, but Molly has the strongest nesting instincts of any human I have ever seen. Her apartment is encrusted in art. It is a coral reef of paintings and fliers, old glass bottles, and vintage furniture. Her cat has washed ashore on a row on vintage carpet-bag purses. I understand this place. We drink tea with other pretty, clever women, and discuss the formative powers of Anais Nin (who does not age well on re-reading) and Batman: The Animated Series. I make a solemn promise to see Sleep No More the next time I am in town. It occurs to me that I am practically the only person I know who is not contributing writing or art to Coilhouse. It occurs to me that I don't need to take on another project.
I wander Soho. I take the subway. I conduct a 30-minute phone interview with a reporter while walking through the Village. I try to get a feeling for how Manhattan hangs together. I try not to get run over by taxis. I try not to buy a $400 leather jacket from All Saints. I chat in Russian with my Uzbek cab driver.
The world beats dead, like a slackened drum.