Brother From Another Continent
October 4, 2005
The famed Daniel Boud, keeper of the bloggie award-winning website boudist.com , is currently bopping around the world on some sort of touring vacation. When I read on his site that he was coming to New York and needed a place to stay, I offered to let him crash at my place for the week. He just called from Barcelona to let me know there was a problem with his connecting flight, so who knows when he'll get here, but when he does, the first thing I plan to do is make fun of his accent.
He has his an agenda, but we plan to go out at least once to celebrate all the things we have in common, including, but not limited to: last names, blogs, and birthdays. Our birthdays are about a week apart, but close enough for rock and roll.
October 6, 2005
After an unscheduled 12-hour layover at Heathrow airport, Daniel finally boarded a plane that lumbered over the pond and plopped him in New York safe and sound. After a hello, how do you do, we hopped the L train to Bedford Avenue for a little people watching and a quick coffee before Daniel had to meet his friend Elmo, another Aussie in New York. Daniel and Elmo had tickets for a lecture by economist Jeffrey Sachs. The focus of the lecture was extreme poverty in Africa, but the guy scheduled to introduce Dr. Sachs was the real draw: Bono.
The lecture was scheduled for 6:00 at NYU, and Daniel arranged to meet Elmo at the lecture hall. He wasn't exactly sure where it was, or how to get there, so I offered to ride into Manhattan with him to help him find it. While Daniel went to the box office to pick up his tickets, a woman came up behind me and asked if I was going to the lecture.
"No. I'm just here with my friend," I said, and pointed to Dan, "but he's going."
"I have an extra ticket I'm trying to get rid of," she said. "Are you interested?"
"Sure."
After getting the tickets, we stood around waiting for Elmo to show up, and as we did, we noticed a small group of people accumulating at the other end of the block. We quickly figured out that it's where Bono was expected to arrive. We stood in the crowd and waited with them.
"What's everyone waiting for?" a passerby asked me. "I think Bono is supposed to show up here. He's appearing at a lecture tonight."
The highly competitive, fortysomething hardcore Bono groupies turned and gave me a look as if I was giving away top-secret information. When another passerby asked one of the groupies who she was waiting for, I overheard her ambiguous answer: "People."
Every time I told someone about Bono, the crowd grew slightly—"Bono? Oh, that's exciting!"—which, of course, is what Bono's aging fan club was trying to avoid.
I decided to experiment.
"What's everyone waiting for?" another person asked.
"Jeffrey Sachs is lecturing here tonight," I said.
"Who's that?"
"He's a famous economist."
They shrugged and didn't bother to wait around.
Once Bono was finished signing autographs and disappeared into the lecture hall, everyone with a ticket made their way to the main entrance. In the shuffle, I accidentally kicked a tall, stocky bald guy in the foot. "Sorry," I said.
"No problem," he replied, glancing over his shoulder, and then squealed: "I just saw Bono! I'm still shaking. You could hit me over the head right now and I wouldn't care."
"Don't tempt me."
October 7, 2005
Perhaps the best thing about playing host to out-of-town visitors is when their enthusiasm for New York rubs off on me. I tend to get so jaded about my life in general, and New York in particular, that I lose sight of the fact that I live in one of the greatest cities in the world. Last night at dinner, amidst three Australians, Daniel, Elmo, and the notorious Killer Bob, I was reminded.
October 5, 2005
While Daniel was off doing the maverick rock and roll photographer thing at the Knitting Factory and CBGBs, I went to visit Deborah at the restaurant where she tends bar.
When I got there, two guys were sitting at the bar, having an animated discussion about who knows what. After saying hello to Deborah, I sat down and she introduced me to them.
I shook hands with the one sitting closest —a tall, gay Jamaican with a booming voice, who was radiating snarky gay fabulousness all over the bar. Then I shook hands with the other, a smaller, vaguely European white guy, who I assumed (wrongly, it turned out) was also gay. Deborah had mentioned the Jamaican to me before, and described a T-shirt he once wore that read: "Mr. Wonderful." After the introductions, Deborah leaned in and whispered, "That's Mr. Wonderful."
"I figured."
"Why are we meeting this guy?" Mr. Wonderful asked. "Why do we care?"
"He's my friend!" Deborah scolded. "That's why."
I chose to ignore them after that and ate a hamburger at the bar, quietly.
After I'd finished eating, Mr. Wonderful turned to me and asked, "What's your name again?"
"Jamie."
"And how do you know Miss Deborah here?"
I gave an unhelpful shrug.
"Have you known her for years?" he asked. "Did you just meet? Is she your best friend, or are you just one of those helpless boys with sad eyes who comes to the bar to pine for the beautiful bartender?"
"Leave him alone," Deborah protested. "He's my boyfriend."
"Ahh!" said Mr. Wonderful. "Now we're getting somewhere!"
He then proceeded to tell a long, rambling story about an episode of Will and Grace. I usually tune out when people describe television episodes, so, even though it may have been somehow related to the situation, I couldn't follow along. He sensed it and apologized for telling a "Rose Nylund" story.
"A what story?"
"Rose Nylund, from The Golden Girls. She always told rambling, pointless stories."
This led to another animated discussion, this time about The Golden Girls. No one believed me when I said I'd never watched the show.
A little later, the Jamaican said he was tired and going home. "I just want to crawl into bed and watch TV."
"If you're lucky, maybe The Golden Girls will be on," I said.
"No!" he laughed. "I want to watch a movie !"
"Golden Girls: The Movie."
He thought that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Yes! That would be a blockbuster!"
"It'd have to be the original cast, though," the vaguely European guy chimed in, and then he proceeded to name all the characters and the actresses that played them -- hence my mistaking him for gay.
I didn't stay long, said goodbye to the motley pair, said goodbye to Deborah, and went home to rest up for my birthday festivities.
This morning, when Deborah called to wish me a happy birthday, I asked her, "What did that nudnik say about me behind my back after I left?"
"He said, 'You have to marry that guy right away!' "
"Ha," I scoffed. "He sure changed his tune."
Because of my brilliant Golden Girls movie idea, no doubt.
Happy birthday to me.
October 8, 2005
Ten people sat around the birthday table we'd reserved at Planet Thai. A nice, festive number. Although Planet Thai primarily serves Thai food, it also serves sushi and some select Japanese dishes. As everyone pored over the options on the notoriously large menu, Daniel, who was seated to my right, overheard me say to Deborah, seated to my left, what I planned to order.
"Did you just say you were going to order ginger chicken?" he asked.
"Yes."
" That's what I was going to order. That's insane. Out of a hundred options on the menu, what are the chances?"
It did seem rather unlikely, and I decided it was further evidence that we were somehow related. Daniel changed his order before the waitress finally came, however, because I think the coincidences were beginning to creep him out.
"So who is everyone?" Daniel asked as we ate our appetizers.
I proceeded to point around the table, starting with Deborah. "Well, Deborah, you've met, of course. Next to Deborah is Christina, otherwise known as the adorable Virgo Supercluster, and the guy she's with is her husband, Brian, otherwise known as the luckiest boy in the world. Next to him is Isabella, from Germany, doing an internship at the U.N.— We met in Amsterdam. I've only met her a couple of times, but she's very sweet, doesn't know anyone in New York, so I thought it'd be nice to invite her. Next to her is Elmo, an Australian girl who is a friend of the Australian guy who's staying in my apartment.”
"Oh really?" Daniel said.
"Yeah. The guy's a real pain in the ass, but he's leaving soon, so—"
Seated next to Elmo was her boyfriend, Rob.
"There's another random Australian," I said. "I can't seem to get away from them. Next comes TRUE, the crazy, split-personality genius who writes Brand Trueboy. And finally, to your right is Morgan, whom you've met, and is yet another Australian in New York. What's the world coming to?"
Daniel laughed. Half the table was made up of people I hardly knew, and the majority of them were Australians.
"So," he asked. "Where are, like, all your other friends?"
"All my other friends? I don't have any," I shrugged.
That wasn't the truth, of course, but the majority of my friends have either moved out of the city or never lived here to begin with. The ones that do live in New York, well, this is New York, the city where everyone is notoriously hard to pin down.
It didn't matter; I don't think I could've had a better time with the friends I've known for years than I did last night with the friends I'd just met. If the rest of Australia is populated with people as cool and easygoing as Daniel and his friends, I’m tempted to take them up on their invitation to visit Sydney.
After dinner, we all braved the torrential downpour for an after-dinner drink at a nearby bar. Although the place we chose wasn't packed, it was too crowded for everyone to sit together. We mingled and traded places with each other for an hour or so before settling into separate camps: The Americans sharing a few chairs in the middle of the bar, and the foreigners at a table near the front. "That's the way it should be," joked Brian.
Isabella had invited a fellow German she met at the U.N. to join us for drinks, so the balance of power was in question, but with the home turf advantage, we figured it was safe.
"Aren't you going to take any pictures?" asked TRUE.
"I took one in the bathroom," I said.
"That sounds perverted."
"No, it's a cool bathroom. Have you been in there yet?"
I don't know why I didn't take pictures of everyone. I should've. I guess it was my day off.
October 11, 2005
Daniel seems baffled by my flexible employment schedule. "You don't have to work today?" he asks. "Um, no. Not today. I need to make a few phone calls to try to get something going, but otherwise, no."
Yesterday was a holiday, so I could slack off without feeling guilty about it, but what about today? Today, like so many days before it, I'll pretend that this is my job. Downloading photos from my camera, uploading them to my server, and writing unrelated nonsense to go along with them. With my blog officially three years old now, I have to tell you, the pay is NOT commensurate with experience.
Daniel is heading to San Francisco tomorrow. For his last hurrah in New York, he's got tickets to the Suicide Girls Live Burlesque show at the Knitting Factory. As a birthday gift, he bought me a ticket as well. Details to follow.
October 12, 2005
The Suicide Girls Burlesque show felt more like a high school talent show —one where you can show your tits. Although, come to think of it, due to the puritanical bylaws of the city that never sleeps, they didn't exactly let it all hang out. Every nipple was carefully covered with either a glitter pastie or electrical tape.
Since the girls make money off their images, the strict no-photos policy came as no surprise, but even without it, there wouldn't have been enough light to take a decent photo anyway. I'm all for punk rock, DIY, but I think they could've hired someone to work a spotlight without being perceived as a sellout. After all, as Daniel pointed out, that's what burlesque is all about: a girl in a spotlight.
Having spent more years than I care to mention with a stripper girlfriend —and having seen a million variations on the burlesque theme as a result — I was afraid it was just me. "I'm too jaded," I thought, but judging from the post-show chatter, I wasn't alone. At least Rob was easy to please. "That was inspired," he said after the set featuring three girls pretending to get whacked out on plumes of cocaine, and then he gave the classic whipped cream and cherries act a 9.5, before adding the peculiar Australian stamp of approval: "Good on 'em"
The girls were pretty, no doubt about that — and, of course, nice faces and flawless bodies can go a long way — but, aside from a can of whipped cream and a jar of maraschino cherries, the production values were nil. Most of their outfits looked like discount Halloween costumes: Sexy cop, sexy school teacher, things like that. The rest looked like fetish wear from an adult novelty shop. For a bunch of girls who brand themselves as edgy and alternative, the show was fairly routine. I don't know what I expected. I mean, if I went to see a sword swallower, I'd expect him to swallow swords, so maybe it's true, maybe I am jaded. Naked girls? Well, what do you know. How about that?
Okay, I'll shut up now.
Later in the evening, a few drinks at a few bars, we bid a fond farewell to the irrepressible Elmo, and then Dan, Morgan, and I headed for Happy Ending, a trendy club in what used to be a massage parlor. Dan heard of it through a guy who runs around from bar to bar saying, "This place is dead, let's go somewhere else." The guy made it sound pretty glamorous, so Dan wanted to check it out. The cutting edge of New York City nightlife, so to speak. Morgan was game, and since I'm always curious about what the kids are up to, I tagged along as well.
After a quick wander through the club, squeezing past girls with droopy eyes in skimpy outfits, guys with tight fitting suits and oversized sunglasses, a C-list celebrity, a suicide girl, and a guy who looked so out of place that he must've been famous, Dan was reminded that glamour is rarely glamourous up close — especially when you're not drunk. "I feel a little silly being here," he said.
"I'm with you," I agreed.
Dan looked to Morgan for a consensus.
"Whatever you guys want to do," she said, bopping to Human League. "I'm easy to please. I hear mid-eighties music and I'm happy."
Dan and I looked at each other, nodded, and we all headed for the door.
For some reason--perhaps the rain--every car service number we dialed this morning was engaged. Daniel's flight time steadily approached, the way times always do, and there was little alternative but to offer him a ride to JFK.
"I'll pay you," he said.
"I feel dumb taking your money, don't worry about it."
(He slipped me money when I wasn't looking, anyway.)
Potholes, puddles, and one missed turn later, we pulled up to Terminal nine.
"I've had such a great time in New York," said Daniel. "I'm not that excited about going to San Francisco. I'd rather I was just going back to Sydney."
"Well, it's on the way," I said. "May as well take a look around."
The white zone is for loading and unloading only, and since unloading took about a second and a half, it was a brief goodbye. "See you around the internet," I said.
"You seriously have to think about coming to Sydney."
"I want to come. I will come. As soon as I can scrape together enough money, I'm there."
I hope it's soon, because, although he didn't say so, I get the feeling Daniel will be moving to New York before he knows it.
While reading the back jackets of a few new books, I stood next to a guy who picked one off the "Current Fiction" table, and plopped it down again, saying, "The novel is dead. Nobody reads them anymore."
He wasn't talking to me, he was talking to his friend, who gave a distracted shrug before they both moved on to the non-fiction.
I wanted to pick up the book and smash it over the guy's head--or better yet, knock the table over and bury him under a pile of books he claims no one reads--not for making such an asinine remark, but for saying it as if it were an original thought.
"Painting is dead" "The novel is dead"
Whatever.
Humans have been scrawling pictures and telling stories since the monkeys touched the monolith, these things won't be dead until we all are dead. While the end of the world is arguably at hand, I think we still have a little while to go. And even if the human race is on the verge of dying out--and the novel along with it--so what? Somebody has to write the last one.
I still plan on writing another book, but I've put so much pressure on myself to make it better than the last one, that I haven't been able to start. It's silly really. I mean, even if it turns out to be shit, it's no big deal. I've wasted time before.
"The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of one's trousers to the seat of one's chair." -- Kingsley Amis
----------------------------------------
Date: 2005-10-17 03:55:30
Pumpkin pie has proven difficult to find 'round these parts. After a few fruitless bodega visits, we dipped into what passes for a Bushwick grocery store. We were fooled when we spotted a stack of Entemann's pie boxes displayed near the registers. The boxes were orange, and illustrated with fall leaves. SInce no pie screams fall holidays like pumpkin pie, I assumed, if they weren't all pumpkin pie, there were bound to be some in the mix. I was wrong. Coconut creme pie. Stacks and stacks of them. Coconut creme? For Halloween ? What the fuck?
We had better luck at the next store, where Deborah discovered a couple well hidden under stacks of apple pies--arguably as big a fall favorite as pumpkin--and more coconut cremes. Deborah wisely decided to buy two.
We could hardly wait, and each had a nice, big wedge for dinner. It was delicious. In fact, it was so good, that we each had another slice for dessert.
----------------------------------------
Date: 2005-10-17 04:17:55
Tonight is the big blogger/buzznet blowout at Lolita's on Broome Street. I plan to go buy tony pierce a drink, and, hopefully get a couple copies of his book STIFF , featuring the covers I designed.
A blogger party. Umm, yeah. Safe to say it'll be a well-documented event.
I said tomorrow night, but since it's 4 a.m., I guess it's actually tonight. I should be sleeping, but instead I'm coughing my lungs out and spitting phlegm in every direction.
Fun.
----------------------------------------
