Art Parties and Hairdressers

September 26, 2003

I went to Brian's art opening last night. I spent most of the time hanging around with his friend Chris. Chris was telling me that he'd been fishing in the East River lately and how he caught a foot-long flounder. In the middle of his story, we overheard two girls talking about the art. The taller or the two was explaining the meaning of the paintings to the shorter one.

"That's bullshit," Chris interrupted her.

"No, it isn't. Brian told me that's what it meant."

"Listen," he said, "Artists don't like to talk about their art. When people like you come up to them and ask what this or that means, they just make up some bullshit so you'll leave them alone.”

"No, they don't."

"I bet if you asked him again what this painting represents, he wouldn't even remember what he told you."

"Yes, he would."

We never got to find out. The two girls continued down the line, the taller one continuing to explain everything to her friend. "That girl has about three brain cells in her head," he said as they walked away.

Chris has a lot of anger.

Afterwards, we all went to dinner, and Brian told a story about getting hit on the head by a brick that morning. But that's another story for another day.

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September 30, 2003

Last night, on my way home, I was sitting on a bench waiting for the subway when two goofballs came stumbling down the platform. The guy kept pretending to nearly fall onto the tracks while the girl kept saying, "You're so crazy." When the guy started singing, the girl said, "I'm getting away from you. I'm going to sit here next to my new friend."

She meant me.

"Hi." she said.

"Hi."

"Did you have a nice day today?"

"It was okay."

The guy sat a few seats down and talked over the girl: "She's only talking to you to spite me."

"What did you do today?" she asked me.

"I worked."

She had a creepy vibe. Maybe it was her poncho or her big, wide-eyed smile, but something made me think she was going to ask if I'd accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my saviour. "Do you like your job?"

"Not especially."

"Then why do you do it?"

I don't know what sort of trust fund she's living off of, but I gave her the obvious answer: "I need the money."

"Well, how would you rather be making money?"

I thought for a second and said, "I'm writing a book."

The guy started singing at the top of his lungs, "Wiiiliiaaammmssburg—Wiiiliiaaammmssburg—"

"What kind of a book? Can someone learn something from reading it?"

"That depends on who's reading it. I mean, you can learn something from nearly everything, don't you think?"

"But is it inspiring? What's it about?"

I told her what I tell everyone: "It's a fictionalized account of actual events."

"What sort of events? Things that have happened to you? Something you had to work through?"

"Yup. More or less."

"Good, good. That's what I like to write about too."

The guy said, "She told me to be myself, and then when I was, she walked away."

"Never mind about my friend. He's crazy. He's really funny, though."

I just nodded. A regular laugh riot.

"Do you need a publisher?"

"I suppose, eventually."

"I have a publisher. Let me give you my number, and you call me when it's done." She picked up a scrap of paper from the dirty cement and wrote her number on it. Just then, my train came to rescue me and I got on it. "Will you remember me?" she called out just before the doors closed. "Oh yeah, don't worry, I'll remember you all right."

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October 1, 2003

Brian just called.

Brian: Hey man, what are you doing?

Jamie: I'm at work.

Brian: Do you have actual work?

Jamie: A little.

Brian: Listen, are you gonna be around this weekend?

Jamie: Yeah, what's up?

Brian: I was invited to a party on Saturday night.

Jamie: Cool. I'm in.

Brian: But there's a catch.

Jamie: What's that?

Brian: It's a hairdresser's party.

Jamie: What does that mean?

Brian: Well, this chick I know is a hairdresser, and she's throwing a party with a bunch of her hairdresser friends. She said, "We need boys. Find us some boys."

Jamie: That's not a catch.

Brian: Right? When I told my friend Walter about it, he said, "Dude, hairdressers are sluuuts ." (laughter) But there's another catch.

Jamie: What's that?

Brian: The party is in Jersey City.

Jamie:  Okay. Now that's a catch. Are you gonna drive there?

Brian: I think so. What do you think?

Jamie: If you’re driving, I’m in. Besides, who knows who might need a ride back to New York?

Brian: My thinking, exactly.

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October 5, 2003

I know everyone's going to be disappointed to hear that I didn't go to the hairdresser's party. Brian bailed on me. "Sorry, dude. I have a hot date."

"Oh yeah? With who?"

He told me it was with a sexy Italian lawyer that he'd met through a friend. And she was the one who pursued him.

“You're moving up in the world."

"I know. I hesitated for a bit. I mean, do I want to go on a date with a sophisticated Italian lawyer, or hang out with 25-year-old hairdressers?"

He went on to tell me how he was fed up with young, crazy girls and the games they play. And he said he was sick of the way they always flake out on him. And since he's so sick of girls flaking out on him, he decided to flake out on me. Whatever. The only reason I wanted to go was so I could write about it.