Someone was shot on my block this week; some shit seems to be on right now. I was on Brooklyn's most adorable train the other day, the S, and a Brooklyn "Blood" was loudly arranging to assault a rival via telephone. He sat beside a female companion, and we on the train--postal workers, nurses, grandmothers, handymen, clerks, me--watched with disgust, disdain, and disbelief: what an sourpuss! New Jersey exists for people like that. A Brooklyn "Blood"? For once Tupac said it best: I can't stand fake ass bitches/ Lyin' ass ni#@z/ and you punk ass snitches.
Cash and I went to a neighborhood joint for open mic standup the other night, and it was terrible. This skinny, pretty-haired homosexual went on and on about auto-erotic stimulation, ie., sucking one's own dick, and it was suck suck dick dick suck suck mouth mouth my my and etc for the duration of the time Cash and I stood there. Cash immediately said to me, 'This is a Louis CK joke," so not only did the individual on stage lack timing, panache, and character, he had stolen the bit. Cash knows his shit. The room was well-lit, which was weird--you could see everyone--and all chairs were occupied, though there were inaccessible extra chairs strewn about. I didn't want to break up the scene and loudly grab chairs, and none offered to help us find seats. It was very in-group, and everyone in the room clearly knew each other, were chortling back and forth. At one point the comic onstage asked the room, "for the dudes in here, how many of you would suck your dick? Daniel? Come on, Daniel--you would definitely put your own dick in your own mouth. What, is your dick so nasty even you would't suck it?" "Yeah, Daniel!" "No, I didn't raise my hand!" For the female comics out there, for the women out there who might read this, for the women in the audience who have endured routines that focus entirely on the phallus, I apologize. We aren't, all of us, obsessed with our dicks. It's fun thing to have, sure, but when all a standup can talk about is masturbation, his penis, places he might or might not put his penis, or things he might or might not do with his penis, its pathetic.
At this point, Cash says "let's get the fuck out of here" and we leave. There was some basketball on we wanted to watch, and thankfully I don't live in $kid Row (my name for Williamsburg, if you didn't already know), where at the bars they'll only project The Heathers or The Matrix, or Ten Things I Hate About You (ironically) on the wall. And of course you'll never find a (working) television set.
Cash showed me his final head shots, they're good. Look for Cash on television in the next year.
I've been seeing the ads for Fifty Shades of Grey everywhere, and on the Fifth Ave bus downtown I took when I left the Met, I began to think: is this cultural sensation an expression of how we, all of us, the everyday people, are being sadistically and brutally fucked by the super-rich, and further, that this is something sexy, something we desire? I don't mind the book, at all, nor the film--pop culture is fun and fascinating--but I think the thought outlined above could be (if it already isn't) an excellent beginning to an academic critique of or well-written essay on our fascination with the wealthiest of the wealthy, our celebration of these people, and now, fetishization of. Someone can have this. Mention Marcel.
I hung out with Aunt K today on the Upper West Side. She's a quintessential New Yorker, people stare at us when we walk about, and on occasion take photographs. Kate loves the attention. She very nearly became a dancer of some fame, but broke her back skiing (and said to my father, "Johnny, this should've happened to you"), but went on to become the protege of a number of Yale intellectuals, circulated in St. Petersburg in the nineties, ran a publishing house in London sixties and seventies, taught in Lagos, met with Fidel in Cuba, and, according to K, at a recent soiree Bloomberg refused to believe K is old enough to be retired. K has porcelain white skin, red hair, and wears sunglasses at night. K's apartment is full of books; today she brought out a first edition of Moby Dick that she soon tossed aside, as she much prefers the illustrated Rockwell Kent, which dates from 1930. On occasion K brings out hashish a publishing magnate obtains in Morocco.
I'm to start working for two billionaires in two weeks. It's definitely the eyebrows-raised, "You live in Brooklyn?" kind of office, which I prefer. I need the money, I desperately want to visit Lisbon, and I miss eating at Babbo and La Grenouille. I am not sure I have yet written about my love of Lusophone Africa, and especially its music. "But," you say "Lisbon isn't Lusophone Africa--it's Europe..." Right DUH Bitch, but the colonial centers of Europe are cities where you have the full spectrum, as this is where people immigrate. It's a simple way to experience much in one place.
Mozambique
Capo Verde (if you know anything about anything, you know Sodade)
Sao Tome: One and Two
Angola
Guinea-Bissau
We'll do more down the road, but for now, know this: Lusophone Africa is Dope.
This Is The New Sound. M.I.A. endorsed it. Burke Som Sistema is the craziest maddest illest music I have heard in some time. I first heard them in three or maybe even four years ago, and I was floored. They're all over Lisbon and before they get too big I want to ingest all sorts of different substances and geek out. Because I'm unable to contain my enthusiasm:
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
This is getting out of hand--I'll write a little more and close up for the night. A friend of mine (whom I like) lives in rural Pennsylvania and works at a Home Depot distribution center, and this is by choice. He sent me a letter (writing letters is back, and is an excellent way to improve how you communicate, how you express yourself, etc) and a book, The Good Earth, yeah, you've heard of it. I had never read it, but would never send a friend a junior high novel at our advanced age. Well, Francis did it, and Francis did it (I am sure) because he believes I need to explore my connectedness to the earth. Francis hiked the Appalachian Trail on his own at eighteen. We're very different people. Never send a friend a book to "help" them. It will only result in fury and rage and misunderstanding.
I picked up Invisible Cities (Italo Calvino) and The Age of Discontinuity (Peter S. Drucker; I read nonfiction). The Drucker is prescient and the Calvino delightful.
I registered for the Brooklyn Half Marathon. What!
And the billionaires, you ask? That's confidential!
Night.
No comments:
Post a Comment