Halloween, DC, and Early November

On the ride home from DC last night I read, and nearly finished The Master and Margarita ("among human vices he considered cowardice the worst"), which I did finish this afternoon in bed. It was an unusually pleasant bus ride, and I felt warm, comfortable, contentedness from fellow passengers. The bus driver's talent was a rare one, and she maneuvered through snarl after snarl of traffic with insouciance. I felt warm (it's cold and I picked up the flu Friday night) and in a state of suspension; I wished the ride might never end. The soft feathers of anticipation are the most delicate, the most lovely. Tomorrow I pick up Chimamanda Adichie's Americanah; I thought Purple Hibiscus was good, serious writing and had a lot of potential, so I'm looking forward to this new book.

Brooklyn, Loisa, and I went to see "Birdman" in DC--excellent, just purely pleasurable cinema. Brooklyn I've known as long as Cash. She's a redhead who knows about the history of anti-ginger discrimination and will remark on this subject in grave tones, was wild and continues to be wild, appreciates film and fine art, loves to gossip, loves to talk politics. She is a contemporary Diane Keaton--the ideal person to have as a friend and confidant--beautiful, stylish, sharp, ambitious, smart. I can take Brooklyn anywhere. In high school, she took Klonopin, at school, blacked out, drove her car to a fancy boutique with a few friends, and woke up in her bed in a new outfit. In the dressing room, she had apparently changed out of her old clothes and walked out the store in the new set. I love to tell this story much to her chagrin. Brooklyn loves to drink, and possesses a zest for life that verges at times into depraved hedonism. Brooklyn loves hip hop, and knows the words to many of the hits, all the lyrics, and can rap along with surprising songs, (think UGK on Super Tight or Too Hard To Swallow). She idolizes Lil' Kim, and is very fond of Junior M.A.F.I.A.'s Get Money. Like I said, a contemporary Diane Keaton.

Loisa works for the ASPCA. She is a honest and kind and plain, but will on occasion surprise with savvy, connections, or shocking and bizarre deceptiveness or meanness. She dated my charismatic friend Anthony, with whom I once had an infamous night out in the Village when we were barely teenagers. That night came very closing to resulting in a stabbing. Anthony and Loisa were a strange match, but they both seemed very happy. She was good for him, brought stability and a sense of moral direction, and he gave her flavor, excitement, a project. All of my female friends are driven and very successful. Loisa is no exception.  

Do you remember, several weeks ago, when everyone and their mother went to see "Gone Girl?" Well, that surprised me because I've never thought Ben Affleck could act and didn't really do serious movies. I'm glad J Lo stood him up. Well, everyone and their mother again seems to be at the theatre, this time for "Birdman," and this time it's worth it. Though Richard Brody bludgeoned the film, I think he went too far. Sure it isn't a triumph of intellect, aesthetic, or craft, but it's fun, and more importantly, the financial success of films like "Birdman" make other unusual films possible. Naomi Watts continues to impress; I feel she's at her best in supporting roles, and though I admire Emma Stone I did not admire her in the role of "petulant, capricious child who delivers monologue explaining to parent/protagonist and audience the trappings and failures of parent/protagonist." Uck! Uck! I hate these roles, and I'm tired of Hollywood selling this vision of children demystifying the problems of adults. You become an adult when, as a person, you develop insoluble, terrible problems and begin to live a damaged life in a new, abnormal world. I do not believe financial independence has anything to do with being an adult, nor living on one's own, nor having children (for most people). Adult-ness transpires when one realizes the tragedy of life. Unfortunately, we live in an age of children. But do take a night and see "Birdman."

I like DC. I don't love it. It's aesthetically appealing in sections, and I love the presence of Whistler in the city at the Freer-Sackler. I saw a bizarre exhibit at the most improbably spelled Hirshhorn, encountered a few lovely gardens, and was otherwise aghast to learn none other than Rihanna is to perform at a Veteran's Day concert--wut?!?! (there's a nod to you hipsters)--almost as improbable as the Hirshhorn's double-h's. Brookyln has the most beautiful apartment in DC, I harp on it every time I see her. But it really is enormous and clean and well-furnished. My new apartment is adequate. I now live in Brooklyn. I went through some old text conversations on my phone last night, and was happy when I read that I had said, months ago, that there were only two neighborhoods I could ever live in Brooklyn: Brooklyn Heights or Prospect Heights. I now reside in one of these two neighborhoods.

Halloween happened in New York. It makes perfect sense that in a city where everyone pretends to be something they're not--or aren't yet--Halloween is the most widely-celebrated of holidays (after Passover. Shalom). I still lived in Chelsea on Halloween and walked right over to the parade, which was amusing and much more crowded than I remember it. The presence of Whoopi Goldberg perhaps explains the crowds. I painted my face for the first time this Halloween; I was an out-of-work demon, or an unemployed demon, or etc. I found a throwaway brooks brothers dress shirt and some slacks and dress shoes, and had a stack of demon resumes (Skills: General Malevolence). I went to China's and met her boyfriend. They're just too cynical together. I adore China on her own of course and the boyfriend seems perfectly likeable, but together it's a dark mass. The mere presence of the two darkens corridors and obscures sunlight. China is a jaded narcissist who resembles Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous in every way sans her black hair. Her roommate Sadie and her little pooch pranced about, Sadie dressed up as a kitty-cat. Sadie personifies sultriness, but on the inside seems filled with a loneliness perhaps surpassed only by Charlus. I increasingly enjoy Sadie more than China. We all talked about running over to Camille's party, and I left with Cash because it really seemed for awhile China, her boyfriend, and Sadie might sit around smoking pot all night. Cash and I went to Kim's, where she had assembled a group that included: a slutty Jeff Koon's balloon animal, a monkey, a doctor, a woodsman, a flapper, a Mormon, a German barmaid, and me, the unemployed demon. This merry company parted ways around midnight, Kim had bought tickets to an event in Greepoint that ended only an hour or two after they arrived. The event is LA-based and on-tour, but surely these people knew things don't really start up in New York until after midnight?? Cash and I went to Camille's, and even Sadie was a no-show. I found out later China, boyfriend, and Sadie had gone to a friend of boyfriend's party where there was a bunch of blow. Remember: darkness. Halloween was fun. I thought at the beginning of the night when I was putting together my face and costume, "I wonder who I'll sleep with tonight?"

I sat next to two hilarious girls on the B several nights ago. Just thinking about them makes me smile. They were sisters, giggling but not in the obnoxious way, they were genuinely funny, as one caught the other up on her life of the past few days. This one, younger, the clown of the pair, had a melodious voice and perfect timing. The second was more subdued, maintained a lower pitch, and complimented her sister with low, straight-man style remarks. Jubilant sister began with a tale about a co-worker who that day had told her all about his "second life" as a male escort, how she just stood, agape, with no idea what to say after he revealed this. His clients were for the most part "mature" women and men, and of course he's telling jubilant sister this as they're behind the counter at work (either coffee shop or retail, take your pick). "That is so awkward," the second sister starts in. And they talk about it for some time, this coworker's second life as an escort.
Jubilant: "Yeah, it reminds me of that time Mom had the dinner, and Ayanna...[she breaks into laughter]..."
Subdued: "I know, I know, I remember. Well, you got started, now just go on and finish it up."
Jubilant: [through laughter] "You remember when, Ayanna, you know how she's so awkward?"
Subdued: "I do."
Jubilant: "Yeah, and she's about to leave Mom's, and she's thanking Mom and complimenting her dinner, and she goes in for a kiss--on the cheek--but then she kisses Mom on the lips!"
Subdued: "Oh Lord!"
Jubilant: "And it was even worse because she didn't leave for awhile, like another hour, and Mom just keeps looking at her like who is this? Like what? You for real just kissed me on the lips in my own home?"
Subdued: "And here we got this guy laughing [me, Marcel], you just entertaining the whole train!"
Jubilant: "Do you remember Ayanna's wedding, where everything was vegan? Like I didn't even know what I could eat because you never know what that paper mache food is made of!"
Subdued: "Oh yeah, you right. But it was a nice wedding though."
Jubilant: "Yeah she only kissed her husband on the lips."

It was a fantastic train ride, I should've obtained their info. I believe their mother is Caribbean, and they have some cousins with roots in St. Vincent, but what about Ayanna? It was the best kind of comedy, not at the expense of anyone in particular (I imagine even if Ayanna had been there she would've laughed), not shock-value, profanity-choked rants. I highly recommend this web-based series from Issa Rae, who I sincerely hope we'll see more of in the future.

I might have finally found work! I dreamt of a vignette I might turn into a screenplay, and realized also my best ideas come from music, in this case, Santana, Saint-Saens, and Fela Kuti. Ooh, I hope that isn't too affected. I do genuinely like the music of all three, and listened to Fela years before he came into vogue (Mom and Dad had tapes from the radio when they lived in West Africa in the eighties, so beat that you hipster nonpeople). I had an idea a few years ago, after the film Precious came out, of a series called "Pretentious," featuring largely the opinions, habits, and lifestyle of my friend Kim.

All for now.
 

Celery, Paris, Addie, Woody, 1Oak

Improved post titles await. For now, a series of semi-disconnected subject-thoughts. Charlus returned from Paris about a week ago and it's been incredibly difficult and psychologically/emotionally devastating. I've been in the process of moving for the past two months but now I really must decamp. Charlus seems out to destroy my spirit--he's a man of ups-and-downs, and will admit himself to be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which alarms me. He's an older gay man, had a partner years ago but things fell apart and they parted ways, and I think he's terribly lonely. He's wealthy, successful, and an aesthete--he went to Yale--but seems unable to find a new companion. I believe this may be due to horrible rage and resentment that reveals itself periodically, without warning, razor-tongue my mother calls it. I've been living in his apartment temporarily while I find my feet in the city, and he hasn't been at all supportive or understanding, which has caused me only sorrow. He's my mother's favorite brother, and she has four from which to choose. We were once thick as thieves, co-conspirators, Charlus and I, but he's put out with the fact that I'm interested in women. Charlus reaches heights of righteous indignation, and seems to resent anything and everything at some point, as life and people and family and friends continue to disappoint his standards.

So, I must move. I've sought out Harlem and Chinatown walkups, made sycophant with wealthy friends and acquaintances who perhaps might not mind a semi-permanent guest, and scoured Craigslist for intriguing roommate-wanted ads in the city, all to no avail. So: Hello, Brooklyn! Actually, I spend a significant amount of time in Brooklyn, and though I take an aesthetic pleasure in mincing along with the Blue Jasmine-esque attitudes of the elite toward the borough ("Imagine! I couldn't afford my apartment in Brooklyn."), I tend to miss the trees, the quiet streets, the less homogenous population, when I return to my current neighborhood in the city. When I walk around Chelsea these days and see a particularly yuppie/bougie/posh posse I tend to make an obnoxious and audible comment: "these white neighborhoods sure smell like piss" or "really grotty this area" or "imagine, people live here!" But my perverse tendencies extend far beyond Chelsea: I'm wont to point out to friends who live on the Lower East Side or in Alphabet City the following: if she/he had an immigrant ancestor who came through Ellis Island and spent some time in New York at the turn of the century, these were the neighborhoods this ancestor struggled to escape. Imagine how this ancestor would turn over in the grave should he or she ever know that the beautiful granddaughter or grandson had--out of choice--moved back to the terrible tenements, forking over a substantial sum each month for the privilege. Chelsea's pedigree might be somewhat superior, the home of James Stewart in Rear Window after all, and though I do love the east-west blocks between Ninth and Seventh, I detest Eighth, and can't abide the bridge and tunnel fiasco that's developed in Gansevoort. I went to 1Oak for the first time in a few months, just horrid. There was an atrocious has been C-lister in attendance, and I, being thoroughly a little fuck, couldn't resist loudly remarking to the Portuguese Kate Moss look alike to my left what a drag it is to run into people like [C-lister]...can't one go anywhere? Well, one could go to Brooklyn. Or Queens. Or the Bronx, to which I've made several food-related pilgrimages of late, for Ghanaian and Oaxacan cuisine, both excellent. But it's to Brooklyn I go, and this Sunday.

Where to go for a night out these days is a tough subject, one I'll tackle at some point. The short answer is I am without a favorite--I did the club kid thing when I was young(er) and capable of it and when the area still had a feeling of avant garde-ness, the LES/Chinatown scene that's developed in recent years but which is too cramped, too sweaty, too contrived, too full of euro-trash (ie Le Baron). I don't like $Skid Row and Bushwhack is just so far, so contrived...where on earth to go? I haven't had a great night out venue-wise since The Jane became trendy. What a loss. I simply no longer know where to go out, and I'm not wild about speakeasies. I believe New York has hit a nightlife nadir. 

Charlus has talked for as long as I can remember, like Kate, of Brooklyn as the origin of grime, a savage and frightful farrago of disaster and blight (here's to you, Vladimir). I rather relish that sort of thing, because in speech it evokes a New York for which I've inherited a nostalgia, the New York of the nasty old Canarsie Line, the street crime, the brothels, the depravity, the disuse, the neglect, the potential. That potential is in the midst of being realized, and I wonder where the vision became crooked. Charlus in Paris discovered that many upmarket, contemporary, and otherwise of the moment lounges, bars, and nightclubs, have actual Brooklyn "Nights", and that it isn't uncommon to refer to this or that as being très Brooklyn. I immediately thought of Odette, and the shocking tendency of le Faubourg to pepper conversation with bits of vernacular English.

The other night I went to Duck Duck Goose on Montrose. Beforehand I stopped by my favorite Chinatown dumpling hovel and walked to the J at Essex. Hungry again, but wanting to purify myself, I found a Korean grocery near the Broadway J where I stepped off the train in Bushwick and picked up some carrot-orange juice and two bunches of celery, which I pronounce salary. It was once unintentional but has become an affectation. I brought the salary to Duck Duck Goose and began to eat it, gesticulate with it, point, toss, share etc., and received a lot of attention. My friend Lindsay, whose birthday party I attended in the last edition of this diary, was there when I arrived, and, at once assessing the situation, with jerky violence I reached into my inside coat pocket, detached a stalk and began to munch on it, a la Bugs Bunny. Lindsay, eyes-wide: "You are the most eccentric person I know." This was a real compliment--she knows everyone. I went on to tell a number of bar-friend-strangers that the two new things in Brooklyn were: (1) bringing fresh vegetables to the bar; and (2) mispronouncing the names of vegetables (salary, arigula, tranups, skosh, you get the point). Eighteen hip little creatures noted with their eyes this occurrence, to write about later on their hip little blogs. I wish these people could make their own fun. I suppose it's hard for some. If salary shows up at a Brooklyn bar, well, you saw it here first. We went to Brooklyn Bowl later on for a CMJ party, what a cemetery.

I almost moved into a room in Brooklyn Heights, a sublet. One of the potential roommates has been WA's personal assistant and the other reads Kafka's letters and George Bataille. They both like film.  Unfortunately I didn't get the room, though it looks as if I'll see them socially.

I'm reading Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, increasingly entertaining though I feel again it is impossible to translate Russian. Tonight I found a book I've been searching for since 2008: The Fruit Palace: An Odyssey Through Colombia's Cocaine Underworld by Charles Nicholl. Found at The Strand, which would have a book one has been searching for for five years. I wonder if they have a nice edition of Ibn Battutah?

Cash told me several years ago I needed to read Eugene O'Neill's Iceman, and I searched in every used bookstore I visited (San Francisco, Portland, Denver, Chicago, New Orleans, DC; I once travelled), but each time left without finding a copy (though I did locate a good many other books). Well at the NYPL I found a copy and have finished the play. Cash told me that Iceman would remind me of our friends back where we come from. It's a depressing play about career alcoholics slowly inching towards death in a last-chance saloon in the West Village when the West Village was a filthy numbered ward. The play does not remind me of our friends.

The Knicks lost to the Bulls, but defeated the Bron-returned Cavs. What does that mean for the L? I don't know, but my loyalties are elsewhere. I'm in the no-longer-a-fan stage with a small market team I won't reveal because I'm keeping this anonymous. A high school classmate of mine who, due to religious conviction, remained a virgin until after college, has begun a career with high public visibility. This person recently slept with most of the roster of said NBA franchise. Mad world.

I can't decide whether or not to go out for Halloween tomorrow. Will I regret it? A significant part of me wants to visit Aire, lounge in the baths, and have an early night in.

I haven't been to an unusual or fascinating event of late, but in the next few days I'll do the Out to See in the Seaport, Phong Bui in Chelsea, Birdman (the Gone Girl of late October it seems), Angélique Kidjo, some other shit probs totes. In a few weeks I'll visit my great friend Brooklyn Zoo in DC.

I'm new to this, so future entries will have some tangible organization and will appear more frequently. Bye for now.