Suggested Reading

Chris Rock is back.

The best in reactionary, New York of Yesteryear, may be found here, and also here, of all places.

Before South Williamsburg became $Skid Row$, the neighborhood was once known as Los Sures. The people behind this documentary/new media extravaganza have been busy.

Possible origins of the term 86'd--etymology is a favorite hobby.

Diana and Francy and Nostalgia and Tristan on a Tuesday.

My demographic ages

My parents left Sunday. Seeing them in the city reminded me of those penultimate days of summer, when one has come to terms with the calendar and the fact that September is only just around the corner, when the sun has begun to dim and the sharp opacity of winter strikes the leaves, brick, and concrete, and when the days aren't quite as long as they were in July. I've been maudlin lately as well, and speaking almost entirely in analogy and metaphor. New York in these months is eternal dark and grey. I can understand why Georgia O'Keeffe left Stieglitz to repeatedly paint the vagina in New Mexico. Incidentally, is this not a novel euphemism?

Parents and I went to visit the magnificent old Boar at the end of 57th next to my grandmother's building and there he was, presiding over the East River as if it wasn't 30 degrees outside. I'll revisit him in the spring, and if my childhood memories hold true that park will have filled up with a bacchanal of flower and bloom come April. I miss her, Margaret. I would've loved to have visited the Frick with her, to have painted with her, to have talked politics with her, to have heard her turn of phrase, to have felt her kindness, to have watched the boats on the East River from her kitchen window, to have glimpsed the joy spread across the creases of her face when she, the first to know, would hear her favorite granddaughter was pregnant. She is, my cousin and her husband surprised parents and I before dinner. I couldn't believe it! I had no idea and would never have guessed. I'm thrilled, happy for them, and I have to in some way help them find a two bedroom because I would be devastated if they left the city, especially with the little fluffle, or "the business" as she's calling her (they're to have a little girl).

Kim and I went to my favorite place in Soho last night, Ciccio, which I write with some trepidation as I feel the hordes have yet to discover how pleasant it is, the quality of the homemade pasta, the feel of the place as one in which one can simply share a "second kitchen" with friends, as remark the French. It reminds me of the little bakery on Ninth where Taylor and I used both to collect breakfast before this whole "ambassador" campaign was formally announced.

Kim I've referred to many times, but have never described. How to talk about Kim? I had to convince Kim I would make a good friend, when we became close, years ago, in the months following her return from South Africa. Kim is a professional gossip, and used to, within a half hour of meeting someone, if she determined this him or her worthy of her attention, would ask how many people he or she had slept with? Kim at her worst is aggressive, contradictory, unpredictable, generally volatile, and will delve into obsession monologues relating to her high school social life. Typically, however, she's entertaining, a wonderful and reliable thread of get-togethers, and a devoted friend. Many a charming afternoon I've spent on the couch with Kim, discussing this or that or nothing at all, and I cherish these occasions, as we're both busy these days. Kim went corporate, she's doing very well, and she lives in the West Village.  

Kim isn't happy in New York, and she keeps on talking about Seattle, San Francisco, even San Diego. I'm not sure she'll be happy anywhere if she can't be happy in New York. She did break up with her boyfriend, which was too bad because I liked him, but I could see that he wasn't right for her, for so many reasons. Since Lindsay is the root cause of the split I feel it is up to her to find a replacement. We were both sort of down because one of our most attractive friends got engaged to her boyfriend in the Jardin du Luxembourg this weekend, which is elegant and whatnot, good for them. I don't dislike Angelica, I don't dislike her now-fiancee, Jay, but the fact of their engagement distresses in that it illuminates to both Kim and I how poorly off we are when it comes to romance. Angelica and Jay are both beautiful, they're a beautiful couple, though of course Jay isn't good enough for Angelica, but who is? I'm happy for them, though, and she's moving to New York so I actually am glad they're engaged and that's out of the way so he can't coerce her into remaining in LA like last time. Angelica is sharp and prone to flail about, she's stunning. She's in publishing and arrives in February. Jay wants to act; I haven't seen him act, but, thinking only of his appearance and his personality, he has a much better chance in New York than he ever had in LA. I don't believe in his prospects here, he possesses a elfin beauty that's distracting in a supporting character, and I can't imagine him playing anything else. These people who want to act, like Tina, on her third nose job, what are they thinking? They're suited to a plethora of trades, and yet they wish to act. Not everyone can be Pacino, not everyone can be Streep.

Cash went back to our hometown and his girlfriend mentioned marriage again. He's into her, but can't envision spending the rest of his life with her. To this I replied, "well, there is always divorce." I don't understand why people don't just accept divorce as a fact of life--so many of my friends and acquaintances, weighing the decision of whether to marry or not so carefully. Divorce exists! I feel to an extent divorce has taken on the moral ugliness of the fifties, with so many of my peers resenting their parents for daring to divorce, to have the gall to separate. These demanding children! Would they rather the parents hate each other for the duration of their time on this earth? Anyway, the conversation with Cash threw me--it was different to hear him talk about deep, serious realities of love in a somewhat quotidian manner--ie, these are things he is thinking about, these are everyday matters.

At dinner, Kim complained that she doesn't like Cash, but mentioned that he was looking very attractive the last time she saw him (Saturday). This is a problem with Kim: she'll often choose to dislike friends of mine, and voice her displeasure to me. It's one thing to dislike certain qualities in a mutual friend, and even to complain about these qualities to the friend-in-the-middle, but to actively dislike, exclude, or make decisions based on this dislike, that is a character flaw. That's unclear--let me try it another way: I might dislike a dear friend of a friend, dislike certain personality traits or dislike them generally, but I'll rarely, rarely give this feeling words, especially to my friend about their friend. It's bad breeding.

The dinner was opulent and delicious. Ciccio is an excellent restaurant. I took parents on their first night in town, and they loved it.

I mentioned the Lauder Cubism Collection at the Met in the last mini post--has anyone else had enough of this parade of Picasso? I saw Jacqueline and Picasso at Pace: overly intimate and bizarre, Jacqueline glowering at you from every corner of the room, and Picasso and the Camera at Gagosian, which contained two or three arresting works but not much else. It is clear both galleries are trolling out whatever might sell while everyone is in New York for the winter. Aunt Kate knew Jacqueline when she worked with the Hermitage, and found her absolutely detestable, haughty and affected but nondescript, bland. Cubism (at the Met) was the same, with too much early Braque and Picasso in angular constellations of brown and carrot, though it did reward with an exquisite and enormous Léger and the admirable Juan Gris' striking portrait of his mother.

Princess, Cash, and I are going to see Philip Glass do the Piano Etudes at BAM this weekend, and I may also see Sharon Jones at the Apollo. Princess is a friend enmeshed in the fashion world. I can't wait to see her--she's sociable, brilliant, unusual, amusing, but most of all, we'll be able to gossip! Not that I know very many people in fashion, but Princess and I know many of the same people from our days as earnest, beautiful club kids, eyes full of the conviction that what could be might really come to be. Princess and I almost lived together in Chinatown, but now she lives in Bushwhack--it's just too awful. She had a cramped flat in Alphabet City but it was just so much for so little. This is a problem with New York, the so much for so little issue when it comes to housing.

I haven't been to Harlem in some time and I also need to visit the Cloisters, so maybe I'll make a day and night of it. My friend Jean lives up there and, like Princess, I haven't seen her in awhile. It's never too late to reconnect with friends with whom you've fallen out of touch. Friendships aren't like leftovers: while whatever you've brought home with you might spoil, you'll always have the memory of the original meal. Well, I have some wonderful meal memories, and it's time to find these people. This is why I'm going to flight attendant friend's furry soiree all the way out in Kew Gardens, Queens, and why I continue to make the effort. Especially because the new people I meet tend to be so fucking crazy. For example:

Remember the women I nearly roomed with in Brooklyn Heights? I went to the apartment of said women the other night for hot toddies. One, the sometime WA assistant, proceeds to explain she's due to leave for Colombia in the morning and can socialize for a moment but must return to arranging her things. The other begins to monopolize the conversation, the one with the intense interest in Kafka, and proceeds to go on and on about how she identifies with Anne Frank. She once mentioned this to George Saunders at a book signing, and with what wide-eyes he stared I can't imagine. This is unkind of me, but her monologues reminded me of Bad Charlus, and I felt uneasy and a little tipsy and generally queasy. I might've enjoyed it if I hadn't been trapped with her, if there had been one or two other people around, but there was no escape, no Brooklyn in whose eyes I might find confirmation, eyes to share feelings of incredulous delight and discomfort. No, I just had to listen to her go on and on, it was dreadful. I didn't end up leaving until after one in the morning, and because of this I missed the birthday party for Princess and a general mess of a party at a Dean's in Bed Stuy that I would have really enjoyed. So this is why I want to reconnect with people I like, people who aren't crazy. Proust has a wonderful moment on the experience of discovering madness in passers-by, I'll find it and quote it in the future if I remember to do so. We then discussed the difficulties of finding like-minded people in New York to befriend, how New York can be rough, socially. I couldn't think, I don't believe I said anything of note, I was capable only of a weak mumble. It is hard to find interested, interesting, genuine people who aren't fucking crazy in New York, I suppose, but aren't we all a little bit crazy? I'll contact Brooklyn Heights girls again in the near future, lolz. At least they aren't women who over-utilize inflection, a behavior I cannot endure. You hear it on the street, often: "I JUst DoN't knOw WhAT I Am GoIng To Do?" I could write that phonetically but that would require an incredible effort and I think what I am describing is obvious enough: either you yourself are guilty of this, or you know people who do it and don't really consider it an issue, or we're soulmates and you know exactly what I mean and you also despise the sound of these creatures who belong in Chicago or Houston or whatever pit of degradation out of which they crawled. These people will be important in the upcoming requisite entry on New York and gentrification.  

I want to say one or two little things about Ferguson: fuck the police! Racist fucking country! Makes me want to move to Europe or back to Latin America, but I won't really do that because I love New York so very much. The tragedy may be, for people of a certain age, similar to the Dreyfus Affair, in terms of how I have observed it opening faults and chasms between friends, leaving some on one side and some on the other. I'm just glad to be in New York. Parents and I followed the protest after dinner with Katy on the Upper West Side, on the way back to Chelsea, where they were staying, we were all upset, shaken up, etc. We didn't get mixed up in it because it exhausted us, it was too raw, we were too sad, too tired by the expectedness of the decision not to indict.

I'm in a really good place with New York, very happy to be here.  

Two treats tonight: Diana and Dreams. 

Back to Bolivia

As can be imagined, with family descending en mass on the city, I have accumulated an immense amount of material and have many things to write as yet unwritten. In time! For now, a collection of photos. Along with Thanksgiving visitors and tourists, the ghost of Picasso has come to New York. I've seen him at the Met, at Gagosian, and at Pace. Where will he turn up next? Are familial relations decidedly cubist? Stay tuned.

Subway Animal Sightings, II

A little colibrí, practical picaflor, whirring zunzún, or fluttersome gorrión.

"When I lived in Texas sometime around '71, almost every night we drank the money we'd made that day, at a little honky tonk on 7th. Great God! I feel as if I haven't heard the blues since then. It was hot, so hot you could feel the dust burn your lungs. If we didn't have whiskey, man, we had nothing. One Sunday it rained, hard, the kind of rain that floods all the arroyos and in those years used to close the highways, and the honky tonk shut down because the woman who ran it had to handle flooding at her mother-in-law's. Joe came back from Louisiana, he'd hitched it to New Orleans and was supposed to be back before the rain, but ended up in a five-dollar motel in Blue Bayou. When he did finally turn up, Sharon, his woman, she shot him, she'd had enough of his nonsense and I believed she left that day for Los Angeles until years later I had a postcard from her, she was living in Chicago. I cleared out of Austin as fast as I could."

Hummingbird

And this is how a friendship ends...

I grew up in a charming neighborhood, where everyone knew one another. We were on the edge of the   heart of downtown, and five of us neighborhood kids were especially close, rambling through backyards and alleyways, causing trouble, playing games, kid stuff. It was somewhat Huckleberry Finn except we were all more Tom Sawyer. Well as we grew up things changed in ways expected and unexpected, though we have all more or less remained friends. The most susceptible to peer pressure in the group, Dougie, I remember him doing blow in the bathroom of our favorite Chinese restaurant when I was still in middle school. It was crazy, this woman had known us since we were kids, and he got down in the bathroom of her restaurant. Dougie became completely tied up with this charismatic loser, Cucumber, and we would all worry about him, especially Reverend, Naleg, and I, but also Anthony. Today Dougie's doing just fine, on the verge of moving to Denver or Santa Cruz or Monterey or wherever, he is one of those fortunate souls constantly in trouble who in the end always manages to slick his way out of the worst of it. A few years ago I heard he had gone to a casino, and a few of them, Cucumber, Dougie, Rico, etc., had thoroughly blazed a van in the casino parking lot. They were unaware or had forgotten that casinos have surveillance and security, and take these things seriously. They were all arrested, and Dougie had what he believed to be mdma. In fact it was meth (two life lessons here folks), and we all thought Dougie might be in serious trouble, not-vote-again kind of trouble. But he managed to squeak through, somehow. He's white and this is America. I digress.

Dougie was the first of the group to break away, but whenever I see him its all good. If Dougie were to visit I'd put him up no question, and we would have a great time. With Anthony, my charismatic, sensitive, birdlike, full of social potential amigo, its a different story. Anthony in college had a bad girlfriend, Mercedes Salome, who has serious emotional issues. They would have screaming fights in the middle of campus during crowded hours, and they're both very distinct in appearance and dress the part, so everybody knew. This was a campus of 40,000 or so. I remember a sorority girl I saw for a few months told me one night about "these two hipsters" she'd seen "screaming at each other in the middle of the street by the Union" and I knew immediately it was Anthony and Salome. It was a real problem, and when Anthony and I were both big into OC, the height of our friendship, the fights with Mercedes were the worst. Anthony and I went to New York for Thanksgiving during this time, and she would call him at all hours, at least ten times a day. It was unusual. 

Anthony and I had a big falling out because he accused our former dealer of molesting a pillhead, and I told Anthony that this was a lie, because it was, and that I thought Anthony's conviction that he, Anthony, was a drug addict, was a self-deceptive prescription for the symptoms resulting from the damage he sustained during his parent's divorce, that his father is, has been, and will always be the problem (Anthony had at this point embraced his father, the loser who allegedly beat his mother before their divorce). It was real, and we were with friends at an isolated cabin in the middle of the wilderness. Reverend and Forrest were there to mediate, luckily, but it's never been the same with Anthony and I ever since. And then some shit happened between Salome and I, and I still keep in touch with her and am actively encouraging her to move to New York. She's on track for her PhD, but isn't wild about her program or her current situation, and I think she'd do well here. I told Kim and Brooklyn about this and they were both aghast, the typical wide-eyed look of shock followed by the shaking of the head. The issue is, I like Salome, I always have, and it isn't that I hate Anthony but I am prideful and do hold a grudge. I hated how Anthony changed when he stopped abusing prescription meds. I don't believe he ever had a serious addiction issue, at least to OxyContin, which is what he claimed. We had a lot of fun on drugs, especially the opiates: I viewed almost all the films of Jean-Luc Godard, and it was probably a lot healthier than the typical quantities of alcohol most undergraduates imbibe on a regular basis. Furthermore, I've seen real addiction, I know what it looks like: it's a disease, a tragedy, and we don't do nearly enough for addicts in this country. 

Tangent: mass incarceration is the The New Jim Crow. Read Michelle Alexander's book, and, right now, read this: What YOU can Do About Mass Incarceration Now, On Your Own. I am living proof that most drugs do not harm the mind. If you have read this diary, you know that I am not at all uninformed or unintelligent. 

So Anthony and I, well, if he showed up in New York I might not see him. I would make the effort, though.  

Naleg is a pure benevolence, a sage, a mystic, a master. Naleg is a proficient gardner and excellent cook, he is just a fountain of talent and amusement (Naleg is very funny, has a great laugh). Naleg moved to Washington (state) before college, and I've lost touch with him, but I saw him for his sister's graduation in our hometown and it was all good. I think we'll continue to not be in touch but see each other every so often and have it be like Yeltsin and Clinton, two people who genuinely enjoy each other's company but do so at intervals due to circumstances, in this case geography. If he ever visited New York, well, the fun wouldn't stop. 

What's the point of this? The point is that the Reverend, my oldest and greatest friend, whom I have grown up with and known since birth (our parents were friends before we were born), whom I brought to Ecuador and Colombia, has been in New York since Tuesday and I haven't seen him. I'll explain. 

The Reverend lives in Nash Vegas. He's in a band, and they're doing very well, I genuinely like the music, but its a struggle to give the world something it hasn't asked for and doesn't know it wants. There has been slow and steady progress, and luckily for the Reverend, the band are kind, even-headed people, for the most part. He is probably one of the wildest, and some are downright tame, avoid alcohol, etc. But the musician's life has begun to take its toll on my friend. He's picked up cigarettes, which is crazy because he had terrible asthma as a youngster, drinks heavily, late nights/bad food/no sleep. You get the picture. I had to cancel a trip to Montana this summer, but it wasn't my decision, and last November Cash, Reverend, and I drove an Audi from New York to Los Angeles. I won't even start in with the stories, but they range from Houston's best strip clubs, to Rothko, to desert hot springs, to remote New Mexico, to coked out Disney kids walking around naked in Park La Brea.

I went through a rough time, and the Reverend forgot my birthday, which is the kind of thing that upsets me, and with me, upsettedness transforms almost instantaneously to anger. The Reverend didn't call, didn't seem to remember until I reminded him, and though I was aware he planned to stay with me, he has other friends in New York he can stay with, so I made no effort to contact him. I actually forgot when he was due to arrive, and because he didn't contact me until the day he arrived, I made no plans. Years ago we would've snuck into the boom boom room or something like that, but meatpacking is beyond dead and I want to start hitting more parties near Central Park or stalk Bowie and Iman in Nolita. Whatever, it would've been a lot of fun. I told Cash I might fly to LA specifically to avoid the Reverend, and Cash gave me the Kim/Brooklyn aghast look, but we both knew it was a joke. The Reverend didn't even know Cash and I weren't roommates anymore, because he didn't bother to contact Cash either. So I called him on Thursday and made amends, said that this was silly, and then he blows me off over the next two days. Saturday I went out in Skid$ Row (my name for Williamsburg), and reached out one last time. Nada. Nothing. Two hours later I get a text, "Are you still at Baby's All Right?" Obviously not, as I went there for dinner (but you shouldn't, the food isn't good) with Lindsay and Kim. What am I to make of this? Am I crazy? Well, yes. But have I done something, anything, to deserve this? No. What is going on with the Reverend? It's sad, really: I feel I've lost my oldest and best friend, and there isn't anything I can do about it. I've reached out, I've made the effort, I admitted I was wrong. He leaves Tuesday and I have meetings all day tomorrow and a big interview Tuesday, so I really don't have much time. 

Via Camille, it looks like Cash will be on SNL. It's pretty crazy, he's doing well in New York and I'm proud of and happy for him. He had a hellish year before we moved out here and deserves this, and besides, I think he's sharp and witty, the kind of person they need. He isn't at all impish, mincing, simpering, insipid, or self-involved. I don't compliment or praise the creative work of friends unless it's actually quality: why would I do that? That's what a bad friend would do. People know this, and it has rooted out the serious from the flock of the frivolous. If Cash plays his cards right he'll go far. Lately women have been commenting on how attractive he has become, which is odd to people like Brooklyn and I because we still have a residual image of him as that chubby kid with a bad haircut and thick glasses who had a tendency to spill nacho cheese all over himself, the face in particular. Loisa had, without any intimation or suggestion, this very same memory of Cash. 

Whenever I see Lindsay she gets out the notebook. Last night I used Charlus' aphorism about New York: "if she's one in a million, there's eight of her in New York and twenty-four in the Tri-State Area." That went into the notebook, with my blessing, though it isn't mine. I have high hopes for Lindsay, I don't think she'll become the next Sontag or Arendt, but she's certainly capable of a Valley of the Dolls or an In Cold Blood. I wish she set her sights far from the Lena Dunham/Kathryn Bigelow gutter.

I began Chimamanda Adichie's Americanah a few days ago, and I'm very impressed. Her writing continues to improve, it's staggering really. She could surpass Woolf, Lawrence, or Achebe at this rate, though what would that really mean? That's a silly thing for me to have written, but I'll leave it. It isn't a question of surpassing, and once writing reaches the level Adichie's has, it is difficult to determine what's better, only what's best. And that is of course always Proust. But Adichie has become the formidable author of her generation. 

Jose and I discussed the legalization of cocaine today. I try to boycott the drug, because when you buy cocaine you provide financial support for violence in Mexico and violence in Colombia. I brought up the recent murder of the students in Guerrero, where I've spent a not insignificant amount of time, and after a long discussion of the morally bankrupt, despotic, and terminally corrupt PRI, we naturally moved to the legalization of cocaine. Jose suggested to me that were cocaine to be legalized in the United States, the cartels would simply and suddenly have a legitimate business. This shocked me, as it was a problem I had not considered (this is uncommon). However, I think it is also not quite correct: were cocaine legalized, the cost would drop substantially. Though the money wouldn't dry up, the legitimization of the cartels would entail a scrutiny that currently doesn't exist. I highly doubt politically the influence of the cartels would change much, although it would certainly decrease somewhat as the wealth of the cartels subsided. Point made. Mexico, mi linda, mi pobrecita.  

Night.

Landscapes and Places

Supreme Court

One of Whistler's etchings of Venice. Nowhere in the exhibition was it noted that Whistler was one of Proust's favorite painters, termed Elstir in the novel. I admire etchings, one of my favorite museums is the Rembrandt House in Amsterdam, which features a vast collection of Rembrandt's etchings 

The Peacock Room

Attractive if intolerable section of DC, cloud 

I went to the New York Festival of Lights in Dumbo or the Dumbo Festival of New York or the New York Festival of Dumbo. Whatever it was cool kind of

Talib in Dumbo? Say it ain't so...

Everything horrible about New York is overcome by places like this

A magnificent fountain 

Sunset from the 7 in Sunnyside 

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.