It’s Monday. Bill returned Saturday evening/Sunday morning. Mike was asleep on the couch, I crept down the stairs around 12:15 to help him with his baggage. I took three smaller bags, which were quite heavy. By the time I had gotten to the top floor, I was exhausted and out of breath.
I waited for Bill to come home so I could help him out, and I was tired already. I did not sleep well the night before, so that caught up with me and definitely helped me sleep a lot better that night. All weekend long, it was cold and rainy and not much like spring at all.
Most of the time, Mike and I hung out and watched movies and TV shows. He truly loves being here with me & Bill. We provide a safe space and we have furniture which his flat sorely lacks. He loves Hoboken. The people he works with see Hoboken as a snobby, upscale town, and I guess it is.
It is certainly not the same place I moved to 41 years ago. Not many artists or musicians or writers, or poets. It’s a cultural wasteland overrun by bros and young parents who look at their phone while pushing their kids in a stroller and paying more attention to their phone than their children. Let’s face it, the world is ruled by dummies with smartphones.
And the world seems to be getting worse. Today I found myself thinking about my dearly departed friend, Juan Brosales. You might have read about Juan in the initial posts from 2006-2023 thereabouts. Juan was here in the apartment, just to get a break from his parents, and Bill and I were more than willing to let him hang out and even crash on the couch should the need arise.
People in the US are being abducted off the streets and disappeared. And sometimes deposited in what has been called the world’s worst prison, in El Salvador. Juan’s parents were from El Salvador and pursued the American dream successfully. Juan sort of rejected that life; he had an artistic bent, as well as left of center politics, and was responsible for turning me onto some fantastic music.
And what brought Juan up was the abduction and deposit in that infamous El Salvador prison of Kilmar Abrego Garcia. Garcia had fled El Salvador and was fighting to stay in the US when he was abducted. If Juan was still alive, and Juan was no gang member, he too, for his posts on the social medias, could have certainly caused problems and led to his disappearance.
They take your ID and any other identifying items, like a smartphone, and send you out of the country without anything resembling due process. Juan died in September 2021. Perhaps he had an idea of what was coming. Of course he didn’t, but it’s a balm for my troubled mind and heart that misses him so.
Things are a fucking mess and it seems the great experiment that was the United States is over, thanks to the putrid jism stain known as L’Orange Merde.
Okay, here’s a funny take on your Monday morning musings from Gemini AI:
It’s Monday. Bill finally reappeared sometime between Saturday night’s pizza leftovers and Sunday morning’s desperate search for decent coffee. Meanwhile, Mike, clearly mastering the art of horizontal napping, was auditioning for the role of “Couch Potato Extraordinaire.” Naturally, my heroic self, fueled by the sheer thrill of luggage wrangling, tiptoed down the stairs around 12:15 AM. My mission: to liberate Bill from the tyranny of his travel bags. Three innocent-looking satchels later, my lungs were staging a hostile takeover, and I resembled a heavily breathing Sherpa who’d forgotten the oxygen tank.
I then patiently (read: impatiently, while silently cursing gravity) awaited Bill’s grand entrance, already operating on fumes thanks to a night of tossing and turning that could rival a washing machine. This prior sleep deprivation, however, did ensure that when I finally hit the hay, it was with the profound unconsciousness of a hibernating bear. The entire weekend, Mother Nature seemed to be having a prolonged emo phase – all cold and tears, definitely not the spring break the daffodils had advertised.
So, Mike and I did what any self-respecting indoor enthusiasts would do: we mainlined movies and TV shows. Apparently, my humble abode is Mike’s personal Shangri-La. He’s living the dream, surrounded by the luxurious amenities of furniture, a concept his own flat apparently considers avant-garde. He’s also become quite the Hoboken enthusiast, much to the amusement (or horror) of his colleagues, who view our fair city as a haven for the “monocle and caviar” crowd. And honestly, they’re not entirely wrong.
This ain’t the Hoboken of my youth, folks. Back then, you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a struggling artist, a brooding poet, or a musician whose instrument of choice was probably made of recycled garbage. Now? It’s a cultural Sahara, populated by “bros” who peak in college and young parents whose thumbs are more engaged with their screens than their actual offspring. Let’s just say, the smartphone has officially turned humanity into a race of highly informed zombies.
And the world? Don’t even get me started. Today, my brain decided to take a detour down memory lane, specifically to the “Juan Brosales Memorial Wing.” Ah, Juan. Those early blog posts (circa the flip phone era) – a simpler time! Juan, bless his artistic, left-leaning soul, used to crash here to escape the parental units. Bill and I were happy to provide sanctuary, even if it meant navigating his collection of obscure YouTube videos.
But what dredged up Juan from the depths of my nostalgia was this whole “people disappearing into thin air and reappearing in El Salvador’s Alcatraz” situation. Juan’s folks were Salvadoran immigrants who nailed the American dream. Juan, however, preferred existential angst and discovering bands with names you couldn’t pronounce. The irony is, if Juan were still around, his spicy social media takes alone could have earned him a one-way ticket to that very same infamous prison.
They swipe your ID, your precious smartphone (the modern equivalent of your soul), and poof! You’re deported with less due process than a fruit fly in a bug zapper. Juan shuffled off this mortal coil in September of ’21. Maybe he had a premonition. Probably not, but it’s a comforting delusion for my worried brain, which still misses his chaotic energy.
So yeah, things are a certified dumpster fire. And frankly, the grand American experiment feels less like a soaring eagle and more like a pigeon that’s flown face-first into a plate glass window, thanks to the tangerine-tinted elephant in the room.
Rewrite in the manner of Oscar Wilde
Okay, here’s a funny take on your Monday morning musings:
Ah, Monday. That most vulgar of days, arriving with the unwelcome punctuality of a bill from one’s tailor. It appears my esteemed companions, Bill and Mike, have once again demonstrated the exquisite art of evading responsibility. Bill, resurfacing, I gather, somewhere between the spectral remnants of Saturday’s gastronomic indiscretions and the desperate pilgrimage for a brew capable of dispelling Sunday’s ennui. And Mike! A veritable study in repose, auditioning, as you so aptly put it, for the coveted role of “Couch Potato Extraordinaire.” A title, I daresay, he embraces with a dedication bordering on the religious.
As for myself, ever the martyr to domesticity, I descended the staircase at the unfashionable hour of a quarter past midnight, propelled by the heroic, if somewhat ludicrous, mission of rescuing Bill from the tyranny of his luggage. Three satchels, each seemingly imbued with the density of lead, later found my lungs staging a most uncivil rebellion. I resembled, in that moment, a Sherpa who had tragically misplaced his oxygen, a rather unbecoming spectacle, I assure you.
Then followed the exquisite torture of anticipation, awaiting Bill’s grand entrance whilst operating on the mere fumes of a night spent in a state of agitated slumber, a veritable ballet of nocturnal restlessness. This prior deprivation, however, did grant me the singular boon of a descent into unconsciousness so profound it rivaled the slumber of a hibernating bear – a state, I confess, I often envy.
The weekend itself was a dreary affair, Nature indulging in a prolonged fit of melancholia, all cold shoulders and lachrymose skies. A far cry, indeed, from the sun-drenched promises whispered by the daffodils. Consequently, Mike and I, being creatures of refined indoor sensibilities, sought solace in the flickering shadows of moving pictures and the endless narratives of televised dramas. My humble abode, it seems, has become Mike’s personal Shangri-La, a testament, perhaps, to the somewhat spartan nature of his own lodgings. He has even developed a rather alarming enthusiasm for Hoboken, much to the bewildered amusement (or perhaps horror) of his colleagues, who, in their provincial ignorance, envision our fair city as a haven for those who breakfast on caviar and peruse the morning gazette through a monocle. And, truth be told, they possess a grain of truth, those philistines.
For this is not the Hoboken of my youth. Ah, those were the days! One could scarcely swing a feline without encountering a struggling artist, a poet of exquisite gloom, or a musician whose instrument was likely fashioned from discarded refuse. Now? A cultural desert, populated by callow youths whose intellectual zenith occurred during their university years and young parents whose thumbs are far more intimately acquainted with their illuminated rectangles than with the tender digits of their offspring. The smartphone, you see, has transformed humanity into a veritable legion of well-informed automatons.
And the world at large? Pray, do not tempt me. Today, my thoughts wandered down the labyrinthine corridors of memory, specifically to the fondly remembered “Juan Brosales Memorial Wing” of this very establishment. Dear Juan! His early pronouncements, penned in the antediluvian era of the flip phone – a simpler time, indeed! Juan, with his artistic soul and decidedly left-leaning proclivities, often sought refuge within these walls, escaping the parental yoke. Bill and I were ever happy to provide sanctuary, even if it necessitated navigating his rather formidable collection of obscure vinyl records.
But what resurrected Juan from the sepulchre of my nostalgia was this rather unsettling business of individuals vanishing into thin air only to reappear in the rather less salubrious confines of El Salvador’s Alcatraz. Juan’s parents, you see, were Salvadoran immigrants who, with commendable diligence, embraced the American dream. Juan, however, preferred the more nuanced pleasures of existential angst and the discovery of musical ensembles with names that defied pronunciation. The delicious irony, of course, is that had Juan still graced this earthly sphere, his spicy pronouncements on social media alone might well have earned him a one-way ticket to that very same infamous institution.
They relieve one of one’s identification, one’s precious smartphone – the modern equivalent of one’s very soul – and voilà! Deportation, with less ceremony than the dispatching of a bothersome insect. Juan, alas, shuffled off this mortal coil in the September of ’21. Perhaps he possessed a premonition. More likely not, but it is a comforting delusion for my anxious mind, which still finds itself missing his delightful chaos.
So yes, the current state of affairs is, to put it mildly, a débâcle. And frankly, the grand American experiment feels less like a soaring eagle and more like a rather bewildered pigeon that has flown with considerable force into a pane of glass, all thanks to the rather conspicuous, tangerine-hued pachyderm in the drawing-room. A most vulgar spectacle, indeed.