Walking around Union Square on my way to get my lunch. Heard someone talk about a technical writer, and that brought back memories of how I thought I would be a technical writer since I fancied myself a writer. Apparently, I do what I consider myself to be a writer, or would others consider me to be a writer? It’s something that I do. It’s something that I think I can do good at or do well, but ultimately I’m leaving it up to someone else to decide, which is very passive-aggressive, which is very John O’Toole
16 East 16th Street
Seems to be a boutique hotel that perhaps he might be able to get a job at since Jeff Bezos is jerking Mike around with a sandpaper glove.
It is Thursday, July 10th, 2025, a pleasant afternoon. Not as steamy as it’s been. It’s quite enjoyable. An interesting day to say the least.
15 years ago today Bill and I had a party at Maxwell’s to celebrate our civil union. We had maybe 50 to 100 people there. I don’t know, but it was all quite good and enjoyable. We bought pizza since the kitchen wasn’t open at Maxwell’s. We had it from noon until about 4:00, and it was enjoyable. Cash bar to cut down on drinking and driving, and then an after party at Rand and Lisa’s, which was somewhat muddled for me because even though I only had one or two pints, that’s pretty much out of it.
I think I took half as Xanax beforehand, and I may have molested Juan Brosales. I was feeling rather like Sonny Corleone at his sister’s wedding, if you know what I mean.
For no certain reason, I sense an apprehension in the air, or is it me? I went to the ATM to get some money, and twice my card was rejected. So since I was at my bank, I asked the woman behind the counter, and she said yes. That’s been happening quite a bit, so we cleared it up.
Apparently, I had gotten a text that I did not know about. That said, there’s some fraud thing going on, but since I was there and was taken care of almost immediately and I was able to leave with my money in hand.
I have some rather lackluster halal food today, which was disappointing from previous weeks of halal food. At least one day a week. I’ve been eating halal food, chicken, and rice. Today was rather bland, even though I had other ingredients added to it.
Mike is coming over tonight scheduled around 5:30. In fact, I’m going to give him a call in a minute to see how he’s doing. He’s been staving off depression, and I have to tell him that there was a run on his bank.
Don’t know what else to tell you. I’m going to see my guy around 6:00 in front of my building and then spend the evening with Mike watching TV.
Gemini AI spinning a William S Burroughs thing…
—
## BARTELETTO: A CUT-UP OF A THURSDAY
**Union Square** — a vortex. Feet churning pavement. A voice, shards of sound. “Technical writer.” The words snagged, a barb in the brain. Me. A writer. Fancied myself. Still do. Or… do they? The invisible tribunal. Their verdict. Passive. Aggressive. **John O’Toole.** A signature, scrawled in vapor.
—
**16 East 16th Street.** A whisper of glass and steel. Boutique. A job. For Mike. While Bezos, the spider-king, unravels him with a sandpaper glove. Slow abrasion. The hum of the machine.
—
**Thursday, July 10th, 2025.** A breath of air, less rancid than usual. Not steaming. Pleasant. A lapse in the fever dream. Enjoyable. An anomaly.
—
**Fifteen years.** The anniversary. Maxwell’s. A celebration of civil union. Fifty? A hundred? Faces blurring. Pizza. Because the kitchen was a void. Noon till four. A blur of faces, laughter, the clink of glasses. Cash bar – a prophylactic against the mangled steel and shattered glass of the highway. Then Rand and Lisa’s. The after-party. Muddled. A half-Xanax, a chemical fog. And Juan Brosales… a sudden heat, a flush of blood. **Sonny Corleone** at the wedding. The dark urge. The animal released.
—
Apprehension. A chill on the air, or is it merely the premonition of my own dissolving? ATM. The plastic spat out, twice. Rejection. The bank woman, a pale ghost behind glass, nods. “Happens.” Fraud. A text, unread, lost in the static. But now, cash in hand. A temporary reprieve from the digital gnawing.
—
Halal. A disappointment. Bland. Chicken and rice, a weekly ritual, now a bland repetition. The flavor gone. Like so many other things.
—
Mike. Due at 5:30. Another call. To gauge the depth of the void he’s staving off. The depression, a black dog at his heels. I’ll tell him. The run on his bank. The numbers bleeding out.
—
Nothing else. The street corner at 6. My guy. Then the flicker of the screen. Mike. Television. Another night swallowed. The endless reel. The silence of the apartment. Barteletto. The name, a last, fading echo in the encroaching dark.