Rainy day in Manhattan, and it’s the same for Hoboken. Grey day, not much to look at. And the rain slows down the time, which makes the day crawl even more.
Bill is on the road once more. Right now, Bill is gathering his things for a four-day excursion. He leaves tonight and maybe back on Sunday, though Monday is probably more like it.
I am back at the fruit stand that I usually sit at. There was a camera meeting this morning, and my two cents lasted about 30 seconds.
IDK is in the studio. IDK stands for Ignorantly Delivering Knowledge, not I don’t know. Handsome bloke, friendly entourage. Handshaking is a way to measure how the artist and entourage are. They put their hand out, it’s all good. They don’t, then who knows what the hell is going on? Some think they’re better than everyone else, and while it’s true that one must have a strong ego to succeed in the business, but being nice certainly oils the machine.
Daylight saving time is this weekend. Moving the clocks up an hour means a loss of one hour of sleep. I like to think an afternoon nap on Sunday would set things straight, though I am not so sure how true that is nowadays. I suppose I will find out on Friday.
Mike plans on coming over to babysit me, that is, if his boyfriend does not make the trip back east. It’s good to have him around, as I have stated before. He mentioned coming over tonight, and I suggested tomorrow as a better day. But we shall find out one way or another, as it depends on the boyfriend from the West Coast.
Hoboken Bon vivant Jack Silbert is interviewing one of the Bongos tonight for the Hoboken Hysterical Museum. It’s not Rob, it’s not Frank, and it’s certainly not Jim. It’s the one that I met early one morning in Union Square, awaiting a free bus ride for a March on Washington. Being a fan of the Bongos, I approached this particular one, who recoiled in horror or shame at being recognized. I guess he did not want his career jeopardized by being seen as gay. Did it work?
Memory from the 1980s. My brother Frank, my sister Annemarie, her friend Patty, and I went to a CBGB matinee that featured Let’s Active. My memory has this matinee as not being crowded at all, and as we walked into CBGBs, Frank swore he saw 2 Bongos making out. I didn’t see it, but Frank did, and it was frankly traumatic for him.
This was before the March on Washington, probably early 1980s, as I may have been living with my parents at that time and in the closet myself. I certainly did not see what Frank said he saw.
Dismal and gray, that is the way of today, or so I say.
And it was now revealed that the interview from the Hoboken Hysterical Museum will be postponed until December 31, 2026.
Google Gemini rewrite as a David Sedaris essay
The sky over Manhattan is currently the color of a wet sidewalk, a hue I like to call “Indifferent Slush.” It’s the same in Hoboken, where the rain has a way of stretching the minutes until they feel like hours spent in a dentist’s waiting room. Rain doesn’t just fall here; it lingers, slowing time until the day isn’t just passing—it’s crawling on its belly, begging for a nap.
Bill is leaving me again. He’s currently vibrating around the apartment, gathering the various essentials one needs for a four-day excursion, which in Bill-speak means he might be back Sunday, but will almost certainly turn up on Monday, smelling of jet fuel and hotels.
Left to my own devices, I’ve retreated to my usual fruit stand. I had a camera meeting this morning where I contributed exactly thirty seconds of “insight” before the collective “we” decided they’d heard enough from me. Now, I’m watching a rapper named IDK record in the studio. He informs me—or rather, his branding informs me—that the acronym stands for Ignorantly Delivering Knowledge. It’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? I prefer it to “I Don’t Know,” which is usually my answer to everything from “Where are my keys?” to “What is the meaning of life?”
He’s a handsome man with a friendly entourage. I’ve reached an age where I judge a person’s entire moral character by their handshake. It’s a primitive litmus test: if they offer a hand, the world is a benevolent place. If they withhold it, I assume they’re plotting a coup or, worse, they think they’re “above” me. In show business, a healthy ego is required—like a sturdy pair of galoshes—but a little bit of politeness is the oil that keeps the gears from screaming.
To add to the atmospheric gloom, Daylight Saving Time arrives this weekend. We’re “springing forward,” a cheery euphemism for being robbed of an hour of sleep. I tell myself I’ll make it up with a Sunday afternoon nap, but I’m fifty-some-odd years old; a nap doesn’t “set things straight” anymore. It just leaves me waking up at 5:00 PM, confused about what year it is and why my tongue feels like a piece of suede.
My friend Mike has offered to “babysit” me while Bill is away, provided his boyfriend doesn’t fly in from the West Coast. Mike mentioned coming over tonight, but I suggested tomorrow. I find that when people offer to look after you, it’s best to schedule it for when you’re at your most pathetic, rather than wasting it on an evening when you’ve still got some dignity left.
In local news, the Hoboken “Bon Vivant” Jack Silbert was supposed to interview a member of The Bongos tonight for the Historical Museum—or the Hysterical Museum, as I’ve taken to calling it. It’s not Rob or Frank or Jim. It’s the other one. I met him once, years ago, in Union Square while we were waiting for a bus to a March on Washington. When I approached him—a fan, mind you—he recoiled with the kind of horror usually reserved for discovering a thumb in one’s soup. He seemed terrified that being recognized at a gay rights march might “jeopardize his career.” One wonders if the strategy worked, or if he’s just spent the last forty years jumping at shadows.
This reminded me of a matinee at CBGB back in the eighties. I was there with my brother Frank, my sister Annemarie, and her friend Patty to see Let’s Active. The club was nearly empty, but as we walked in, Frank—who has the eyes of a hawk when it comes to things he doesn’t want to see—swore he saw two members of The Bongos making out in a dark corner. It was, quite frankly, traumatic for him. I didn’t see it myself. At the time, I was still living with my parents and tucked so deeply in the closet I was practically rubbing shoulders with Narnia.
The day remains dismal. Gray. A poem waiting for a rhyme that isn’t “decay.” And now, word has reached me that the Bongo interview has been postponed until December 31, 2026. By then, we’ll have lost so many hours of sleep to Daylight Saving that we likely won’t remember who the Bongos were, or why we were marching in the first place.