I heard from Pietro Cheng yesterday. We kept in touch barely, birthdays mainly on social media. We worked together for the Algerians, and I received a text from him asking if I was who I was, and I responded positively, asking if he was still shilling for the Algerians. Apparently, he was in the process of leaving the Algerians behind in the dust and was inviting me to cocktails with him and assorted sordid Algerians. Alas, I’m not much of a drinker, and he expressed dismay at my non-committal ‘maybe’.

He also seemed to figure out that I might not be too keen on hanging out with Algerians. It’s been over six years, and I have no desire to see any of them again. Perhaps Pietro and I could meet up exclusively without those clumsy whirling dervishes zooming about with their tongues lapping up holes and whatnot.

It seems that Mike and his beloved will meet up this weekend. The beloved has gallstones and will fly 3000 miles for a day and a half with a shorty from the Bronx via Chicago to Jersey City. I hope it works out, and I will be free of this albatross that smells like large, cheap ass cigars, and a friendship could be established without the hang-ups that he brings to the bedroom. I suppose that will only happen if they do make a spark in person and not just facetime bukkake. Mike is beginning to realize that Bill and I were good for him, but that was in the past.

Bill and I discussed this last night. The possibility of sex was the impetus of many things that I had done for him. Now that the possibility is an impossibility, nothing is granted nor given to Mike besides an occasional phone call, which has the once silent Mike running at the mouth. He claims he talks Bill and me up, saying how good we are, how talented and creative we are. Let’s face it, we’re fucking special, and I guess Mike didn’t realize what he had until it was gone.

I do mention every now and then that I am fucking special and not like the nearly 10,000 followers. I don’t think any of them would step up for Mike’s benefit, but desperation can be a reason to do things, and could prove that I might be wrong.

I picked up Colm Toibin’s book about James Baldwin. It concerns his reading of James Baldwin and not a biography. It was good to begin the book and may have had an influence on the manner in which I am writing this this evening. Yesterday I bought a copy of Uncut with David Bowie on the cover and also picked up the books by Colm Toibin and Sarah Vowell. And of course, the first world problem of having too much to read was compounded by my opening the mailbox and finding the latest issue of MOJO Magazine waiting for me.

I wrote this instead of dictating, and I should make an effort to get back into that. The influence of Baldwin on Toibin and on me.

Brass in pocket
Living thing
Peter Chang

I used to go to concerts all the time. I believe the last concert I saw was the Feelies covering the Velvet Underground at the White Eagle Hall in Jersey City. They were having two sets. I stayed for the first one and left at intermission. One of the reasons why I left was because I like the Feelies, I like the Velvet Underground, and I can listen to either one at my home. Plus, I didn’t see many people I knew.

Edwyn Collins’ “A Girl Like You” is playing on the fruit stand radio. So the company that placed me at the fruit stand has a bunch of social media-engaging clubs to join or look into. One of them was for concert goers, and like I said, I used to go to concerts all the time- now, I do not. I have friends who go whenever they can, and they have cars, so they can get around.

There was a band from Scotland, Young Fathers, that I read about in the New York Times that were really engaging and I bought tickets to see them about 6 months in a chance and I could not entice anyone to go with me especially if they had a car I pay for tolls I’d pay for gas nobody was taking the bait so I wound up selling the tickets back at a $20 loss.

That was the deciding factor of no more shows for me, especially in Brooklyn if it was in Manhattan, and be a bit easier, but this was Brooklyn, and nobody was into it except for me. These days, I’d rather stay at home with Bill or by myself and just relax. I am content with that and not envious of my friends who do go to shows; in fact, I sit back in admiration of them because they have the time, the money, and the transportation to do those things.

And I admit I have seen plenty of bands and plenty of situations and venues, and those bands are gone, and those fun years are gone. I just saw a posting of the Fleshtones with REM opening up for them at the Peppermint Lounge in 1982, and I can’t help but think that I was there. I did see the Fleshtones many times and REM many times, perhaps even together.

Overheard by the microphone, which seems to be working right now.
Good morning, I’m well, thank you. How are you?
Hello, he was crazy early, just for the record. I tried to get it back there, but I can only get halfway through.

Earlier, when I was posting or dictating, I was thinking to myself Wow, I haven’t spoken about Mike. Well, Bill and I talked about Mike the other day, and how he might be Mike that is a sex addict. Which is fine, I suppose. I tried to be when he was around, but I can never get it together.

Mike thinks Bill is abusive since we do not have sex, and that is Bill’s choice. I broke it down the other day into, let’s say, good sex lasts about 20 minutes to an hour. Mike would be throwing out a relationship if things dried up for him if he were in a relationship where there’s sex ended. Which was ridiculous for me to consider an hour out of 24 hours, and he’d be willing to walk away from that.

232 West 37 is the location of a sex club in Midtown. Why do I know this? I don’t know, I just know I decided to walk around during lunch time down 37th Street, past one or two places that I used to frequent, not a sex club, but a recording studio where I worked, and a barber shop which was a front for a massage parlor.

I wandered into the magazine Cafe and bought a copy of Uncut with David Bowie on the cover since I’m running out of things to read on the train. I did put two requests into the Bibliotheque in Hoboken, and they both came in, so now I have too much to read, which is a first-world problem, I’m sure.

Bill is supposed to meet me at the PATH train, and we will have to stop at the library to pick up these items: a book about James Baldwin and a book by Sarah Vowell, which I have read before.

Tomorrow is my last day at the Major League fruit stand, and I really wouldn’t mind getting back to the spot where I usually work. Though they did feed me well today, some Middle Eastern food was satisfactory enough to fill the void in my stomach. Don’t know what I was eating, but it tasted good.