Tag Archives: The New Yorker

I May Be Wrong (But I Think You’re Wonderful)

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Well it’s Thursday but it feels like Friday. A holiday weekend Friday no less. But still it’s a Thursday and I made it through ok. My brother in law, Rex had his heart procedure this morning and it went beautifully, thanks to the Italian cardiologist in Cleveland. I said she was Italian because she’s from Italy and apparently the only one in North America who could do the procedure that the numb skulls at UCSF did not follow up on, throwing their bloody hands in the air saying, ‘oh Rex should have come in for a follow up. I guess we should have told you, but we didn’t so you’re fucked. Bye!’ Yeah fuck you too bitches.

I got a phone call from my sister Annemarie, happy to answer it, but dreading what I might hear, but it was Annemarie crying tears of joy, that it went so well. A relief to be able to call my family and tell them the good news. Everyone happy on the family front for Rex. Good news at last.

Last night Bill came home, the third time in a row this week. It’s so good to have him around. He didn’t drive me crazy like he sometimes does. I don’t mind the crazy. I mind the moments of solitude when he’s not here. We watched the season finale of Lawn Hor d’oeuvres. And like the Olivia Show on Lawn Hor d’oeuvres SVU it had an extremely weak ending.

I could have written a better ending than what was presented. Jack McCoy, car chase, shoot out, love scene would have been miles better than the Elliot Spitzer rehash with the governor played by the young Tom Hanks look alike from That Thing That You Do getting off the hook. Bill was vocally disappointed, I wasn’t paying that much attention. I didn’t stay up for the news, I went to bed and fell asleep rather quickly. Woke up Bill still asleep next to me, looking so cute.

I got myself together and was out the door, dropping off God is Not Great at the library having finished it last night. Reading the New Yorker about a club in Hollywood called Largo. It seems it’s the in spot for hipsters and musicians, probably much like McSwells used to be in the eighties and nineties. Almost made me want to go there but realizing that if it made it to the New Yorker it’s time had come and the time will soon be past. Been there done that.

True, John Paul Jones never played on stage at McSwells but hey, we had Peter Buck having French onion soup in the front room with Julie Panebianco and that has to count for something doesn’t it?

Also read about a Jazz afficianado, or Jazz queer as Ann Boyles like to say. A fanatic, the last of a breed searching out Charlie Parker 78’s or Bix Beiderbecke sides from the 1920’s. He has a radio show on WJCR at Columbia University. It was a good article, and I related to it somewhat, though not a jazz fan per se, but the hunting down of records that I loved or heard about was close to home. It almost got me interested in jazz. Almost.

Today was the penultimate day for the sweet receptionist Lydia. That meant going out for drinks. I was smart enough to hit McDonalds and have a little something in my system before quaffing a few pints. It was me and Lydia plus Allen and Rossi. A few laughs over pints with the guys, Lydia sipping a glass of white wine. Marty Allen and I bought a few rounds, I used petty cash, Marty Allen out of pocket. Vivek showed up and gregarious as usual bought the rest of the round as well as some snacks that we could munch on.

Somehow my age came up and I was compelled for the past year to keep it under wraps, but since I was on the spot I had to tell the truth, I am 45. Their reaction? I was a young looking 45. I actually look as young or younger than them, excepting Lydia who’s 21. I act younger than them that’s for sure, excepting Lydia once again. After 4 pints, 2 more than I had planned I made an exit with Lydia, walking her to her train.

Here I am now, hearing that John McCrazy disowned John Hagee’s endorsement which is good news for the country and showing that John McCain really isn’t a good judge of character or a good judge of anything really worthwhile. Now, let’s arrest Karl ‘Big Ass Closet Case’ Rove.

Time to chill. Peace out cub scouts.
Here’s Ian Hunter, a dedication for Annemarie, Rex and Earl

Sister Golden Hair

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Ugh, the day after St. Patrick’s Day. Not hungover, just a little buzzed last night, three pints only, no more no less. Slept really well after laboring with the editing of photos last night. Lately I’ve been having dreams that seem to resolve themselves by the time I wake up, though this morning’s dream seemed to take place on a deserted island ala Lost, in a Winnebago that was being shot at. That was where I woke up. I didn’t seem to be disturbed by being shot at in the dream, oddly enough.

Read the New Yorker on the way in and everything seemed to be fine, until I returned from an errand that took about an hour, and when I got back and sat down, I was exhausted. Eventually I rallied and got through the afternoon but it wasn’t easy. Yesterday was a good day, time spent in the love bubble with Bill. The love bubble is when Bill and I are somewhere in public, surrounded by people and all we feel is affection for each other. I doesn’t happen too often lately, both of us need to be in the same space, both mentally and physically and things being the way they are lately makes it difficult. I thanked Bill for that when I got back to Hoboken and waited for Corinne.

Got word from Chaz about our former neighbors in Weehawken. Three sisters, raising a boy and a girl. They were nice, thought our landlords were crazy. Never really hung out with the neighbors, just a friendly hello when we would pass each other. Chaz told me the youngest, the boy named TJ had died in a balcony accident somewhere. That was a shock. He must have been maybe 20 years old. I couldn’t find any information about what happened, if it happened. If it did happen I’m sure they’re devastated. I remember one time after a major blizzard, I was walking past a snowbank when I heard a cry and a scream. TJ was stuck on a snow drift, being pudgy, and his friends all deserted him. I walked over and dug him out and made sure he was alright before he ran back home. That’s what I’ll remember about TJ. A pudgy kid stuck in a snowbank.

In my search for information regarding TJ I googled Jane Street Weehawken. What came up was an apartment listing for my old apartment that I shared with William for 11 years. In those 11 years, the rent never went above $500, which we split. He had 2 rooms, I had 2 rooms ( a bit smaller than his though) separated by a room, with a shared kitchen and bath. It was great, and William was a great decorator, but his decorating sometimes got out of hand. I’d leave in the morning and comeback from work in the evening to find rooms painted a different color, furniture moved around. Sometimes the rent would go up, sometimes it would go down. Now the same apartment is $2200.

Crazy.

They took out the garden in the backyard, and I don’t know what else they did in the apartment, but man that was an eye opener. I split that scene after 11 years with William, 9 of those years silently resenting each other, hoping the other one would move out first. I surrendered when Julio found this apartment in Hoboken. No Pattie and Fred Kleinke banning Bill from the apartment more than 2 nights a week, though lately Bill’s only been here 2 nights a week.

I admit I lucked out with the timing of my moving out, William and Chaz and Kathe had to abandon their apartments about 6 months later when Pattie and Fred decided to sell the house and promised to deliver it empty, not offering William and Chaz a chance to buy it from them. Resentment all around. Even from me though I was already gone. What’s done is done and Jane Street, that magical time, and it wasn’t all bad, is history.