The second time I take the G, I can’t remember my stop immediately. All I know is it’s the one after Clinton-Washington. Last night = two coincidental run-ins, one at MKE and one at LGA. As I am walking to my terminal at Mitchell, I see this tall, lanky, older punk dude dressed mostly in black walking towards me at a near frantic pace. Phil Janke! I vocalize the name. Jen Threat! He responds in kind, while continuing to race past me. But then he abruptly stops, turns around. Asks who’s in town. Just go to the Riverwest bars, you’ll find the same people in the same place as you left them. He nods knowingly, probably thinking it was unnecessary to ask. I ask how he’s doing, where he’s living, although I think I knew. Brooklyn, he says. Of course; that explains the walk. I mention I’d recently moved back from the same place. The exchange occurs in about 2 minutes.
When I arrive at LGA, Jason is waiting for me. My skittish Milwaukee self didn’t feel comfortable taking public transit alone after 10pm, in the dark, through Queens. (I couldn’t afford cab fare.) We take a different bus that goes straight to a GEVF stop. I marvel at the numerous amount of Christmas lights and decorations still adorning the Queens walk-ups. We eat the freshly baked Midwest Express chocolate chip cookies. Me and Maddog.
As we descend into the tunnel and begin walking towards some seats, I see Frank, the sexiest short man I’ve ever met. He’s Italian, his clothes are stylish, and they fit. He’s the best friend of this guy I sporadically dated, and he works for CUNY, is married and has a baby. Frank! I shout gleefully. Frank turns around, looking a bit stunned--he can‘t really believe he‘s just run into me, either. We hug, begin the normal chit chat: How’ve you been? What’ve you been up to? I can’t believe we ran into each other here!!???>>>What the fuck? Where you coming from? He was coming from band practice and just randomly hopped off one train to wait for a another, hoping to reach the upper east side of Manhattan more quickly. Frank seems a little hopped up, but maybe hearing my screechy voice ring out in the tunnel just threw him off guard. I beg him not to tell our mutual friend that I’m in town, as I won’t have time to see him because he lives in Staten Island and works in Jersey. There’d just be no time. But Frank is laughing, asking, How can I NOT tell him? The run in Queens is too good to forgo mentioning. Franks does tell him, and I feel slightly guilty when I ignore his probing yet vague text on Sunday night.
***
My first full day back in NYC and I’m full of energy. On the Q, an express, the fastest, best way to get from downtown Brooklyn to anyplace up til 57th St in Manhattan. Only five stops in Manhattan total, I think. It crosses over on the Manhattan Bridge or the Brooklyn Bridge, whatever’s further east. It’s one of my favorite views of Manhattan. I’ve never not looked at the downtown skyline when crossing over. Just had lunch near LIU--it was the Fulton stop. How could I ever forget? When I entered the atrium of the Humanities Building (we called it the H Bldg) I was in awe at the transformation. Used to house the shabby bookstore but now it’s all deep red walls, polished wood paneling. A beautiful glass enclosed art gallery is in its center. On display are large black and whites of random well known personalities--Ronald Reagan in a politician’s stance, Michael Jackson when he still looked human and black, a young, pouty Mick Jaggar standing next to some woman. The door is locked so I can’t get a closer view. Two people are waiting, they tell me, for security to come open it, but I can not. It looks so extremely different that I can not find the elevators, even though they are in the same place. I go up to the 4th floor, to see who is milling around the English Department. Probably only the departmental assistant, but that’s good enough, as she is one of those truly warm, bubbly individuals who manages not to be annoying with her general happiness and everyday enthusiasm. When sees me, we hug, and catch up briefly. Nothing’s physically changed on the 4th floor.
On to the HEOP office to meet Susan, a writing specialist who had hired me to teach a intense 8 hour per week summer English class for students enrolled in HEOP, which prepares under prepared entering high school students for college the summer before they begin. I loved those students (Henry Diaz! Juanita!) and that department (like a family). She is under the weather but not so much so that she can’t take me to lunch! I see Dr. Kamel, the director, and Joan, one of teachers and counselors. Too bad sassy Althea’s gone for the day. On our way out to Green Apple, the only place to get nongreasy food within at least a mile radius of LIU, ok maybe a few blocks, but that area is all about the grease, whether it slides off the pizza, Chinese food, soul food, Jamaican food or Junior’s deli’s fries. We have homemade garlic mushroom soup and some bread tips, share stories about grad school, hers from longer ago, and she coughs loudly when she wants the waitress’s attention…
***
Back on the Q at DeKalb, headed to the Herald Square H & M. Skinny pants skinny pants must find skinny pants! No luck, though! Everything except for ONE shirt at H & M sucks. They’ve customized their jeans to look akin to Diesel’s to justify charging $50 a piece instead of $30 or $40, their normal prices for jeans. Lame. Across the street is Forever 21; I’d been waiting for it to open before I left. I energetically sprint across 34th St and enter. It’s full of really tacky shit. I look over the entire store but honestly can’t find one thing to waste money on. Still have 45 minutes. Daffy’s is across Broadway. Discount clothes! This pair of stretch jeans with FRESH printed on the ass are cute, but too tight. All the accessories are silver and gold, and not because New Year’s Eve was last week. Why can’t that trend die? I haven’t really seen anyone on the street or in the subway whose caught my eye fashion-wise, either. Only one tousled-haired girl with cowboy boots (worn with a skirt, not tackily, atop jeans) in H & M, and a skater-punk chick with attitude at Broadway and 34th St, but no else really interesting thus far. I’m so desperate for skinny jeans I even try the 3rd and 4th floors of Macy’s (Designer and Junior Trend). There’s really never anything impressive in that monolith, except they do have some nice bags. It’s just so queer to be shopping, round the bend and bam! There’s a mini Starbucks right there, or McDonald’s, or Au Bon Pain. Used to come here to meet Jose in the fur vault. Feels like forever ago. Macy’s, NYC, didn’t do well by Jose.
***
Back on the Q, enroute to Deborah’s house in Brooklyn; the map says she lives in Prospect Lefferts. Not far from Prospect Heights, where I lived for the first year and a half of my three year stay in two different apartments in two side by side ratty buildings, where I got mugged, where that guy asked me if it was possible for him to eat my pussy while I waited for the bus. As the train docks back at Dekalb (the crush of the people, the mommies, daddies, children, shopping bags, lovers, already wears on me), I have one of those reminiscent visions. Me, Val, and Placencia at Junior’s in the back room, the one that also houses the bar, natch! Sitting at that table, ordering flavored martinis (watermelon for me) buzzed and laughing before or after class, a plate of fries surely placed firmly in front of Val, perhaps gravy on them even though she‘s vegetarian. I feel it. I feel it. For those few seconds--it’s so visceral it startles, and makes me melancholy.
Deborah’s house is impressive. It’s all hers, hers and her husband’s and eight-year-old son’s. It’s a 3-story, with pristine vintage woodwork, chandeliers, and a tiny but suitable backyard with a koi pond that‘s accessible via the kitchen sliders. Their Christmas tree is still up, and under it sits some Legos or race cars, and the new Barbara Erhenreich book, Bait and Switch. A true academic with offspring’s home. She makes tea, and her son and his friend race all around the house. I see many Lego creations, meet the turtle and see the newt. We discuss composition theory and I dish about the famous professors who are leaving my program, making me want to stay. She’s working on a textbook, and will be busy at the composition conference. She tells my old roommate will be presenting. I haven’t kept in touch with him. I’m freezing, but the house is so wonderful it distracts me frequently. Deborah tells me I look good. So did Susan, Jason and Diane. Maybe I do.
***
On the Q again. I am so spaced out that I forget the N train’s express too, when I get out at Canal to change for the local, and end up at 14th St. No time to check out what and who is in Virgin. Prince St is just two stops southbound on the R, so I dash downstairs to make the one that‘s just rumbled through. I have a about a half an hour to kill before heading to the restaurant, so I head down Broadway to check out what’s on after-holiday sale at Bloomingdale’s. Nothing of interest. Disappointing all around, even the bag selection. There were hardly any salespeople milling around since it was nearing closing time, and it seemed like it would be easy to steal the $800 pair of pants that were stocked outside of the women’s restroom, which is really fancy and clean. Nice light turquoise painted walls and big mirrors, of course. I don’t steal, though, I don’t take such risks even though corporate America’s bullshit and there‘s probably some hidden micro cameras anyway. I just change my pad in the bathroom, sip some water from the fountain, and head out.
Northbound back to Prince, turn left. Where we’re celebrating Martin’s 30th is across the street from Chanel. Chanel’s stuff, except the couture line, is so bland and conservative. Dinner was all about below average, overpriced food (how can you fuck up a veggie burger and a brownie a la mode?) and great company. I see Pete, our prized singer/songwriter, for the first time and throw him off guard with my potty mouth. He tells me that he forgot that he has to swear when he’s around me. The great influence I exert…
Dinner ends and about a fourth of us go to Boogaloo, this intimate street level bar/club in Williamsburg, near the Marcy St JMZ, across from where Kev/Josh/Jason used to live. Sketchy area. The train is elevated in that area and the tracks line Broadway. It’s extra dirty, and all of the take out restaurants and bodegas are extra dirty too. But there’s plenty of white hipster kids, including us on some level I suppose, down at Boogaloo. Vic Thrill’s playing, and we’re on the list, which I appreciate, since I’m on the $100 for four days in NYC budget. The band is always so upbeat and danceable. I need an alcoholic beverage to help me unwind, though, due to running all day.
I enjoy my only run-in with Robin, the young graphic novelist who’s gotten a bit of attention for his work and has flattered me with appreciated compliments from time to time. We discuss how we can’t make ourselves try to feel anything about the opposite sex. We always seem to relate on that level. Say bye to Jeffery D, who co-founded an independent book publishing company; he was preparing to do the relocate from NYC to LA thing. I’m off and on distracted by a really cute, tattooed, flannel wearing young guy running around with an unattractive woman sporting bad eighties style long hair. Jeffrey D’s woman tells me he’d moved there from bumfuck Oklahoma or Nebraska or Idaho and has lost over 100 lbs and is just kind of floating around. An interesting way to begin one’s twenties, one level, it the reason’s because he has no or lacks connection with his family, maybe not so great. Get to twirl my red lipped patterned flared skirt around the claustrophobic dance floor a few times with a smiling birthday boy, but then the Miller-induced fatigue sets in. I hate that beer, but again, I‘m on a budget. Robin and Pete walk me home, and much enjoy my comment about the Strokes member on the billboard. Fucking gawlfling fag hair ugly fuck! Get a haircut! Guess I’m never too tired to curse or shriek. Jason’s given me his bed and his Spongebob for the night. I hate to take it but my lazy, Milwaukee, driving everywhere so I don‘t get my head shot off self is too worn out not. Such a gentleman.
* * *
Saturday afternoons in NYC, for most people, are generally very busy. People walk around. People watch. Explore. Do errands. Brunch. Get tea. Go out to dinner or dine at a friend’s. See a film. See music. Go the park. Shop. Study. Work. Whatever. Any individual’s schedule varies, but, especially for the twenty something crowd, unless you’re really burnt out from work and/or partying, Saturday’s a busy day. I yearned for one of those Saturdays. But it was cold. So cold for me to walk all over Williamsburg alone trying to find a way to get to the East Village conveniently, as the motherfucking L train wasn’t running all goddamn weekend. The disappointment set in.
Managed to get Steve out for brunch, met him by the Nassau G in the safe, lively Polish neighborhood where I spent my second year and a half, and it was great to catch up over a heaping, steaming batch of tofu scramble, but we were right by the door. And it was just cold. You’re hunched over in most eateries anyway, everything’s always so crowded, and being hunched and cold makes it all the more tense. And people can be shortsighted and stand there and linger with the door open. Gotta love Steve, though, leaning over to slap that shit shut.
Steve was busy and fighting a cold. No one wanted to get to the city via the G into Queens, up and around. I never watch movies, and I desired some Dev & Diane time, so I went over there and we watched Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle or whatever the eff it’s called. Nice enough, really, enjoyable, especially seeing cutie Lil D bust out her big ole accordion, gossiping with Dev and seeing the crocheted doll’s his sister had knitted to remarkably resemble the two of them, but it just doesn’t feel like one of my NYC Saturday afternoons. Later, though, a few people are up for trekking to the JMZ, Chris the trucker punk and Cat his lady friend and Dev and I. We traipsed over to Old Devil Moon, one of my favorite comfort food restaurants. Still feeling so fucking cold. Passing St Mark’s Bookshop but no time to stop in. Still not like a Saturday, then. Excessively long wait for food at Old Devil Moon, but at least everyone seems to dig their food...I do. Peanut. Butter. Pie.
Afterwards we stop off at Josh and Dave’s place on C and something, maybe C and 4th St. They’ve been together for ages and had just had some great luck: one lost his job right before applying to grad schools and the other got hired full time a place that grants partner benefits to homosexual couples.
Now they have a NYC apartment; it’s in a kickass building where all the interior walls are painted with murals. There’s several floors, but no elevator, so perhaps that’s part of the reason for the murals, to keep people focused on something while trucking up all of those stairs. Josh always has comix laying about and toys. I get my hands on this light up frog. It glows. I stick it under my shirt and randomly blurt: I’m ET! Fuck you guys! Everyone laughs, and then I say some other funny shit, which prompts Chris to declare that that they should write down everything I say. Maybe they should! We have to get back to the neighborhood tavern, Redd’s, so we have leave before I’m ready. I manage, though, to get some good shots of us and those walls on the way out.
The thing with Redd’s, back in W’burg, is that the vibe is either festive as hell if you have a good buzz going, or chill to the extent you have to fight not to fall asleep on the leather couches. Maybe it’s just me, I guess, but... It’s got several TVs mounted to the wall behind the bar, which I always dislike, and nothing ever changes, not the clientele or the jukebox. That’s the draw in many aspects, as is Eric, the bartender, a really direct yet laid back guy who is also very easy on the eyes--the flawless skin! Goddamn it’s hard not to touch that skin sometimes. (The first story he ever told me was about his friend getting hit on by Joan Jett at Meow Mix, and how that woman’s girlfriend got all pissy--not because her lady cheated on her, but that her lady got naked with Joan Jett and she did not. His communication style reminds me of old school punk-skate guys I used to hang with but Eric’s more intelligent and less of a dick. I always think of him when I watch Timmy-centered South Park episodes, because the first time I saw one was at Judy the food stylist’s house in Gramercy, with him, Martin and a few other folks, after we‘d gorged on wonderful food.)
Unfortunately, I’m worn out again. My lazy driving everywhere Milwaukee ass! It takes me goddamn forever to finish my wine, to the point where patient Pete becomes impatient with me. We walked back to his and Jason’s place together, while Jason stays to play air drums to the Melvins with and talk to Michael some more. I have no desire to remain at Redd’s, even though it’s part two of Martin’s bday celebration. Maybe I am craving a more wild NYC evening, some debauchery that I can‘t afford. When did I turn into a tourist?
* * *
Sunday is breakfast at Kellogg’s. The only reason to go to that greasy pit is tradition, because the guys have always gone there, and convenience, because it’s a block down from the Keap St house and the employees know Jason and Dev, so we never wait long to get a seat, even when it’s crowded. This time, it’s Dev’s food that has remnants of someone else’s dish in it. Then it’s off for some culture at the PS 1 Contemporary Art Center in Long Island City, in Queens just past the Queens/Brooklyn border.
We get there and the NYC feeling emerges. Yay! Culture! Milwaukee has a little but hells, no, it can’t compare to NYC with its one art museum and decrepit, financially unstable public general education museum with the IMAX theatre! The Center
is in an old public school, hence its name, and the entrance is vast and striking. There’s an arch, and this huge vast space where I guess the playground used to be, and it’s all covered in gravel. It could easily feel prison-like but it just feels…unique. The work of Peter Hujar, who was David Wojnarowicz’s partner in the ‘70s and/or ‘80s, is on display for the first time ever. Black and white photography, portraits of eccentrics like John Waters and of gay performance artists. Captures the era. Then there’s Stephen Shore. His shit is awesome. Tons of 6 x 4 (or 5 x 7?) shots, in color, of early 1970s America. A lot of the shots were taken in rural areas and were really striking, even shots of things like dirty toilet bowls, or greasy pork chops on a tupperware plate. People in compromising positions in their garish‘70s clothing. Really good visual, nicely arranged. Could stare for awhile longer. Finally there’s Jon Kessler’s postmodern mind fuck inspired by post 9-11 media and governmental inflicted fear and consumerism. It’s so bright and loud, all these gadgets and TV screens, surveillance cameras that reflect the image of the viewer onto the little mirrors added into the mechanical sculptures. There’s the postcards of the cityscape pre 9/11 rotating. Some terrorist looking person flashing on TV. All the TVs.
Feeling drained, so drained one of the Center’s employees asks me if I feel ok as I’m sitting down with my head in my hands. Very thoughtful for a NYC employee who gets paid shit. That’s something I notice here. It’s unsurprising but still perplexing: Even though most of them do not appear rich, virtually all of the Center’s patrons are white and all of the security employees are African American, Puerto Rican or Dominican.
***
Back outside for photographs. It’s not cold today. In fact my sweater is too warm. Should’ve had this on yesterday. Some of the group heads home and me, Diane and Pete head to Manhattan. I want to window shop on Fifth Avenue. Pete and I go into the St Paul or whomever’s cathedral, the one across from Saks Fifth Avenue and Banana Republic. It’s really gorgeous inside, I’ve never been, for some reason, but my flash isn’t working. I like viewing it as much as I like viewing some of the on sale Dior items ($6oo for jeans) at Saks. Check out the H & M and Zara but I can’t find a damn thing and I’m bummed. Skinny pants! We pass Trump Tower, the new Fendi flagship, we go in, everything’s ugly, pass Louis Vuitton, Bendel’s and Bergdoff Goodman are across the street, there’s Armani Exchange and places like The Gap. And Tiffany’s, too. So many people passing the time or actually spending money. Mostly all white. We end up a block of so from where Central Park begins but there’s no point going over there, because the trees are leafless and dull. We stand there debating about where to find the train (I should shut up, I don’t live here anymore) and then I see her. This skinny black woman clad in only a ripped trash bag, pacing in circles with her arm, hand outstretched, eyes barely open, cracked out of her mind or needing to be cracked out of her mind, here on Fifth Avenue. I feel sick. A year ago in Milwaukee I couldn’t understand why E was so insistent about helping this drunk passed out person by the bus stop, my NYC mentality was intact, you just have to walk on by. But now I think I must have more of a small city mentality because I want to call someone to call and help this woman. It’s too cold for just a garbage bag. I hadn’t seen anyone looking quite that destitute, ever, during my NYC and Chicago stays, except maybe the guy locked in between a door and the metal grate blocking thieves‘ access to the door, covered in paper and filth, but he had clothes on, at least.
I know I can’t call the NYPD about a homeless crackhead. I feel guilty though, knowing I’m on my way to get a slice. Warm food. Then it’s off to Martin’s to hang at the loft with him, Christine, Michael, Jason, Pete, Poingly, Chris, Cat and Dev and Diane. And me. We’ll sample the Wisconsin summer sausage and cheese I snagged from my parents. But once there I’m irritated with the boys, who want to play a game while watching football. My hackles are up and they know it. It’s just not social to have the TV on unless everyone is enjoying what’s on. So I segregate myself with Christine and D, who is raking in the clothes today, as now Christine is passing off a bunch of things that she doesn’t wear anymore. I score some great scarves, but stupidly leave them and my only score thus far, a $5 Yoshitomo Nara calendar, at the Turkey’s Nest later…
Something feels off, and I’m getting upset, but what am I hoping for? Everyone needs to chill as they have to work tomorrow. Am I just edgy because I’m just a visitor now? I can’t stay and I’m sad and projecting? I can’t tell. All I know is something feels different again. I passed on going to O’Conner’s, my favorite NYC dive I talk about frequently, the cheap hole in the wall in Park Slope, with the great jukebox and the hardworking, good looking bartenders, because it’s a pain in the ass to get there and everyone’s tired. But I need something more before I leave! Thank GOD for my Maddog, and Steve. They both agree to accompany me to Turkey’s Nest, on the Greenpoint/W’burg border, a REAL dive that serves its big Budweisers in Styrofoam cups. They have Buck Hunter too, but Jas and I don’t even play.
I call crazy club promoter Bob, who is already there, along with his sweet, foulmouthed friend Ben. I had a few NYC-style escapades with Bob and I always appreciate him for that, but he makes me mad because he is so drunk all the time, as part of his job, really, so he‘s always been really tired when we’ve gone out, except for on our date, as most of his down time is spent recuperating from the binge with X rock star/partier extraordinaire/millions of friends and acquaintances the night before. But he’s fun and has good stories. He tells us how one of the guys who works at his club is dating Kate Moss, and how some 18 year old model who looks like Bjork combined with graphic novelist Phoebe Gloeckner got all naked in his bed but he resisted. Ben makes some smart remarks about the background of the Parisian friend of Bob’s who ‘s also visiting. I like her spunk. Her companion is so stereotypically French, wearing a black sweater and looking pale and put off, with his pencil thin mustache. And the Corona flows. We all take jowler pictures, except Steve, who left earlier, but not before giving me one of his patented super squeeze hugs. I keep thinking the walk back is going to suck, but it so isn‘t. It feels more…right…walking home from the bar with Jas.
***
My last day and I’m frantic, running all over Soho and to St Mark’s (without even stopping at Mondo Kim’s!) with Christine then meeting Jason. Gotta find the skinny pants. The Levi’s that the woman who owns the great, tiny punky shop on Bedford recommends to me don’t look good on me like they do on her. Need some stuff at Pearl River, that’s done…now racing to Trash and Vaudeville because that’s where I can get my rock and roll pants, where Joey and the rest of the Ramones used to shop…maybe Marky still stops in sometimes. This burnt out old rock dude with equally burnt, over bleached hair runs all around finding me sizes in red and black pants. He’s really gross to view, with his ass crack creeping out of his skinny but too low rise pants, but he is so sweet and charming, telling me I look thin and could go tighter when deep down I feel like I look like a stuffed sausage even though I know that is not at all how I appear. I’m in bossy Jen mode but my friends graciously put up with it. I just want us to get back to Brooklyn to eat more comfort food together. I want me some fried chicken! And I get it at Union Picnic, this old school diner joint. It’s good and too much food. Shit shit shit. And I do. Racing racing back to Jas’ and saying good bye….I’m just ready for Milwaukee, now, ready for home, tired of racing, walking. Want my tape filled car. The bus through Queens doesn’t take long and I only have to spend a half hour waiting to board. I’m ready to see my parents, cat, and most of all, my certifiably insane Milwaukee friends.
