Hey New York!

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

A shout out (or at - whatever the fuck ya wanna call it) to New York City after a long day of hard work lifting heavy steel objects, sweating, throwing my back out, smashing my fingers, toes and shins and driving from Brooklyn to Jersey and back again in a 20' truck...

First off, the shittiest drivers on the planet are all here in this fuckin' city. I take that back, I had that one amazing cab driver of unknown Persian persuasion on one of my initial trips up here to visit my lady who got me from Midtown Manhattan to JFK in like five minutes flat in complete and utter control of the road and his piece of shit car the whole goddamned way as we blew threw traffic. That guy was fucking amazing! I hope he wins the Daytona 500. EVERYONE ELSE SUCKS. You all suck! You stop in the intersection! You stop in the middle of the road! You stop when you're supposed to go and you go when you're supposed to stop! You cut people off! You don't use your blinkers when you're supposed to, and you leave them on when you're not supposed to. You move to the right lane, then to the left lane again, then back to the right again, then to the left lane again, then you slow down to a crawl, then you speed up with no rhyme or reason. You have no fucking clue what the fuck you are doing or where you are going! You put on your left blinker, then you turn right! Amazing... You sit at green lights waiting for Jesus to come, then blow through red lights like you're running from the Devil! And you honk! You honk and you honk and you honk! Unfuckingbelievable - you're still not going anywhere! No one is! We're all stuck in this fucking nightmare quagmire together! Get over it!

I wish that the city would put me in charge of enforcing the no honking law. I would speed through New York City traffic all day and all night long in a turbocharged traffic scooter thingymabob slapping tickets on the windshields of jackhole motorists with a reckless fucking abandon and glee. That would make me happy. It would make me very happy.

It seems that every shithead on the planet that either couldn't, or never attempted to drive in their home country migrated here and immediately got behind the fucking wheel of an automobile. A thought to all of you immigrants behind the wheel: GO TO FUCKING DRIVING SCHOOL!!!! In fact, in order for anyone to get a green card anymore in this country they should have to pass a driving test rather than an English aptitude test. I would much rather have all you newbies from all over the globe be able to drive as opposed to speak, because I can't understand what the fuck you're trying to say anyway. Just shut it and learn how to drive.

Also, on the topic of people from other countries, just because you came from a different country or culture doesn't mean that you are interesting or unique. In fact, it seems to be the opposite. It seems that all the dickheads, shitfaces, and fuckups from all over the world came here in droves. Oh yeah, and you're country's not that fucking great - if it was, you would have stayed there. So get over yourself your homeland. It sucks just as much as you do. Just because you were big shit Kurdistan doesn't mean dick here. Get over it.

Don't get me wrong, there are some pretty cool foreigners here, but at about the same ratio of cool people to shitheads as in High School - about 1 cool person to every 100 or so intolerable fucking assholes.

So here's to those 99 assholes that seem to make up the populace of every group on the planet...

To the Puerto Ricans: Nobody gives a shit about Puerto Rico but you. And your music sucks.

To Puerto Rican women in particular: That shrieking noise you make when you yell at someone is one of the most ball shriveling noises on the planet.

To older Puerto Rican men: Once you're over forty, you are not a thug - you're just old.

To the Russian mobsters: Listening to Hip Hop does not make you look more intimidating, in fact it makes you look like a 15 year old white kid from Iowa.

To the preppy yuppies: My boxers hung out the bottom of my shorts when I was 16 - you're still doing it you fuck tool.

To the Hassidic Jews: You remind me of the Amish - Fucking Boring.

To the Williamsburg hipsters: Just because you dress like a fucking jackass doesn't make you either interesting or cool. In fact, odds are, you're just a total fucking jackass who dresses shitty, you tool.

To all you young chicks: Your style makes you look like a totally unfuckable pilled out middle aged loser of a mom from the seventies - what a waste. There's no future for you. You're already played out.

To all the young fags: Just because you dress like a total fucking jackass doesn't mean you aren't still just a fucking fag.

To all the black guys: Hip Hop is dead... it died with Ol' Dirty Bastard in the studio with those hookers and all that blow (RIP Little Baby Jesus).

To all the fucking places that don't take credit cards: It's the Twenty First fucking century, or some shit like that. What's the fucking problem?

To all you rich fucking cunts out there: Guess what? I go as fast in my behemoth 20' truck as you'll ever go in this fucking city in your fucking Ferrari or Lamborghini - you asshole. I hope you all crash into telephone polls.

To all the Union workers: You work like a bunch of peg legged homeless women in skirts. Grow a pair of nuts!

To all you agents out there who won't represent my book: I hope the publishing industry crumbles around your ears! I don't fucking need you. I'll represent myself. Kiss my ass.

To all you New Agers with feathers in your head: If the Indians were so fucking smart they wouldn't be relegated to Reservations swillin' Thunderbird.

To all the kid bands from Brooklyn: You've got no balls.

To all the queers and women who seem to run this city: You've got no soul.

To all you big business tycoons: I never see you. Let's keep it that way. You seem like assholes too.

To all the women of New York: You all obviously need a good hard fucking! That's okay. In fact, I like that about you!

To all of you who I forgot on this one: I'll getchya on the next one... much love.

To my woman: I love ya... you're the best one in this fucking cultural miss mashed mess of over urbanization, sprawling egos, raging insecurities and complete dumbfuckery.

And to any of you who took any offense to any of this: Suck me off you cockblown fuckfaces. Like Joan Jett said, "I don't give a damn about my reputation! I never said I wanted to improve my station."

Fuck off...

Love

You Smell Difficult

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Fourth of July weekend. Birthday party. Upstate New York. Marie's husband. Mushrooms.

It was Marie's long time friend, Sebastian's birthday party at his house Upstate where we'd been the week before for the yoga retreat. And it just happens that Sebastian is good friends with Marie's "husband" (She calls him the guy she used to live with as it's been years since they've been together, so it's just a "term" to her, she says). The weekend was planned.

It wasn't for sure, or written in stone, that Marie's "husband" would be there, and it never really came up in conversation that it was a possibility that he would be there, but I felt it. I knew he'd be there. And I resigned myself to the thought.

It felt like destiny somehow.

Sure enough, when we walked into the vast old house I saw a guy with a pony tail and some sort of Indian arm band scamper through a doorway that looked to me like he was probably the "one". Several minutes later on the back lawn with the roar of the waterfall in the background Marie introduced to me her "husband".
"My condolences" he said with his affected, condescending South African accent. "I'm only kidding" he restated as he tried to gauge my eyes.
"Only half kidding, I'm know" I told him. What the fuck did I care? I already had a beer, and I'd been living with the fucking woman for nearly six months. Like I needed him to remind me or let me in on the secret that she was a difficult woman. Fuckin' snobbish asshole.

People showed up and began filling the house with noise and booze, and by midnight, after dinner, everyone was getting to know each other out on the front porch, smoking and drinking and getting high as the large iridescent moon hung nearly full with anticipation of the weekend in the clear sky.

It was going to be a good weekend.

The next day was spent in preparation in the kitchen for the evenings festivities of fireworks and birthday cake. By four o'clock I was ready to start drinking. There twenty or more people to feed and the food preparation seemed like an endless chore. But I was done and ready to have fun when one of the locals who works odd jobs on the house offered me some mushrooms. I took em' figurin' it was as good a way as any to handle being around your lovers "husband" in a strange environment with strange people on the Fourth of July.

A few hours later I was swallowing the mushrooms down with a beer as I thought about the last time that I'd taken them ten years earlier in Amsterdam and how I'd ended up hiding in a port a john in the center of town for the good share of an afternoon, and thought, 'what could go wrong?' as I went up to our room to get my jacket. I saw her "husband" coming out of his room that was next to ours with some Indian war paint on his face. 'Fine', I thought, as I walked into our room, 'that's the way you want it?' I looked into the mirror in and ate some more mushrooms. I wasn't sure what he was up to, but I was on to'em. 'I can play that game too' I thought, as I went back down to the party with a little buzz starting in the back of my brain. There were people eating and laughing and drinking and I started smiling from the essence of my being realizing that I had nothing to worry about, that I was okay, that everything was okay and that the world was all right as wandered the party in and out of conversations.

A little while later I went back up to the room to get another shirt as it was getting cold out when I saw Marie's "husband" coming out of his room again, this time with a feather in the back of his pony tail. 'What was this guy up to?' I wondered. 'Well, if that's the way he wants it' I thought, 'I'll show him. I'll show him.' And I went into the room and ate the rest of the mushrooms.

Something was on the line.

Something was going to be determined.

Something was happening.

I went out back to the lawn where the party was in full swing and ended up next to the "husband" sharing his glass of whiskey and talking about something or other or nothing at all, and determined that he wasn't such a bad guy after all. We even laughed about a couple of things - I don't know what. And as I left him standing there I felt that bygones were bygones, and they weren't even my bygones...

Something was happening.

The night rolled along with long talks on art, the nature of art, the essence of people, capturing people in art. Toy guns were waved, declarations made and drinks drunk.

Later, closing in on two or so in the morning I found myself cornered, being interrogated by a curious woman about my tattoos. I felt like I was being interviewed by Rolling Stone magazine, in a movie about my life that I was starring in, and I was helpless to form a coherent thought or statement about anything as the woman snapped a photograph of one of my tattoos, and Marie saved me from the bad interview out of nowhere and took me outside to make out under the stars and I tried to figure out how in the hell I'd ended up "there", with her, in that moment, in that rapture, in that love.

Afterward in bed she willed herself on me, literally infusing herself into me, letting me know that I was "hers" as she spoke to me with her energy the story of her soul as I tried to make love to her, speak to her with my body and my soul, naked and exposed, vulnerable, as her "husband" lay in the other room, his presence trying to keep me from entwining with Marie, her asking me with her body to erase the thought of "him" forever as I entered her and drove the thoughts of "them" and what once was away for good. We were together.

I lay there holding her lost in the union of our energy, a field of color and warmth and love enmeshed. And as I held her close I could smell the essence of her being, and I told her: "You smell difficult."

Love

Article I Wrote That Was Deleted By Online Marketplace

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I entered this article into a writing contest on Helium titled: How to build muscle by manipulating hormones.

It was deleted by the site.

I liked it.

They didn't.

Oh well...

The article we have deleted (Helium):

Moobs

A couple of years ago I worked a short stint in a vitamin store.
After a couple of weeks of working and stocking the locked display case full of bottles with names like TORQUED, TESTOSTERONE BOMB and JACKED UP that all had extraordinary claims of rock hard muscles and sexual prowess I decided that I wanted to become a rippling, glistening Adonis who wielded a sexual sledgehammer!
The lab results for one of the products said that it gave castrated rats boners! Shit. That’s all the information I needed. I’d done my research before I started my regimen. How could I’ve known I’d grow bitch tits like Bob in FIGHT CLUB?
I began taking handfuls of pills daily. I was eating everything in the store: Testosterone boosters, growth hormone supplements, protein bars and shakes! I was gonna be Paul Bunyon huge with a giant hard on all day long!
Soon I started looking bigger. But I didn't look shredded like the guys in the pictures on the bottles. I was just lookin’ kinda fat. I wasn’t getting diesel. And I wasn’t any hornier. Then I started noticing a tingling behind my nipples. I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. But I wasn’t worried - as I thought I was just becoming sexually charged - until one day in the shower the sensation became almost painful as the water pelted my chest. It felt almost like I had small rocks lodged behind my nipples. Fuck. And when I got out and looked in the mirror I thought that it looked like I had supple baby breast forming. But I was too shocked to believe it. My mind couldn’t handle the truth and I convinced myself that I was just getting buff, not becoming a woman, and kept on taking the pills determined to become a Fabio like sex God.
Soon after at the beach though, as I came running out of the water towards my towel for another beer, my worst fears were confirmed as one of my buddies yelled to everyone, “LOOK! HE’S GOT MOOBS!”
“What the fuck are moobs?” I asked as everyone laughed and I went for the cooler.
“Man boobs – moobs! And you’ve gottem. You’re gonna need a bro for those buddy!”
"A bro?” I said, as the sun seemed to wilt me.
"Yeah. A bra for guys. You need one."
Jesus, life’s fucking brutal. Instead of looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger working out at Venice Beach I looked like Brooke Shields in BLUE LAGOON.
Later on, drunk and stoned, I tried to flex for everyone to prove it was all muscle, but they just kept on laughing until they were crying and I passed out.
After that I went straight to the doctor to find out what the fuck was going on. They took a blood test to measure my hormone levels and said that my estrogen levels were higher than Anna Nicole Smith’s. I was immediately put on an estrogen blocker and told to stop my regimen.
I wanted to sue, as none of the labels on any of the bottles said anything about the lab rats growing boobs.
And they wouldn’t go away.
Whenever I was out drinking with my friends they’d try to feel me up. It was fucking humiliating.
I felt like a woman.
I wanted to be a man again.
I wanted my dignity back. I’d had enough and started to look into other alternatives, like surgery.
Traditional surgery seemed invasive, risky and costly. So I kept on searching the internet, eventually coming across a new laser surgery that could melt moobs like butter. That was the ticket, I thought.
There was only one location where I was living and I swallowed the last of my pride by making an appointment.
The office was a modern glass and steel dermatology clinic full of mirrors and beautiful blonde, tanned women.
I was the only guy in the place and the only one with tattoos. I sat down on the slick leather Bauhaus couch and picked up an Elle magazine as all the girls turned to look. I hated myself and was thinking about leaving, backing my car into oncoming traffic, when the tall swimsuit model looking assistant came out smiling calling my name.
My humiliation seemed endless and I cursed my life under my breath as I followed her back down a fluorescent hallway of doors.
She motioned for me to take a seat across the desk from her as she asked me to take off my shirt.
“Huhh?” I said.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said smiling, almost as though she was fucking with me.
I turned crimson as I took my off shirt and became shamefully aroused as she came around the desk and sat next to me and gently felt me up, her blushing as well in the process. I was all hot and bothered after she fondled me, and slightly confused as to what was going as she said that underneath the flab I was hard as a rock – she had no idea, I thought. She said that she would give me a discount on the price if I really wanted to have the laser procedure done, but that I’d probably just be better off doing some serious cardio. I didn’t have enough money anyway.
“You mean work out?”
She smiled.
And I wasn’t sure if she was coming on to me or what after what’d just happened?
So I asked her out.
She looked at me stunned and laughed to herself and said that I had some balls.
Like a castrated rat.
She gave me her number, but never picked up when I called. She wouldn’t even come out when I drunk text her from the bar asking her if she wanted to fuck. It’s my breasts, I thought, I gotta get rid of em’. And from that point on, just like Forrest Gump, I was running man.

Love

Book Review I Wrote That Was Deleted By Online Writing Marketplace

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I wrote this review for Helium on a book called: "Melrose & Croc Beside the Sea".

They didn't like it...

The article we have deleted (Helium):

I have to admit that I haven't actually read this book. But with a title like, "Melrose & Croc BESIDE THE SEA", why the hell would I want to? I mean really, come on. I'm in my thirties and ashamed of myself that I still haven't finished my High School Senior English list of required reading. In the study alone that I am currently sitting in there are hundreds and hundreds of books with fascinating titles staring me intently in the face, crying out to be read, such as: "The Book of Disquiet"; "Lord of the Barnyard"; "Death on the Installment Plan" (probably the best title ever), and on and on and on. All of which I desperately want to read. But between work, feeding my gob, doing laundry, cleaning the apartment, exercising, making intimate time for my girlfriend and me, working on the query letter for my book, trying to find that special agent for my book, trying to figure out how to become a journalist, skimming the paper in a half hearted attempt to stay current with the circumstances of the world beyond my apartment, grocery shopping, taking the subway, watching a movie now and again, and dropping my Netflix at the mailbox around the corner, I often find that I simply don't have the time sit down and read a damned book, let alone a book titled, "Melrose & Croc" whatever whatever. And I mean no disrespect to the author (it's simply not my cup of tea), for it is a great feat of talent and know how in this day and age to get published by a traditional publishing house (I'm assuming these fellows Melrose & Croc have found a comforting home securely nestled in the milk giving bosom of a publishing house - God knows I'd like to suck on that fat nourishing tit). And I mean no disrespect to those of the reading public who have the time to read this book or other books of the whimsical nature that the title suggests. In fact, I am jealous of both the author and her readers, as I would love to have the seemingly care free existence that allows someone to write and or read a work thus titled. I, unfortunately, seem to be doomed to toil and struggle in the murky swamp of life attempting to keep my head above the dirty water, ever on the lookout for an opportunity to pounce on an unsuspecting victim, like the ancient crocodile of the title. If I were however to actually review this book I would tell the reading public to read it only if they had read everything else on the planet that they had ever wanted to read to satisfy their particular intellectual bent. Or read it if they didn't have to worry about money at all and therefore had no need for any sort of intellectual bent. Or read it if they had kids that they needed to read to at night. Or maybe buy it if they had nieces or nephews that they saw on the holidays and wanted to spend some quality time with reading to them or some shit like that. Or, read it I suppose if they just wanted to be be whimsical and spend their precious reading time in an act of defiance. Then and only then would I suggest that they should possibly pick this book up. Otherwise, I'd suggest tackling another one of those 100 classics from High School English before they were dead.

Love

Prestigious Writers are Blow Hards

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I got yet another rejection letter for the book I'm trying to pimp - that makes 7 or 8 so far (but who's counting?) - which makes me feel like I can't write... but I can yoga!

I may not be the best or most flexible yogi in the world, but I can hold my gas in class - which I recently remembered is very difficult - and is more than I can say for some writers at America's top papers. Sure, they may be able to write in depth award winning exposes, host dinner parties and wow dignified guests with their intellect and wit while showing off their Ivy League diplomas in their glossy, oak decor studies over high priced whiskey. But, can they bend themselves into a virtual pretzel and not blow gas? I don't think so. In fact, I know so. And that's where I've got them beat. When it comes to holding my gas I'm phenomenal. But given the right set of circumstances, say, if I were invited to one of those high brow dinner parties I just might blow hard too.

My return to mastery of my gas began a week ago or so, just after I'd come back to New York from Salt Lake City on my bus ride through Dante's inferno. Marie'd left town for two weeks to cook at a yoga retreat Upstate at her friends place. And after having been jostled and throttled across the land for 56 hours straight, unrelentingly, mercilessly on a caravan full of crazy, the thought of yoga, stretching my body and relaxing my mind sounded okay. One day after my return, on my way to work I walked past a yoga studio a couple blocks from our apartment that was advertising a yoga barbecue for the next day. It sounded like a winning combination and I decided to do something rejuvenating and recuperative for myself.

I needed to love myself again.

The next day I went to the yoga barbecue.

I've done yoga in the past and I really liked the tranquility and almost euphoric sense of calm that I would often experience after a session. What I'd forgotten about were the volcanic like bursts that would sometimes shudder through my intestinal tract forcing me to clench myself tighter than a dolphin's butthole.

I remembered quickly.

The yoga barbecue started to seem like not such a good idea after all, as for almost the entire hour or more that I twisted myself up like a python my mantra was: "Don't shit yourself. Don't shit yourself. Don't shit yourself!" It was a lot like the beginning scene of Braveheart when those Celtic warriors were bracing themselves for the attack with Mel Gibson yelling at them: "Hold! Hold! Hold! Hold!!!!!!" I held. But for the next few days thereafter I blew gas like Old Faithful in Wyoming.

My body and mind felt better after the class, and I wanted more of that feeling, so a few days later I went back.

Same thing.

Puckerin' up.

And for the next few days after class, again, I blew wind like the Santa Anas.

Over the next weekend I went up to the yoga retreat to help Marie out some in the kitchen.

Not long after I arrived in the early morning I was put to work, which meant that I'd be doing a sea of dishes. No problem. Fine. I'm a master dish technician. The first job that I ever got was as a dishwasher. My old Finnish boss (Finn) loved me when he wasn't berating me and the kitchen staff for being slow, stupid and incompetent. And under that caring guidance my hands became electric cleaning machines.

Twenty years later I found that I still had the touch.

By the time four o' clock and the start of the afternoon yoga session came around and I climbed out of the relentless piles of dishes, my back and neck were wrecked.

So I joined the yogis for class.

The session was grueling. I looked like I was slightly retarded, flopping around like a fish out of water compared to most of the other obviously seasoned twisters. On top of that I'd made the mistake of drinking massive amounts of coffee to get me through the dishes that'd paraded mockingly, in grand awkward stacks, in front of me all day long. Once in class I very quickly found myself near total ERUPTION! But not a peep nor blaring butt trumpet sounded from me the entire session - after which I glued myself to the toilet holding on for dear life (remember the scene in Dumb and Dumber? - It was a lot like that).

The next morning was the last class of the retreat, and after Marie and I made coffee and set the continental breakfast out for everyone I went into the session all hopped up on Java again (I just don't learn). And while I struggled to restrain myself from cutting loose, the mid thirties petite blond in front of me began to let go with galloping bursts of abandon. At first I thought that her foot had maybe slipped on her yoga mat causing the tearing, squeaking sound, but as she continued to blow horn like a light house signaling the incoming fog I saw heads around us turn, and particularly towards me, to see where the fire was. I just looked proud, held my pose, and my blow horn, and motioned towards the culprit with sideways looks and head nods as she let go a series of short explosions like a car getting going on a cold morning. I felt sorry for her, but was pleased once again with my intestinal powers.

After class I went and locked myself in the bathroom.

The next night after most everyone was gone I was recounting the story of the farting yogi to Marie, her friend and a couple other girls over dinner, and they told me that the woman who'd blown like Fog Horn Leg Horn wrote for the New York Times or some other prestigious publication, and I felt a sense of vindication wash over me, as even though I may not be a published writer, and I get rejection letter after rejection letter for my book I can hold my own when it comes to yoga and blowing my horn...

Love

Off The Top Of My Lid

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I took the Facebook IQ challenge last night. It said that I was officially brilliant - IQ well over 140. And in case you're doubting the results, I also took the 'What UFC fighter would you be?' quiz, and the thing said that I would fight like Anderson "The Spider" Silva, which is exactly what I thought. How can you argue those results? You can't. They're air tight.

So, you're probably wondering what happens in a day in the life, and what goes through the mind, of somebody brilliant. Here goes. A day in the life of somebody that Facebook says is brilliant. A behind the scenes look at the monkeys behind the wheels of thought. It's a cornucopia of banality and neurosis.

Alarm goes off, figure I can get some more sleep. Hit snooze. After about four snoozes realize that I won't be able to drop rest of money in Marie's bank account for rent for June (which I didn't pay as I abandoned her for Utah), on my way to work like I told her I'd do (solidifying the fact that we are in fact really going to try to work things out - I am invested in this thing, literally, kind of thing) if I don't get up. Get up. Put new work pants on that I got the other day, two for $50 - not bad as far as pants are priced in this city - as I needed pants. Curse pants for being to big. Hate that I spent $50 on pants that are too big. Think about taking them back. Fish receipt out of trash, then remember other pair that I wore to work the day before in the mud in the Hamptons. Then remember trying on size smaller at store and having to suck in waist. Fuck it. Put receipt back in trash.

Look in mirror, think I look good but thin. And think about the 20 to 25lbs I've lost since coming to New York five months ago. Notice hair is getting longer. Think about getting on steroids to bulk up and get ripped. Then think about hair falling out due to steroids.

Contemplate hair falling out as I take vitamins and drink orange juice. On way out the building still thinking of hair falling out. Thought of hair falling out takes on life of its own. Decide to go to pharmacy on way home and buy Rogaine and condoms (in case Marie drives home from Upstate yoga retreat). Stop at little coffee shop down the street as opposed to bigger coffee shop across the street even though last two times coffee at smaller coffee place has tasted watered down. Have aversion to bigger coffee shop for being so trendy. No croissants at smaller, cuter, quainter, coffee shop, and coffee tastes watered down. Damn. Still tip girl a dollar which raises cost of watered down coffee to three dollars. Am mad at myself for spending three dollars on coffee, but remember when I worked in coffee shop and would think about jumping over counter to bash people's skulls in who didn't tip me. Feel bad when I don't tip for being broke, not tipping. Figure that it's better to feel bad doing something selfless rather than self serving, like saving money, even though saving money could mean that you value yourself and your future. Psychological implications of tipping threaten to overwhelm me at an early stage of the day as I hurriedly walk towards the L train stop. Fuck it. Thoughts go back to hair falling out and getting Rogaine and condoms on way home from work at Rite Aide or Duane Reade. Convinced that Rite Aide and Duane Reade are one in the same, like the Republican and Democratic party. The illusion of choice. Decide hair is strong and healthy and that I am neurotic.

Didn't get on first train that came as it was so packed. Figured another train would be right on it's tail, as that often seems to be the case when one train is overcrowded. Have more time than I thought. Proud of myself for getting ready so quickly. Coffee is okay. Train does not come on others tail as hoped. Pissed about that, but ultimately happy for myself as I still have time to get off train prematurely in Union Square to go to my bank to get money to take to Marie's bank to drop into her account. At Union Square crossing the street am upset by thought that I have already been surcharged at ATMs getting money out four times in the last week or so totaling $12, and that I'll be damned if that is going to happen to me again any time soon, as $12 is like four cups of fucking coffee, or a lunch at a little deli. Get my money out of bank and walk to Marie's bank on the next block. Drop the money in her account. Fill good about myself. Want to call Marie to tell her, but it's early and suspect that she's probably still sleeping.

Walk the ten or so more blocks to work.

Feel good about getting exercise.

No one is there when I arrive to work. Text friend who works there to see where she is. No response. Go inside. No one there. Go back outside and sit on stairs.

Think of calling Marie again. Decide not to as I don't want to seem needy or dependent. Don't want to be annoying. Think that it may be better to distance or detach myself from her so as to not always "be there", as I don't want her to see me as clingy.

Call friend girl from office. Wake her up. She tells me to go and get coffee, that she's running late and will be there in a bit. Go get coffee and croissant. Don't tip. Feel bad for not tipping young girl behind counter as her tip jar is empty.

Finish coffee and croissant and decide to call Marie. No answer. Decide to fuck trying to put on a front with Marie. Fuck it. I am who I am. I am loving, I decide, not clingy or dependent, and if a girl doesn't like that, fuck her.

Decide I want an Iphone.

Call Marie again half hour later. No response.

Boss comes out of building. Saw him go in earlier but didn't recognize him without hat on. He's on his way to warehouse where I'm working for the day. Works out fine.

At warehouse I see all of Marie's friends who are working with Marie's company out of same warehouse. They are surprised to see me and look at me curiously as I don't think they knew I came back from Utah. Am glad not to be working with them, although I realize I do like the adrenaline rush of some of the events. Don't like working with Marie. Realize how much I need my own life. Try to behave myself in front of her friends. Feel a bit like a dog who has pissed on the rug.

Bad dog.

See artist friend of hers who said he wanted to film us having sex. Think about it. Think I might could do it. Would probably come with great unforeseen cost. Think I would do it if he were famous. Think I'm a whore.

Work.

Think I will wash two pairs of pants in super hot water to shrink the shit out of them. I tell people at work. No one cares. I feel triumphant by my thought and underwhelmed by their lack of response.

Go through the motions.

Not really there, but working.

Guy I'm working with gets pissy with me as I believe that he thinks I'm moving slowly. Think how often in New York busyness is confused with productivity. Think that people are stupid fucking sheep. Decide not to act busier. Do job. Guy says something smart and something in me awakens. I will spar back. Like Anderson "The Spider" Sylva I will feel my opponent out, taking my time, then strike with missile like accuracy. Watch. Wait. Okay. Bitch. I let him know that I'm awake. Back off. He laughs. I prod again. I smile. I'm awake. Back the fuck off. Sometimes people just want to know that you've got a backbone, or they walk all over you.

Fucking people.

Think about Marie getting upset with me for responding to guy banging on the van one night as she backed up, and about fight we got into one night crossing the bridge when bicyclist yelled at us to get the fuck out of the way as we kissed. We were the fuck out of the way. He was being a dick, and I told him so. Told him to go and fuck himself. Marie was livid. Told me that I will never talk to people like that around her. Then I was livid. Told her I'd talk to dickheads how I wanted. She was unimpressed. Think about how she hates to be told what to do or not to do, but is happy to tell me. Think about New York men that I see looking meek and meager following around a plow of a woman. Feel like a proper New York male is supposed to be neutered. Fuck that. Think about something I read the other day in New York magazine. Article asked well known New Yorkers how you knew if you're a true New Yorker. Think of Dennis Leary's response: If the Pope mobile cut you off in traffic you'd give him the bird and tell him to go fuck himself. Think of Marie getting upset with me when I tell people to fuck off and honk when I drive. Think I'm a real New Yorker and she can fuck off.

Leave work with nice boss and friend in bosses nice BMW. Laugh in Holland Tunnel telling stories about company Marie works for. Like my new boss.

Get dropped off on Canal St. Like Canal St. - it's a fucked up mish mosh of races, tourists and goods. Like looking at the watches and colognes they sell. Decide I'm gonna go shopping down there when I get paid and get a watch and some cologne.

Think of calling Marie, but don't. Don't want her to feel confined by me. Decide to wait til I get home to call her. Look for pharmacy on way home. Can't find a Rite Aide or Duane Reade. Find stop on Canal for JMZ that take me across bridge by apartment. Didn't know there was a stop on Canal. Decide not to look for pharmacy anymore and take train, as hair is fine and Marie won't be home anyway. Turns out JMZ doesn't stop on Canal. Underground maze of tunnels leads blocks away for JMZ stop. Fine. I'm tired anyway. Not too tired that my legs ache standing up riding the train home though.

Go to local pharmacy when I get off train. They don't have Rogaine. Meal replacement powder that I want to gain some weight back with is too expensive. Can't find condoms that I want. Don't buy anything. Figure my hair will stay for a while. Remember I have hair tonic at home, eases worry. Think I should try to be a model or an actor so that I can obsess about my appearance and get paid. Decide to look at career path of model turned actor that people sometimes say I remind them of.

Walking towards home think of getting some beer or wine. Think of calling Marie. Don't want to seem needy. Decide to wait til I get home to call. Decide I'm not drinking until I see Marie again. Not sure why. Maybe it seems nicer with her, intimate with her. Feels lonesome drinking alone. Think I'm on health kick. Decide to go to gym when I get home. Decide not drinking is way to show Marie support in her slowing her drinking.

Decide I don't really want to call Marie.

Get home. Pissed Netflix didn't come.

Check email. Watch video that friend sent of animals getting drunk in Africa off of fermented fruit. Drunken animals are very funny. Makes me laugh. Reminds me of me and my friends.

Decide I want to call Marie. Miss her. Call. Conversation seems far away. So does she. Sad. Miss her. Decide it's okay.

Go to work out. Drop off laundry on way. Laundry proprietors speak Spanish with me and smile as they know I'm trying. I like that.

Go to Community Center to work out for first time around the corner. Run halfway. Gym is small and filled with big gym rats of men. I look thinner in mirror than I remember myself. Gym crowded and shitty. Start small workout in corner. Hear workout gorillas talking about Shaolin kung-fu, which I'd much rather be doing. Muscle bound gorillas are talking about Shaolins who can spin a spear with their feet then kick it at someone. Think that I'd much rather be able to spin a spear around with my feet and kick it at someone's head than lift a million pounds.

Leave gym.

Get sports supplement and nutritional drink on way home.

Think about getting a beer.

Decide not to.

Hear my name as I cross street. Sebastian and Bethany and their daughter Valentina are Marie's long time friends. I like them. Marie is at their house Upstate cooking for yoga retreat. I like Sebastian. He smiles and tells me he hears I went to Texas. I tell him Utah. Bethany is nice and gracious but somehow always slightly distant. Valentina is adorable. Valentina gives me a kiss. Makes me feel good.

Sister calls when I get home. Niece gets on phone and tells me that she loves me. Feels nice. Sister asks about me and Marie. Tell her we're trying to make it work, talking it slow. Sister tells me to let her show me, if she loves me, to let her prove it. She tells me that I've taken care of enough women. She tells me that I've proved that I'm a good guy, that I have nothing to prove anymore, and to take care of myself. Think to myself that Marie has tried to take care of me, and that was nice.

Hang up phone and remember Buddhist quote that girl read at the end of yoga class the other day, how it was impossible to hurt someone if you loved yourself enough. and I think how that applies to me and Marie.

Love

Present: Dog Turd Choker Chain

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I went to Soho looking for a gift.

I wanted to get something to surprise Marie with as I was planning on taking the bus Upstate for the weekend to the friend's house she's at cooking for the yoga retreat.

Soho seemed like a good place to go to look for a gift.

For some reason, each time I walk into the depths of Soho off of Houston St., I walk down one particular cobble stoned street that has a jewelry store called Versani that I'm inclined to go into every time I pass it even though I can't afford anything inside.

This time was no different.

The girl that was working in the lowly lit underground store remembered me from the last time that I'd been there looking at things that I couldn't afford. I told her that I was looking for a necklace and she began showing me around. She looked Armenian or Turkish, or perhaps Greek. Maybe she was a Gypsy. Wherever she was from she'd learned some very crafty selling practices from her home country. Each necklace that she pulled out from the display case she'd drape across her neck and let hang across her chest and the divide between her breasts, asking me what I thought. It was very subtle what she was doing, and very unfair, as it was meant to make me turn over all of my meager funds, without giving a shit what I was buying. After looking at three or four necklaces it was nearly impossible not to want to buy something. In fact I thought about taking out loans or robbing a liquor just to be able to buy something from her and that store. I don't think that the sales practices that she was using were on the up and up and am planning to check in with the better business bureau to find out, as a man in a weakened condition like I was could easily blow his entire rent - which reminds me of why I haven't been in a strip club in years. Then she took her button down sweater off so that I could see better. Christ, at that point, she could have hung a pile of dog crap off of her neck and any man would have paid at least a couple of thousand dollars for it. She blurred the lines of what was being sold. It was a ruthless and unfair business practice that is meant to drive men like me to the poorhouse. And I had to leave before I ended up in debt, the proud owner of a dog turd encrusted choker chain.

I will never go back to that store unless I have endless piles of money to burn.

Eventually I bought some perfume from a gay guy and felt like I got what I wanted as his charms had no effect on me. He even threw in some body lotion as I guess my charms worked on him.

And I'm only buying things from gay men from now on.

When I got home I got call from an event lighting company about a job that I'd put a resume in for when I'd first gotten to town, and I felt like New York was welcoming me back into its fold and finally opening it's steel arms to me. The company wanted me to go in and fill out the paperwork the next day and start on a job in South Hampton over the weekend.

I called Marie Upstate and told her the good news and the bad news - that I'd gotten another job, but that I wouldn't be going up to visit her for the weekend. After I hung up the phone I thought that maybe it was better if we had a little time apart to let the drama of the previous weeks clear out.

The next day I went to see Marie's therapist and felt like I got some clarity on some issues. I know that we have our work cut out with each other, that living together, by our natures, will be rocky. But we're each willing to work on it. And I feel like we have something worth working for. We each need the change that the relationship will bring.

What else can you ask for, besides a little Grace from God?

We'll see...

Love