June 29, 2005

We've only been dating for three weeks when Nasha takes me to meet her Androgynous Rockstar Dad.

"You have no idea," she says, "how much this means I really like you. I love him but he says for the sake of my own personal growth it's best if I'm not associated with him."

She has a different last name (Jolliet), but the veil is pretty thin: the first day of our Italian Cinema class she gets up to go to the bathroom, the guy next to me and whispers "Did you know that's (Androgynous Rockstar Dad)'s daughter?" I hadn't really noticed her before, but when she comes back in I see the resemblance: she's all angles, and the angles are all in love with each other. This, her famous lineage, and the way she walks through the black-and-white projection of "Nights of Cabiria" like she owns that decade too mean I'm really surprised when we're making out on her bed a week later. These kinds of things don't happen to me.

She makes out in a pretty standard way, but nothing else is standard: The bed is a king-size slab of golden cake with no headboard, no visible solid structure. Probably they took all the standard wood and metal and springs out of it and used it to construct six or seven of the torture-device beds like the one I have in my dorm room. That's different, too: she seems to be exempt the rule that says all freshmen have to live in campus housing.

"I have a room in my name in Carlton," she says when the elevator opens on the floor of a ridiculously upscale apartment building that she has all to herself. "They tell freshmen if they move in and their roommate never shows up they're required to notify housing, but who would mind having a single? And even if the girl DOES call housing, when they see whose name the room's in..." She dismisses any potential hassle with a wave of her hand towards the full wall of skyline in front of us.

I know that comes across really snobby in print, but she has this way about her that connotes an inner depth that shines through even when she's saying the sort of things a life of that much privilege kind of forces you to say.

Later, My Bloody Valentine's playing as she's grinding, both of us still in jeans, into my lap on a couch that is a replica of one in the permanent collection at the Whitney. The giant prints of movie posters on one wall confirm the conclusion of the past week's discussions: we both love the same things. I look at them while she bites at my right ear. This is amazing, I think. My life is amazing. Everything I thought about me was wrong. I am the sort of person who dates the daughter of (Androgynous Rockstar Dad)!

Even later, we're spread out on the giant slab of golden cake, and I'm trying to think if the sort of person who dates the daughter of ARD is the sort of person who gets up from this to go to his six PM class or if he blows it off and suggests they try it again on one of the many art-couches. Then I think of how this place is bigger than the house my family lives in in Pennsylvania, and how they could be living in a bigger one if they weren't paying for me to go to school here, so I get out of bed. When my bare feet touch the hardwood, I tell myself I'm doing it to make myself scarce, so she'll want it more.

I look out at Manhattan. I'm naked as the day God made me, Manhattan. Behind me, my conquest. Yes, that's right, she's who you think she is. And if I can conquer her, imagine what I can do to--

"Where are you goinnngngngngngggggg?": Nasha breaks my reverie.

"Class, babe," I say.

"UGH. Really?"

She's wearing a robe, at the door, to kiss me goodbye. When I go to grab my backpack she hands me a burned CD.

"Here. It's a copy of my dad's new album. It hasn't been released yet, so if I see it end up on the Internet..." she pantomimes cutting my balls off. I laugh. Then she pantomimes eating them. I laugh again. Then she pantomimes chewing them. My laughter kind of dies off. She keeps going and going. It's getting really creepy. I lean over and kiss her really hard; it's not something I do but it's something I do now. She comes back at me, and I break off just short of too long. "See you later." I swoop expertly for the door when I remember it's an elevator, and we're on the eighteenth floor.

We stand there, awkward.

"Thanks for this," I say, indicating the CD.

"Think nothing of it, silly boy," she says. "But remember:" She pantomimes coughing up my balls, spitting them out, holding them up like fuzzy dice. She grins. It doesn't come across on paper, but this girl has a smile that can make you forget everything.

The morning of the day of the night I go to see ARD, The New York Times prints a review of his new album. It's a hard pan:

(ARD)�s latest bid to stay relevant twenty years past the high tide of his ocean of cultural capital is the most likely yet to make the listener want to drown his or herself. He cycles through genres mercilessly on the album's fifteen tracks, staying in each one just long enough to prove how little he understands about them and how much shamelessly (and cluelessly) he's aping what he thinks the young people are listening to.

And I have to admit, I kind of had the same opinion when I first listened to it, though I wanted to withhold judgment until I talked to Nasha about it. I get the chance when the limo picks me up at my dorm. She's read the article:

"What they don't understand," she says, "is it's supposed to be absurd because modern radio is absurd, music is absurd, life is absurd. It's absurdism. People won't know it 'till he's dead, but my father is the greatest absurdist since Beckett."

"I completely agree," I say.

"Like, the fact that I'm groping you through your jeans in the back of a limo in traffic on Houston Street is absurd," she says, "and you're just some kid from Pennsylvania, that is absurd. I'm absurd. See what I mean?"

I completely see what she means.

We have sex in the bathroom at the restaurant. It's done up like a submarine in there.

We're scheduled to meet ARD at his record release party, which is at Scaffold. A paparazzo takes our picture on the way in, which is really kind of cool.

"Fuck you," Nasha says.

"Yea, fuck off, buddy!" I say.

The bouncer doesn't even check for us on the list before letting us in. Nasha thanks him and calls him by his first name (Anasazi Mike.)

Inside, Asian girls, all of exactly the same height and done up like the girl on the cover of ARD�s new album, mill around spreading white rose petals. Nasha drags me through clots of pseudo-celebrities. I recognize one of the catering staff as a girl I was in plays with in high school, but Nasha's dragging me too fast for me to say hi to her.

We meet ARD in the VIP room, which is a sea of white, no piece of furniture distinguishable from the next. He's lounging on a horseshoe of cushions next to a hip young auteur director whose movies I like okay now but loved when I was in high school.

"Hi, Daddy," Nasha says. She leans over, they kiss on the mouth.

"Hello darling," ARD says. "This is (Hip Young Auteur Director). Say hello."

"Look at you!" says HYAD to Nasha. Neither of them have gotten up and me and Nasha haven't been offered as seat. "Look at you! Don't tell anybody, but I would've fucked your father in the seventies, and don't tell your father, but I'd fuck you now!"

ARD and HYAD almost spill their champagne laughing. Nasha laughs, then I laugh.

"My lips are sealed!" says Nasha.

"That's what I'm worried about!" says HYAD. Another round of laughs. All of this is shouted because the bass is fierce.

"Daddy," Nasha says when it dies down, "this is my boyfriend Kyle."

"Charmed, Kyle," says ARD.

Nasha says, "(HYAD), this is--"

"PSSHhhhhhh" goes HYAD, cutting off Nasha, looking out towards the dancefloor where white rose petals are falling in time to New Order. "NASHA. Sounds like Nausea." He gets up out of his seat and leaves us.

There's a pause, then ARD says, "Well sit down, both of you."

We do. "That guy is an asshole," I say to Nasha.

"That guy," says ARD, "is one of the bravest voices in film today."

I agree, and tell ARD how his work has grown on me in recent years. ARD stares at me.

"I like the new record," I say, hoping to break the stare and the silence after two or three minutes of nobody saying anything. "I like the absurdism of it."

"What?" ARD leans forward.

Nasha grabs my knee and we make eye contact for the first time since we've been in the VIP room. She shakes her head "no."

"I hear you listen to Neutral Milk Hotel," I say.

He does, and we discuss other tastes we have in common until a waiter brings another bottle of champagne and two more glasses.

After an hour or two and several bottles in the VIP room, I get up to go to the bathroom and the girl from high school grabs me.

"Kyle, what the hell are you doing here!?"

"I know, what the hell are you doing here?"

"I think that's pretty obvious," she says, gesturing down at her tray. "What about you?"

"Okay, you can't tell anybody, but I'm here with (ARD)'s daughter."

"No fucking way!" she says. "Look at you, Film School!"

"I know, right! Like, it's absurd. Like, look at you, and then look at me, and then take out our Senior Yearbook, and like, who would've thought we'd end up in our respective positions, y'know?"

"Yea. See you around, Kyle."

"Bye! Awesome seeing you!"

In the bathroom, I wonder if she got the sarcasm in what I was saying, the way I was subtly skewering the situation and the general ridiculousness of the whole thing. And then I remember the guy I am now, and even if she thinks I'm a jerk now, that's a necessary sacrifice, part of the casting-off process of self-reinvention, or rather self-discovery, since I was always this person, it just took a person like Nasha to see it. The same way I cast off that poster of ARD I had that I brought with me to college that I had on my wall all through high school. The waitress girl is like the poster. Now I have the real deal.

The bathroom is done up like a construction site. I pee into a manhole.

Then when I get out, I don't head right back to the VIP room. First I stand at the edge of the dancefloor, on a raised platform before the bar. I look out at the club. That's right, Scaffold. In a single step I've jumped right to the top of your hierarchy, past the waitresses and barmaids and Asian girls with rose petals, summer interns and wannabe--

"Careful, guy!" says a man who's just run into me with a couple of martinis. My back's cold. The stimulus makes it clear to me how drunk I am.

When I get back to the VIP room, ARD has his hand down Nasha's shirt. Or that's what it looks like, but like I said, I'm really drunk at this point.

The limo had to move for an ambulance, so we're waiting for it to pull around again. Nasha says, "So it turns out (HYAD) was so pissed because dad promised me to him before we got there." I don't ask if it's a joke but I can pretty much safely assume it is, with how much Nasha is into absurdity.

In the back of the limo, in the light of the big Calvin Klein billboard with the black-and-white people fucking, it looks like she's crying but I ask and she insists it's nothing. That night she goes down on me three times and the next day she buys me a shirt to replace the one that got martini on it and an iPod with my name engraved on it. I tell her she doesn't have to but she insists.

That first day of class, before we even watched Nights of Cabiria, we had to free-write, then read what we'd written to the class, then we would all write short critical pieces (like, a paragraph) on what everyone else had written, though they'd never see them. This was so we understood "both the tensions inherent in criticism and making art with the knowledge that it will be subject to such criticism" (this is from the syllabus, which on an interesting note features fifteen occurrences of the words "tensions inherent.") This is what Nasha wrote, and read aloud:

A child reaches To understand And he touches an electrical socket He raises his hand in class And by the time it gets in the air It has a manacle on it He knows what the capital of Wisconsin is But who will answer For the world?
And this is what I wrote in response:
Pretty good if it's a parody of terrible, sanctimonious poetry. It's a parody, right?

And after class, by the elevators, that's what I ask her.

"That was a parody, right?" I want to believe that a girl this beautiful is capable of reading satire that good with a straight face, and I'd like it if the two of us were the only ones in on the joke.

"Hmm?" she says. She pulls headphones out of where black hair hides them: she didn't hear me.

"I liked your poem," I say, nerve lost. We start talking about other stuff, that magical first conversation where we discover we like all the same stuff.

I never ask her again, and I'm worried a lot of the really funny stuff she does in here hasn't come across because it's on a subtle level that really doesn't translate on the page.

But I'm pretty sure it was a parody.

Posted by DC at 01:10 AM | Comments (380)

June 28, 2005

Taking time out from playwrighting to boo Pitchfork's review of the new Electric Six joint. I haven't heard it yet, but half of the review is spent taking a retroactive rock-crit dump on their last album, Fire, which, as every self-respecting dick-joke-heavy-hard-disco-rock-lover knows was THE JAM.

Now I loves me some Pitchfork, if only for the singles reviews that occasionally have downloads and seem to respect club bangers on their own terms. I only ask that they do the same favor for a band whose only sins are being all like forty-five, having hell of sideburns, and lyrics like "Oh girl, when I'm fuckin' you, it's like nothing else matters, you make me wanna reach down between my legs...and EASE THE SEAT BACK!" (Note: these lyrics are not sung, but rather spoken during an instrumental breakdown.) But no, this dude has to go and be really, really snobby and mean in rationalizing the fact that he doesn't like poop jokes.

You have to be a really good dancer to look like you're dancing poorly, or so they say. And Electric Six have to be a really, really good band to back sentiments like "she's white/she's white/she's white like the night" effectively.

Anyway, now I'm going out of my way to (poorly) rationalize a sentiment which basically amounts to:

Dear Hipster Douchebag,

Please stop picking on a band which I am very fond of. Your snobbery leads me to believe you are one of the sorry few who actually listen to Interpol in your room by choice rather than just praising them in public and leaving them on your iPod in order to appear acceptable.


Other Hipster Douchebag

And clearly, a hipster douchebag is what I am, all claiming to be writing a play when I'm actually blogging about an item on Pitchfork Media.

Also, check the hair piece.

PS - Seriously, though, dude, no one listens to Interpol by choice.

Posted by DC at 12:28 AM | Comments (140)

June 27, 2005

Wow was this ever a good week.

Hammerkatz won the Emerging Comics of New York award for Best Sketch Group. Our director won the award for Best Director. And icing: the guy we share our Saturday night slot with, Aziz Ansari, won Best Male Standup. And then AT that Saturday night slot we had ninety-eight people who paid to see the show. It's neat because it doesn't feel like we're performing for just our friends anymore.

The ECNYs are interesting because it's the New York comedy scene cynically (but honestly) acknowledging the insular couldn't-nobody-but-us-in-this-basement-give-a-fuck nature of "the scene," but still having a lot of fun and drinking free Budweiser E (it's like beer and Red Bull, or, rather, like sipping an incompetently mixed mashup of Lynyrd Skynyrd and "Groove Is In The Heart" By DeeeLite) and Bud Selects (which is like an incompetently mixed mashup of Bud and Bud Lite). Winning was neat and getting all twisty, as Ray would say, equally so.

Then this morning (it was one PM) we went and made some good-natured mischief at the Billy Graham revival in Queens. Yo, girls who go to church are fucking good-looking, word life. Also there's a creepy sect of beard-y pony-tail wearing twenty something guys who looks they could run a society whose economy is based solely on incense and sack-based clothing. Also, they have girlfriends (wives? Slaves? Folk bandmates?) who wear floor-length skirts and invented the term "earthy." They are exempt from the assertion about girls who go to chruch, above. And you had better believe they have some crazy literature. Also there was a dude in a cage with a sign that...aw, hell, you'll see it all in the video.

The other day Helen was nice enough to ask me what I've been reading. This sounds pretty mundane but it's actually equivalent to asking a chubby kid with a conductor's hat, even though he's 19, if you can see how his train set works, and he's all "Really?" just because he can't believe anyone else would be interested. She probably won't do it again the way I bent her ear about the Sistine Chapel and shit, but it was still a nice thing to be asked at sunset on the way to the show.

Since people don't normally ask me, I end up working whatever it is I've been reading into unrelated conversation, usually in broad metaphors I haven't though out very well, so you're forced to go, "But DC, in the Holocaust, people were also killed and carted away in trains," and I'll think for a second and then be all, "Oh, yea, I guess that's kind of nothing like the crunk music scene, now that I think about it."

Clearly I would never compare the crunk music scene to the Holocaust. I have on several occasions compared it to the Ramones, but I compare everything I like to the Ramones. Sketch comedy's like the Ramones. Freestyling in a kitchen's like the Ramones. OK, not everything. Sex is mercifully unlike the Ramones. Except for how I shout ONE TWO THREE FOUR before launching into anything sophisticated.

At the Box Office:Overall business tumbled despite a rush of familiar new titles -- "Bewitched," a "Love Bug" update and the latest zombie tale from director George Romero. Despite a rush of familiar new titles? Try because. If we were so enamored with familiarity, nobody would ever get divorced. Make it new, dicks.

Now I am gonna finish my book in the bathroom with the shower on then climb into bed damp with the fan blowing over me. It is what Big Pun once referred to as "The Glamour Life." Have a good week.

Posted by DC at 02:26 AM | Comments (22)

June 24, 2005

Some poems from last summer.


At night,
city buses are mobile boxes of light:
no mystery and no
talking to the driver
while school buses are rolling caverns
where field trip intrigue ferments
and middle school promises are broken
against sweaty vinyl
and Fellowship Camp t-shirts
welcome foreign hands
between them and the burgeoning
flesh theyre meant to cover.

Mood lighting: the procession
of orange highway lamps.

Serenade: the whalesong
of bus brakes.

Your dad is waiting in the car at your school.

He will ask you how was Six Flags.


Years were longer than this,

When I was ten
and you were
however old you were then?

Summers were around six months long
and Christmas never came:

remember that?


Static is not a naturally occurring phenomenon.
The rotations of the planets
and emanations of other, farther-away heavenly bodies
make noises eighty times as beautiful
(really, exactly eighty times,
there have been studies)
as any music you can conceive of
and the first radios picked them up.

But it was swiftly decided that
the gaps in between AM and FM stations
could not be filled with this
celestial symphony.

Who would ever turn their radios off?
Thats not energy efficient.
Who would listen to the traffic report
or Mickey and the Moondogs Morning Maditude?
If no ones listening no one advertises.
And who would ever get anything done?

So they made a recording of a wind
blowing through a barren autumn tree
pressed it to vinyl and played it through an old Victrola
slowed it down
and they had it:
Gray noise.

In a little bunker deep underground
the tape labeled static plays, on a creaky loop
into an old microphone
that runs to the worlds biggest antennae,
stretching up
to a super-terrestrial metal point
about as tall as the Iowa cornstalks
which surround it.

It floods the spaces between the notches on your radio dial
and keeps the galaxies from singing to you.

Posted by DC at 12:27 PM | Comments (6)

June 23, 2005

My roommate is not home, but he has the whole first Rentals record on his iTunes and it's rocking out of my speakers at 4:45 in the afternoon while I'm still in my underpants. Let's talk about how it's officially SUMMER.

Classic Dilemma:

I'm accustomed to writing very late at night. And if I do that I don't have to worry about spending the gorgeous summer days buried in a computer lab or at a study carrel beneath the library. But writing at night also precludes important summer activities like drinking too much, talking shit, and closing the bar. So I keep resolving to wake up early and write during the day, but sometimes "early" becomes, y'know, two in the afternoon and I end up doing other stuff 'till my evening obligations. I was a good boy for the first three days of this week. And I will be tommorrow. I promise. The play will get finished. By the fourth of July? Sure, let's say that, if only in order to renege on it later.

I'm waiting, ooo-ooo-ooo, just waitin' on you

Can we talk about how an event at which my group is nominated for best sketch group is plugged on Gawker today? In the same breath as the Sleater-Kinney show, no less!

Pay tribute to the New York comics who will hopefully make you laugh for many, many years to come at the Upright Citizens Brigades Emerging Comics of New York Awards. You likely havent heard of any of them, but thats probably the point of the emerging thing.


Somebody's fame and fortune is gonna come to me early
I get two loves in my life, and I'm dying at 90

I loves you. See you later.

Posted by DC at 02:56 PM | Comments (21)

June 21, 2005

Dining hall adventures.

There's only one open in earnest during the summer (Weinstein) and you have to have a meal plan if you live in certain summer buildings, so you end up with an interesting pastiche of summer school kids, kids from all kinds of schools who are living in housing while they do internships, and crotchety never-home NYU fixtures like me.

You also end up standing in line for sandwiches in front of people who have the following conversation:

Doesn't this make you, like, really appreciate the dining halls at Harvard?

OMG! I know, right! Like, what is that salad bar?

Where are you this summer?

JP Morgan. I know it's like, a cliche, but I really like what I'm doing. It's fast paced and competitive so it's just my style.

I know! Me too! I really like what I'm doing. Like, I like it so much that I would've taken it even for only like (said in hushed, faux-ashamed whisper) ten dollars an hour!

I know!

Naturally, I had just gotten home from my job, where I am paid, hourly, you guessed it...

...in the blood of pretentious Ivy League fucks.


Seriously, annoying as they are, it's hard to put on your class-warfare hat when you go to one of the nation's most expensive (goddamn) schools. Even if I'm paying in loans I'll eventually have to pay back and they're paying in money their daddy made pumping diamond-flavored oil.

Later, at the table behind me: Holy shit, someone is worse at cold can-I-sit-here dining hall flirting than I am!

(Said as if you are made of a sneer):

So what about ABORTION? Are you (extra sneers) PRO-LIFE?

So you just eat, like, alone? No ROOMMATES?

Judging by the fact that I can't hear any of her responses even though she's right behind me, I assume this dude has picked the meekest of the Weinstein herd to talk loudly at. I involuntarily imagine the two of them making out later, and, cynical worldview in full effect, decide that it is a pretty likely thing. There and then, I coin a new term for this inevitability: Bullyfucking.

As I get up, I hear her laugh at something he says. Yup. Definite bullyfucking at the hot ol' summer dorm tonight.

No matter how long I am in college, I will never stop being jazzed with myself for eating vegetables of my own volition. Hell, I even like eating vegetables.

Posted by DC at 08:09 PM | Comments (173)

June 20, 2005

Let's play "Caption This Graphic From The Very-Difficult-To-Navigate NYU Website"

While a multi-ethnic girl looks on in the foreground, two dudes from Franz Ferdinand are all like, "How does science work?"

Posted by DC at 03:37 AM | Comments (42)

June 19, 2005

Somewhere in the computer lab, death metal in somebody's headphones is going DUH NUH NUH NUH



but let's pretend library basement mice have started a band.

I'm supposed to be playwrighting, but instead am reading blogs. When I finish the last act of my play I get to drink the bottle of wine I bought for six euro in Italy. My coffee is getting cold; I'm not letting myself gulp it in earnest until I take my laptop out and start to work. I have rigged my life up as a series of self-rewards large and small; carrots dangling everywhere. Obviously most of these rewards are beverages, because I knows what I likes.

Summer is amazing! We had a fantastic show last night. Over eighty people paid to see Aziz and Hammerkatz rock it out and they were a good as hell crowd. Jay Z's "Dear Summer" is the song of songs. And how good was Batman Begins? I am reading a book about Michelangelo and the Sistine Chapel; did you know Renaissance artists invented the beef? It's true.

Complaints: I shouldn't have had to wear a track jacket to walk to the library tonight as it is June (remember a couple entries ago when I was complaining about how hot it was? Yea, I can't be satisfied.) I could have more money. I don't have enough to complain about.

Posted by DC at 11:12 PM | Comments (132)

June 16, 2005

Rejoice, fellow citizens, for every day is born unto us a new generation of children who, when they are in college, will not know how to play "Crash" by Dave Matthews Band on the acoustic guitar!

Posted by DC at 04:31 PM | Comments (94)

June 13, 2005

Across the street on a rooftop, the visual-metaphor weather report: a workman uses a blowtorch to tar the roof. Big orange flames kiss bubbling black gook, and the workmens' shadows melt in a sea of visible heat. Poor guys. Warm one today.

When I was about to fall asleep this morning my roommate moved in. His name is Pete; he is a music business major and seems like a good dude. We contemplated sneaking an air conditioning unit into the room, and wondered how we would mount it in the old window.

Yawn. Going to buy a pillow now, and then to work.

Posted by DC at 12:22 PM | Comments (168)

Barring incidents and accidents, I am in New York 'till December.

I was what Gethard called "voluntarily homeless" for a month. I slept on Dominic and Dan's couch for a week when I got back from Phoenix, where I was for the eight days after school let out. Then I drove down to South Carolina in a big van with the UCB TourCo. We watched feardotcom in the van on the VHS; we bought the tape at a truck stop. Everybody brought DVDs, turned out they were useless. When everybody was asleep I played DJ on my iPod in the passenger seat. It was hooked into the van stereo with a tape adapter. Eli requested "mellow driving music" at around five AM, when the sun was starting to make field-fog glow.

My favorite Southern placename is Hopewell Emporia. I'm not sure if they're two cities on the same sign or one unit.

I bought a Piggly Wiggly t-shirt for nine dollars, so did Bobby. Youth mediums are way bigger in the South. On my last night there I flirted embarrasingly with the cute cashier, trying to get her to come to our party. I am not Vince Vaughn. But I do have Farrah Fawcett's haircut, accidentally, so that's something. Leigh (the cashier) never called to find out where the party was, and today on the subway back from a barbeque at Gregor's, a guy was wearing a Piggly Wiggly t-shirt in a different color. I was wearing mine. All the subway cars in the whole city. We were sitting right across from each other. He was reading a first aid manual. Signs and wonders. It signifies there are at least two people in New York City who mistakenly think their choice of shirts is both clever and unique, but we knew this already.

South Carolina was fucking amazing. We stayed in a beach house and all we had to do was go do shows every night for packed and receptive audiences. I thought it justified drunk dialing if you're standing in the ocean when you do it, but this is apparently not true. I did it to like five people. Nothing justifies drunk dialing.

Then two Tuesdays ago Fran and Gethard and I drove back up 13 hours to New York. I slept on Donald's floor for four hours, then got up and got on a plane to Detroit to meet my family to fly to Rome. My life is so fucking ridiculous, it practically makes up for how I couldn't sleep tonight because my room was too hot and I think I have a summer cold, and no Kleenex 'cause I just moved in, and I spent five hours trying to negotiate NYU's retard-o internet hookup. Wait. Yes. It definitely makes up for those things. I will write about Rome later. It is, as they say, on a whole 'nother tip.

The shower is still running from when I went in there to read my book and attempt to get so sweaty my room would feel cool. I don't have a roommate yet, but I'm trying not to do too much I-don't-have-a-roommate type shit because theoretical dude could move in any second unannounced. The craziest thing I have done so far is leave the shower on while I sat in my underpants and wrote on my website as the sun rose.

I decided "nope, I'm definitely not sleeping yet" when there was a woman screaming "Help! Help!" down on Broadway, standing in the middle of the street. I couldn't see her when I went to the window at first, and an interesting theory I got to develop last sememester with a fight-y sports bar underneath my window is you can hear shouting on the street better in bed. When you go to the window to check shit out the words become more indistinct. At first it looked like a guy had come up to help this woman, and took her to the sidewalk and appeared to be comforting her. Then she started screaming and he shook her, yelling, "You're running away! You're running away!" Then the cops pulled up.

I thought I heard more screaming later when I was trying to sleep on the floor, where I figured it would be cooler, and I still have to go by sheets and a pillow so my mattress is very uncomfortable. There was nobody when I went to the window; it was quiet. There's cooler air out there but no circulation. I laid back down on the floor.

I looked up at orange reflected light on the ceiling and thought, it is the season of passion crimes.

If anybody wants to take up residence in a one-room apartment in Hell's Kitchen, wear a flimsy cheap-looking flower print dress, and have knock-down-drag-out jealousy-and-inexpensive-gin fueled fights that cause the neighbors to bang on the ceiling with broomsticks, holler at your boy. Angry sex will also be on the menu. You can look up at the slowly turning WWII era ceiling fan, and we can smoke Viceroys afterwards, assuming they still make those. Give me at least a week's notice so I can get good at growing five o'clock shadows, aquire and properly age a wifebeater with yellowy stains and cigarette burns (the closest thing I have right now is a grey Hanes t-shirt on which I wrote "Biggie Smalls For Mayor" in permanent marker, it may have to suffice.) Also I will have to use the week to both work up a markedly unspectacular bare-knuckle boxing career, severe alcoholism, and cast an Italian mother to whom I am extremely loyal and very resentful, who calls me a "bum" and with whom I get in shouting matches that end with me leaving via the fire escape while she grips a rosary in one hand and a sauce-tipped wooden stirring spoon in the other.

If this sounds like something you might be interested in, you know where I can be reached. Those not named Verna or Lillian, who do not wear too much dimestore makeup, who are not prone to throwing lamps or breakable kitchenware in a fit of pique, or do not have brassy theme music that indicates that trouble is a dame and that dame is you need not apply.

Posted by DC at 04:05 AM | Comments (119)

June 03, 2005

I am in Italy.


Posted by DC at 02:08 AM | Comments (22)