Friday, August 24, 2007

Certain things cheer me up:

Wandering the Meatpacking District looking like the Unabomber knowing that I can look at
Christian Louboutin shoes in all their glory in a boutique window or on the pedicured feet of a Korean girl loudly overenunciating inane opinions at her white boyfriend like HE can't speak English. Dodging cesspools of vomit crossing 14th street, I realize its all Lotus and the Lotus eaters it attracts. A piece of scaffolding is the triage area where trannie guards play nurse. I blink and Ninth Ave transforms itself into Godard's Paris all 60s and left bank glistening with sweat, a cigarette dangling off its lower lip. The yellow wave of taxis ebbs and flows at the same time--equalizing in an uneasy stillness. Its ghostlike emanations are tendrils of smoke that push in and out doors of restaurants on Gansevoort. The buzz of all this activity has found its silence at last. Arrythymic honks of taxis like the feet of a couple awkwardly trying to dance are as equally impotent in stirring the sway of the dancefloor of West Chelsea as they are at getting the selfsame couple laid. A lot of money is being pushed around by a lot of people hoping to go home with the wrong people with the right amount of money. Handsome Midwestern boys head like cattle leering at two black girls fixing the heels of their blocky cheap shoes hoping its pay for play. I look too. No, they're just black. They just want to pass as much as you do.

The Dirty secret is of course that I love New York. That thought passes as a man and woman are the last to leave a clean well lighted place getting its last rush delivery of caviar for the night from Petrossian's. They enter his parked Camry. He eyes me suspiciously as he closes the door behind her and then proceeds with no haste all the technical aspects of courtship. I am sipping out of a paper bag in dirty sneakers and sweats pretending not to watch. Finally they drive off, license plate says New Jersey, that's a relief.
Thinking is a sure sign of insanity. Drama in New York is a plague. Not because it is infectious per se but because once you're infected you look around for another person who is--they are reliably a few inches away from you hoping you'll find them too. That's why this isn't really a lonely city. I've never been anywhere with a better sense of camaraderie. I've never felt more alone.