Last night, I think, was the gayest night ever. Matt, Steven, Santiago, and I went to see Fischerspooner at Highline Ballroom. It was this free corporate show put on by Amstel Light, which I didn’t realize is not actually beer but a brand of carbonated dish soap. I had ten of those one after the other and didn’t feel anything. It’s the perfect beer for lightweights, I guess.
The show was, for lack of a better word, fabulous. The crazy costumes, the ridiculous choreographed dances, the wigs—it was out of control. In photos:
Afterwards, Steven, Matt, and I went to Eastern Bloc, where Cazwell was DJing. We got drinks and then started @replying Cazwell to play Sleigh Bells. After he mashed his own song up (Ice Cream Truck vs. Pon De Floor), he put on Crown on the Ground. We rocked out to Sleigh Bells and then headed home.
So in this week’s New Yorker, they featured that awesome band that Matt booked for his boat show, Javelin, in an illustration in the Night Life section. It was amusing, to say the least. I used to read about things in the New Yorker and go to them, now it’s the other way around.
The wedding was actually really fun. Free booze, free food—what’s not to like? We also drove back with this really cool guy and girl. It was fun taking a road trip, as those are one of the things I miss most about California.
Did I mention I went out with Jorge to Nacotheque last Friday? We had a few beers upstairs at Fontana’s and talked university gossip before going downstairs to the performance space. It took a few hours for the downstairs to get filled up, but there was a crowd by the time the band came on. The act consisted of an electro beat with this guy and girl rapping crazily over it, which seems kind of schticky, but it worked really well. By the time the show was over, Jorge had to take the train home. It was a fun night.
Did I mention we went to a fabric store this week? I got some felt to make my stuffed typewriter. Now I just need some good buttons for the keys.
Tonight after work I’m going to see a midnight movie, Perfect, this so-bad-it’s-good movie from the 80s starring John Travolta and Jaimie Lee Curtis.
I’ve been wanting and not wanting to write about a certain event that happened right before I met up with Jorge. Astute readers may notice the setting, but nonetheless.
I’d put on my best suit to go to Nacotheque (for maximum irony), and took the C downtown one stop from the Port Authority. After exiting Penn Station, the labyrinth of tunnels that attempt in vain to be a navigable transportation hub, I walked over to the Borders above the station. I rode the escalator up to the coffee shop and waited in line to get my iced coffee. Walking past the aisles of books, I decided I might as well try to find a book (even though I didn’t have my backpack so I couldn’t actually buy anything). After a bit of brainstorming, I decided to look for Petronius’ Satyricon. I finally located it in the classical literature aisle. Pleased, I took the book and sat down at the end of the aisle (where everyone sits as the café seating is always full). I scanned the peritext and introduction; it wasn’t until I’d finished the “Note on Translation” that I realized it.
This was the same aisle I first met Jon in.
I had taken New York for granted: her refreshing lack of emotional loci. But sitting there, nothing felt right. I could feel the presence of the big stuffed tiger I’d been carrying when I met him—the nondescript diner in Chelsea where we ended up ordering far too much food—our parting for him to go to the Chelsea NYSC (which, I learned much later, was beyond cruisy). His oblique mention of his plans to sleep with a ton of Germans when he went to Düsseldorf. His well-off Zionist filmmaker roommates. Sundays poring over the paper copy of the Times in his cozy kitchen. The odd but sustained ritual of snacking on full-size carrots that he would make a show of peeling over the sink. My angry, unreasoned rant at the existential breakup (that, for some reason, I can’t find in my archives).
New York is coming alive with emotional resonances that I can’t foresee. Even last night on the way to Eastern Bloc I walked by this vegetarian restaurant I went on an awful date at. Still, I am happy here. The best decision I ever made was to leave Sacramento.