Standing on Zero

         On the 13th of July 1998 I found not only the meat and the matter of the dirty 212, I found its voice. On that very late Tuesday evening I found myself sitting atop my shabby apartment building in Astoria, mesmerized by the Manhattan skyline staring back at me. Perhaps it was the car horns or the fog horns, or the inner David horn inside me that bid me leap the river that night to walk the streets and weave in and out, through and around the city's bustling corners. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the N train traveling at the speed of light underneath the East river. My destination was still undetermined. 57th street? No, it wasn’t quite dangerous enough. Times Square? Torture! I can't deal with the theatre crowds and bright lights. Nor was I interested in doing the tourist bumper car dance tonight. 34th...23rd.....closer.............14… Done! It was just shady enough and a perfect stop for me. I needed something gay. This wasn't a mission to find sex or even conversation really but simply to immerse myself in something bigger than me. My inexperienced green eyes were set on adventure and I walked and walked for a while and nothing jumped out at me. Hello New York City! What the fuck? Whoever says that Manhattan doesn’t sleep is lying. I found refuge in the dimmest little park I could find and busted out a sweet tightly wrapped friend. It was time and I could wait no longer so I sparked her up and sat back to relax. I placed myself on the East side of the park next to a sleeping young man, around 30 or so, contorted uncomfortably and wreaking of intense body odor and liqueur probably purchased at the Asian deli across the street. Contented with my resting place I proceeded to break the law happily and without hesitation. A few minutes into my sweetj treat I was approached by a small dark figure with no distinguishable features. My horn? Silhouetted by the lamps I could just hear the voice of a small black woman asking if I could share the wealth with her. Struggling to see her face I confessed that I didn't have a single thing I could offer her except well....you know. She happily accepted and not once asked me for money. I related the sad tale of a starving artist blah blah blah until I bored even myself not realizing how ridiculous it must sound for a little white boy to regale his troubles to a homeless woman with real problems. And there on a park bench in the shadows we started a dialogue. After I found the therapy I needed from an empathetic ear and started to spill my guts we started to walk, just me and a character that looked like a disheveled, scruffy cast member of Les Miserable'.

      "Would you like to join us?" "Us?”, I said. "Yeah, the gang." My heart sped up a little but I was feeling good and insatiably bored and up for the little adventure. This was the infamous invisible woman who sleeps under the rotten New York City bench you walk past every day without a single thought. From her apparent age I wasn't worried too much about what kind of gang she meant. Where was the huge snob of a 19 year old that I had hardened into? Why was I so down on people that fell below society's functional standards when I myself had no contribution to make to the world other than steaming lattes for the upper best side cougars at my coffee shop (Timothy's) on 72nd and Columbus. After a while a filthy hand extended itself in my direction. "Stella, that's m' name" she said in a comforting and surprisingly sweet voice. I took her homeless hand and shook it while my inner OCD sent me to the moon as though I was in an episode of Monk. Who was this lady? I'm guessing she was my reason for coming into the city that night.

      As we rounded the corner two strangers stepped into the light, clearer and more distinct with each step. “This is Leena and Marty,” Stella said. “This is my Village gang.” As I introduced myself and shook their hands I found myself amazed at the world’s unexpected tricks. Marty was a white man of fifty or so that seemed to have suffered an extreme stroke that had left him slurring and hard to understand. The effects of his body’s attack on itself and the huge bottle of whiskey in his arthritic hand played on each other to result in the saddest looking man I’d ever seen in my life. He was soon dismissed from all conversation considering the verbal nonscience he presented us. Leena on the other hand was sober and showed extreme traces of articulated intelligence. Coming from Philadelphia she came to New York on the wings of an interior designers dream. Upon her arrival she made for herself quite a comfortable life and became very successful. But in her words “New York will either make or break you kid. And well look at me honey….it’s obviously the later!” Leena fascinated me. She looked to be no older than twenty or so, black, and had a very gentle and bright face with beautiful almond eyes and gorgeous sparkling teeth. Obvious to my trained eye Leena was a transsexual. She shared with me her story and cut through the boundaries of all I’d known at the time. Her childhood was extremely unique as her contradictory feelings began to bubble up to the surface at a very young age. “I grew up a little girl,” she said. Her mother completely accepted her son’s dominating feminine side and began theming pink instead of the stereotypical baby boy’s blue room. Leena was given pretty dresses and makeup and everything society affords a young girl preparing for her role as a woman in the world. Throughout her school years she was tormented to a dangerous degree much like myself but nothing could compare to the reality of a boy wearing dresses in a public school environment! The emotional scars were lying just beneath the surface and I could sniff them out like a blood hound catching the trace of a rabbits scent. My amazement truly bottomed out when she related her living philosophy to me with sincere wonderment in her voice. “What a horrible way to go on living” she said. “I never could!” Never could I asked? She and I seemed to be running parallel lives in a way but I was a few hundred degrees shy of understanding her true strength in facing the harsh obstacles that lay before her as a kid. “NO, no honey, what I mean is that I could never live a closeted life or be something that I’m not….no way! The pain of every hurtful childhood remark could never compare to the reality of living as something other than exactly what I am….a woman....inside.” I soaked up the moment because up until then I had never heard words like that down in the ridiculous South. As we continued through the story of her life she portrayed the scene of a disenchanted New York City tour guide. I learned that she was momentarily taking a break from her full time job as an active tranny-prostitute working her spot at Chelsea Piers alongside of countless other "ladies." Bad drag queens with strangely broad shoulders tip toed and stumbled out of the cobble stoned dark corners of the meat packing district....a perfect name for a micro-neighborhood with such colorful citizens. I mean these bulging line backers in miniskirts pleasured men, women, adolescent horny under age city boys, and drivers getting their rocks off in the back of their sausage delivery trucks. You got cash? They've got anything you need!

      Sitting and talking with my new vagabond amigos I realized I hadn't said a word to anyone in weeks because I was all alone and living with a crazy old Russian man. He was a seedy pervert named Vladimir who took pictures of ballet dancers at Lincoln Center and ABT and sold them illegally on the street. My social life had come to a screeching halt upon my arrival to the big city. My good friend Joan tore a piece of paper off of a dancer’s bulletin board at Steps on Broadway in an attempt to help me relocate from Minneapolis to Manhattan. Mission accomplished and there I was living in Queens with a man with no teeth that I caught watching me sleep at night on more than one occasion! It is an f*d up image that is burned into my deepest darkest memories to this day. I mean I was sleeping in a room with a closed door. Ol' Vlad was creeptastic and turned out to be the roommate of DOOM!

      I couldn't judge these pre-op hookers roaming the streets because I myself felt like musical theatre prostitute that was forced to sing Suddenly Seymour or Gershwin for some demanding old lady that was hooked up to one of those little portable oxygen tanks and eating banannas foster. It paid the bills but barely, Waiting tables and being forced to sing something beyond a happy birthday is the stuff that Excedrin commercials are made of (well not anymore.) New York, New York should only be sung by certain people of which I am not one. I belt....Leena drops to her knees and blows people’s minds. What's the difference? She's done in a matter of minutes and I’m stuck walking circles around the dining room solarium, leaving painful blisters on my aching barking dogs praying for another table full of asshole tourists so that I can get stiffed yet again on the tip. If I didn't have morals I wouldn't hesitate to choose an easier path. That's the America we live in today, epically tough to get ahead when your overhead swallows you up by the first of the month. House poor is a thing I’m quite used to unfortunately.

      Watching this exotically androgynous creature twist and wrap and silk turban around her head to cover any trace of hair, the conversation came to a lull. What was wrong I wondered? Had I bored these two to death with my lack of real problems? Did they come to the realization that they weren't going to get any money from me and lost interest. After a little bit Marty started shuffling around and mumbling to himself, seemingly getting more and more agitated. "No more alcohol!" He became consumed with the fact that he just hit the bottom of his Whiskey bottle and began to shout and jerk around exhibiting a scary form of turrets that left everyone uncomfortable. The major energy shift had me wondering if it was maybe time for me to part ways but Stella went to Marty and took him in her arms and whispered and stroked his hair and calmed him with her soft words of encouragement which were something along the lines of "It's ok baby....we'll get you some more booze baby..." He somehow believed her because he started purring like a drug addicted kitten. Then she said that she would go make a few bucks for another bottle of something good. Marty laid his head down on the concrete chess board and passed out completely. He had a Chinese take-out box half full of what I think was some scary looking mashed potatoes in one hand and an empty bottle of booze cleverly disguised in a crumpled brown bag in the other. He and I would not speak again that evening. Stella was off to panhandle and do god knows what and Leena and I were left alone to talk. We chit chatted about how the city can amaze a person time and time again in a myriad of ways. Leena was proud, confident, and well spoken. I wondered how she could be out here on the street with no roof over her head that could shield her from the windy world. This was my first homeless conversation that lasted beyond "Sorry man I don't have any cash on me" which was usually true. "Straight people don't know what they're missing” Leena said.. “There sure as hell ain't no national Straight Day!" She was absolutely right. Can you imagine? I think it would be just yucky if people celebrated Straight Day or White Day or Men's Day, the absolute worst of the unsuppressed majority! Onne thing I truly appreciate is the fact that all the men and women out there bumping and grinding into the night are the reason there are gay people in the first place. When my mom dares to mention gayness being a choice I happily remind her that it's the combination of my parent’s genes that make up every fiber of my gay, wiener loving being and I put it all on them. You can imagine that this particular argument sends my Christian parents to the moon and I love it. It drives them crazy and I don't really care. If every gay person in the world were straight and had at least one child the world would be so over populated it wouldn’t even be funny. It would tip the balance of things. I think there are already way too many people throwing giant cherry Slurpee plastic cups and lids out there car windows that will probably never naturally disintegrate into the earth. I think gay people are evolution's way of putting a cap on too many screaming babies in what seems to be one long, never ending economic recession.


    By now Stella as wandering her way back into our presence again this time with a case of beer! "That was fast" I said. "Oh I just go to my usual spot, sit down on the grass with my back turned to the people passing and leave my hat out for them to drop change in. “Hat?” She then reached into a tattered Gap bag she'd found in the trash and pulled out an amazing straw hat that you might see on some cunt in the Hamptons. For me this hat perfectly captured Stella's essence completely. She put it on and I was in love with her, the hat, the crazy company, the beer that she gave me, the warm evening, and the pot. As she slumped down on the pavement and popped open a can of Bud Lite she let out a loud exhale and said "Priorities." Laughing to myself I listened to her begin to tell her story and was shocked at the description of a woman that I didn't recognize before me. It was like she was talking about someone else's life....detached and curious....surprised that she had slipped so far. Her beginnings were complicated with several sisters and only one parent in a low income housing project. "We got by" she mumbled. After she graduated high school she got a filler job, always keeping in mind that one day she wanted a higher education and a writing degree. She worked ironically as a career counselor at a Catholic girls high school and got to the point where she could buy her own home. Things at this point for Stella were very much like the final moments of a clicking roller coaster ascending the top of that big, scary first drop. Her happy reality was about to crest the top and just over the horizon was the metaphoric plummet of doom and gloom! I'm sure she never saw this coming, no one could. On top of the world she decided to celebrate now and then with a little drink. Somehow that tiny luxury ended up costing her more than she could ever imagine and snowballed into so much more. She eventually lost not only her house, family, and assets, but most importantly the will to save or get them back. She bottomed out and just gave up. That essential life-energy was drained and she soon found that her only furnishings would include a dirty park bench. Her once vibrant life came tumbling down and she didn't even seem to give shit. Where was my breaking point I wonder and how slippery was that dangerous slope? Her only pleasures depended on the kindness of strangers, good Samaritans, and day old barely edible food.

   Another characteristic of my new friend Stella was that she was a lesbian and occasionally enjoyed a sniff or twenty of crack cocaine or the rewards of any drug in the known universe. Feeling the need for a change of scenery this little circus started to shift, leaving Marty alone, face down, to drool on the dirty chess table covered in pigeon poo. Standing first, Stella gulped down the last bite of an atrocious looking pastry saying "Mmmmm Mmmmm, the creamiest this side of 5th Avenue!" We all began to walk towards the west side of the park. Leena informed us that she couldn't join us any further because she was losing money with every passing minute. "So many unsexed menz in this town and sooo little time I tell you" she said as she sashayed away from us as optimistic as can be waving kisses and joyous blessings as we parted company. This lovely and polite hooker bid us a pleasant evening as though she were a dignified character in Pride and Prejudice and not a lady of the night working the trashy street beat. And just like that she was gone.

     There we were, me with my fumbling, curious 19 year old conversation skills and Stella with her straw hat and half empty beer. We set out on the tour of South Manhattan you never want to see. Our first destination was of course the worst area of the island depending on your perspective. At the time the 14th street pier was over-run with unfortunate souls all scrambling to make a quick an easy buck with the Johns. "Quietly" she said. "Tomorrow you're gonna know so much more about where Not to go my sweet boy trust me, I'll take care of you." I believed her for some reason probably because I desperately needed a friend and in a way she was saving me. She was the street smart mama I needed at the moment so I set all judgments aside and carried on. That night would afford me the peeled back view of New York City that they left out of all the travel guides and Big Apple Tour bus schedules. That night I wasn't sleeping.

       With our compass due West Stella and I worked our way towards the Jersey skyline. All along the way she gave me little tips and hints about certain places that were not for me to be taking a camera and sight- seeing that's for sure. It was about 2:30 in the morning and I had hours and hours to go before I complained. I couldn't walk slow enough for my old friend and then I realized that she really had nowhere to go and was in no big hurry. Her speed and energy was the equivalent to the flat line when the doctor pronounces somebody dead. I didn’t realize at the time that an act of going to the pier wasn’t exactly as exciting for Stella as it was for me. She lives there on the pier, on the park bench, behind a bush in Washington Square Park. Every single day I pass invisible people like Stella, never really giving them the time of day. I wonder how many people slip through the cracks like this and go unseen by the busy general public like myself? This was all so exotic and new for me. I knew that pleasure was never-not followed by something a little darker, a shadow of something mixed with a dangerous excitement. For Stella it was just another pier on any ol’ regular night where people stroll up and down the boardwalk, occasionally dropping loose change into her cup as they take in the cool bay breezes and glowing street lights. For me it was where prostitutes and drug thugs, punky gay boys and the occasional police officer come to get a blow job from the tranny he’s supposed to be arresting for the very act. That was her life…not mine. Those shadows were friendly to her instead of daunting and dangerous like I was always taught by my paranoid parents and for good reason. Any broken boundary of this nature can lead to an extremely slippery slope I’m not interested in.


      The abandoned warehouse streets… the sudden multiplication of bars… the smell of the fishy pier …we were getting close now. Stella and I tripped across the busy highway to find ourselves among some of the worst characters around. These are the folks that spawn my mother’s wildest nightmares! This was the world…the real world and I loved every seedy dark detail. What an instant realization came flooding into me when I was confronted with the reality of this big wide world that up until now had been shrouded in false myths. There my guide and I found countless men gay/straight/bi strolling up and down and leaning against the cement guard rails. They were all cruising each other and I guess the surprise was all over my face because Stella said “You need to understand the underside to appreciate where you are at right now kid!” We headed straight into the darkness and I must admit to my hesitation. But I knew that what I needed at the mere age of 19 was a dousing of cold ice water to help me see the light. “Welcome to “the Stroll” she said. In my brief moments of visual clarity I could make out the hugely over sized divas with towering orange wigs teased to Jesus wearing seven inch pumps. Lord save my wicked soul for being so fascinated by the chameleon-like androgyny of a man not satisfied with his own making.

      There we met Leena again. This time with a friend who just “finished some binniss aroun th’ conu.” “Slow night?” said Stella. “Dead baby!” they replied laughing. Having no trouble that interested me in that way, we said our goodbyes to the “ladies” and bid them a good and prosperous night and Stella escorted me all the way back to the Queens bound N train like a loyal spaniel. I had made a friend even if there was no number or email to exchange. I would probably never see her again in this lifetime. We had shared a culmination of moments that changed me enough that I’m recounting it fourteen years later on this blog. Now that’s an impression New York, very much like a cattle brand that you don’t easily forget. In the final moments I had with my odorous pungent friend I realized I was crossing back over that river a new man…my own man. The experience was as priceless as Marty’s cold mystery mashed potatoes. To this day I’m sure you can find him still slumped over some filthy chess board in Tompkins Square Park drooling into his 40. Leena will probably contract, if not already, something deadly and I fear the same for some of her very nice friends. I could only wish them well and a future of hopeful bread crumbs and fresh opportunity. Sometimes life deals you a shady hand and what you do with it alters the course of the rest of your life.

      And as for Stella and me, our contrasting worlds could not be any more different. One of us was having a truly human experience and the other wasn't.....me being the later. She was more real to me in that moment chewing her creamy cupcake of doom with icing and female stubble running circles around her mouth. Her contentment with her nasty pastry that appeared out of some suspect bag made me giggle and I couldn't help but think about how ridiculous it was for me to be complaining about making insurance payments on my gold BMW or working as a bartender at the South Hampton Polo Club in the VIP tent. We were worlds apart from any common ground but there we stood eye to eye looking into the reflection of what if? What if I unintentionally slipped myself? What if she never did? Regardless of class, gender, or sexual orientation I connected with a black, homeless, alcoholic lesbian with a charming straw hat and am a better for it. She knew I saw her on a level playing field and respected me for it. There is a beauty in the strength of a woman like Miss Stella. I wish to god I could truly be content with a beer and a cigarette and nothing more. I hate that I worship money and find deep happiness in the comfort and options that it brings. It sickens me at times actually. Simplification is crucial for a cluttered city mind like mine and an intervention is long overdue. Now can you imagine the tricks my mind will play on me every time I pass a homeless guy or gal begging in the street and jingling a paper cup full of pennies and dimes? They now have a voice. This was officially my city where dreams got churned into diamonds and the chaotic balance of things left me absolutely breathless.

Rocks in My Socks

        How can you be surrounded by peace and tranquil surroundings and still have anger management issues? Does even the most poised shrink completely loose it from time to time? The supreme quiet of these here Tennessee parts is giving me the chance to hear the unhealthy mental storm rumbling just beneath the fragile surface? Years of running around Manhattan like a chicken with no head and what do I have to show for it.....Some ink on the resume...little to no savings...and..........well....I can't think of anything else at the moment.  Leaving a chaotic city like New York after 15 years has my ears still ringing and tricked into thinking there are cabs available at all times of the day and night even in small town USA which isn't true at all. Here you drive, even if it's my moms old green soccer van that has a Grand Canyon sticker my dad put on the back that says "Rim to Rim".  He'll never know how good that is! Moving to Redneck Vegas was total culture shock where the hillbillies sit bumper to bumper in traffic on the parkway spitting black chew onto the hot asphalt and sometimes your car. Forget getting anywhere during the rod run weekend where these good ol' boys are picking their noses, yelling at busted country girls, and perfectly content to move at a glacial pace acting as a road block to my busy day. I've never known traffic of these epic proportions before even in New York City.
       Moving to another town doesn't mean you can out run your personal problems no matter how hard you try. I need some time to untangle the tight sailor/navy seal knot in my chest. I need to monitor my emotional responses like a doctor watching an EKG line. Overreacting emotionally is usually my downfall especially when walking my partner through the mine field that is the second six months of getting to know the real me. I'm the guy with little dabs of girly concealer on his crows feet and childhood scar; the guy that eats his feelings at 3 am. and sleeps until he hears the Titanic museum's noon fog horn; the guy who no longer gets up before his boyfriend to gargle, freshen up, get cute...only to return to bed for my "first" morning encounter of the day. I'm a huge fraud. As Jane Krokowski said on 30 Rock...."Love is hiding who you are at all times....even when your sleeping. Love is taking a shit at the Burger King downstairs!" Chapter 2 of my autobiography "A Snowflake on the Sun" will be called Morning Breath.
       How can I loosen the white knuckle grip I have on feeling different from the rest of the human race instead of one in the same? Its not even logical. Being left alone to deal with my own voices can be a dangerous deal with the devil but love seems to be the only thing to break through the Berlin wall surrounding my heart. Gratefulness, like my little brother taught me, is the key to a happy existence.        

    Lovers........friends.......no one is safe. Yesterday I went on a DayQuil tare which is something I deeply regret. It's a drug to be avoided at all cost in my case. It seems to act as a truth serum and opens the verbal texting damn of suppressed thoughts that come tumbling out, flooding the unsuspecting offender blind sided. I'm generally a very quiet person (with a blog) and keep to myself professionally. I refuse to do keroke at the local Brewery and then wonder why the kids don't bother asking me out when its time to go kiki it up at the clrrrrrrb. It's my fault.  Most people don't hang out with their coworkers every night of course but my social life has taken a tragic turn or the worst landing me in Hillbilly Vegas Pigeon Forge y'all.  It's of my own doing because Knoxville is a bitch for gas and most of my real connections are in NYC anyway. Not to mention I turned around one day and felt old as hell! The next chapter hopefully will have more patience and kindness subduing the jade and it will melt away slowly like a little blue Valium trickling down from the top of my frozen margarita.

Anybody In There?

       “I’m takin a train uptown...yes I am...then takin a train to New Jersey....all right...” this old guy mumbled to himself. “I’m going to take my black briefcase and pack up every goddamned thing I own and drive to ol' Eddy McCoy's house if I damn well please....yes I will.”  Who was this guy? He was borderline commitable with his out loud ranting turrets. He was making everyone uncomfortable including myself. Was this man hearing actual responses?  “God damned lyin' cheatin bastard....I got my cap...and my black briefcase and here I go...yes I do...”   What the fuck was this guy talking about and why must he use his outside voice? I catch myself talking to my dog sometimes and I know what that must look like from an outsider’s perspective. I’m now that guy in a way I suppose but could it be that this man is the one......the one guy who put the final hole in my sanity boat? He confirms more than ever before my need to escape New York City with the same urgency that I would have if I was fleeing a burning building. Characters like this make one run for the burbs like an Olympic sprinter. Sometimes you gotta know when to tap out of the game and hope that one day you realize that 14 years later there were never any rules to begin with. It's kinda like religion...smoke and mirrors. Manhattan R.I.P.

      Indeed, it's a slippery slope to becoming that agoraphobic, dazed and confused old lady shut-in with a bunch of mangy cats and no people friends. So a french retreat is highly in order. I think that people that think they are crazy are usually not crazy at all and the people that think they are not crazy are the truly the craziest of all! Speaking of insanity.... my train of thought tonight comes from getting stuck in a kitchen corner at a party talking to some egomaniac stock broker guy that thinks he knows everything about everything. For me when people try too hard it is so unsexy. Guys that try to be charming while offering up stupid Snapple facts are a huge turn off for me and cause instant weenie shrinkage. Just know when to shut the fuck up already! Do people really not care if the person they are holding hostage verbaly in a corner can't get a word in edgewise and isn’t even responding in any way whatsoever?  How much cocaine do you actually have to do before you stop noticing that the person you are talking at is just staring at you like a deer into the headlights of an oncoming truck wishing to god to get run over right then and there. Then comes the time for an emergency intervention where action must me taken.  You pretend to get a phone call that you just have to take. “Thank god for the vibrate setting....excuse me.” Chances are that he is straight anyway and there is no reason to hang around and listen to his babbling bullshit if I’m not going to get laid.
         How can you tell if a particular New Yorker is crazy? I don’t know. Are they fresh out of Bellevue, talking on a Bluetooth, or are they rehearsing a Law and Order monologue for their call back tomorrow at Chelsea Piers? Oh wait....it was canceled after 20 some odd years. You can never tell if the Asian girl that just hopped on at 116th street is homeless or attending Colombia University.  Is she a street urchin with no money or is that some super high-end cunty couture from Balenciaga on 22nd? Street/fairy-sprite/tattered asian chic? Just her top alone probably cost more than my rent for the month and was probably put on daddy’s black platinum credit card sending the bill back to Tokyo. Who are these NYU subterranean heiresses?  And who was this homeless dude chattering on and on and vomiting way too much information to the world? Where was his black case and who the fuck was Edie McCoy? I remember him being so damned repetitive it was making me and everyone else nervous with the phydical ticks and all. I could see that life has not been kind to this old man. I put my earphones in and drown him out like I do most of my problems. When will be the moment I snap?! Can one urban mental breaking point beget another? How far am I from becoming that guy who has no conscious filter of his looping, audible broken record? He surely inspired Jamie Foxx’s next serious Oscar winning screenplay? The writers of any Hollywood crime show would be so lucky to find such a babbling, fumbling character extra. If he had an agent and a head shot he might eventually be able to fund a lifetime of 40's. Crazy and almost crazy are easy to confuse and  can be a little blurry sometimes. For instance, when you watch a show like Jerry Springer, does not even a little piece of you feel better than the baby-mama, bitch slapping losers tearing each other’s weaves out? Don't you stand just a little taller knowing you’re not them?
        Freaky city scenes like this are better than any contemporary romance novel. Put down the book miss Columbia and take in the Spanish mariachi band that is about to blow your subway car up with loud, abrasive accordions and maracas. Only in New York are you assaulted by such in your face culture. I need a sweet country break. My daily urban delights aren't cutting it anymore. Peace seems impossible in the big apple unless your Sarah Jessica Parker tap tapping away on your laptop, wearing camouflage, sitting on her brownstone steps, and checking her Sex and the City weekly residuals! Harlem is my glass house where I do all my dreamin’ and emotional brick throwing. It's a world within a world. You can be as visible or invisible as you want to be there.
         There are coffee grinds stuck underneath my fingernails and the Pigeon Forge isolation makes me want to claw my eyes out with the deafening quiet but at the end of the day its a much improved life. But home-home for me is a quiet horse farm in Tennessee where everybody knows one another and cares even a little bit. The dry lines of my hands are dirty and my contacts are about to commit suicide but my year or so of no comment on this blog will hopefully be changing. I feel like sometimes you have to pull your head out of your computer and live a collection of minutes and months worth writing about. I still have underground flashbacks of MTA announcements that the train I’ve been waiting for is out of service after 30 minutes of total cab denial. To wait for a train that was never coming to begin with is the final dagger in my country heart. Dios Fucking Mio do I not miss the subteranian parade of circus freaks! Even though the carnival scene down in the great smokey mountains has almost every local Pigeon Forge girl older than 12 auditioning for the spot of the obese bearded lady. Bigger portions equal bigger booties am I right? And I guess the toothless redneck Lesters of the 865 don't differ much from the Harlem homies that harass girls all day long from their front stoops. The only difference between me and them is that I feel bad about my unemployment.