No matter what I do at night I always find myself among the coffeeshop intellectuals by day. The community college-dropouts who spend their days expouding, unshaven, on the untouched used editions of paperback masterpieces.
Right now I'm in a neighborhood in LA called Echo Park, surrounded by the off duty waitresses and thrift store clerks. Everybody here is waiting, always waiting for something. But no one really knows what. I've been knocked around by various creative industries for long enough that I look forward to the waiting because I know that whatever comes is only bearable because of what fun thing I got to do in the mean time.
Today that was Mercutio. I'm trying to have some fun with the characters who only get a few lines. Capulet has a random masked cousin of his interrupt the party with him for only three lines. Smaller theater troupes have been doing this show for the last 400 years with smaller and smaller casts. Sometimes all the quick lines throughout the play are performed by the same person--usually Peter, the nurse's servant.
One of the nicer things about this trip is that I'm staying with a friend from high school. My new hotel is an air mattress which is inflated to fit perfectly between the stove and the refrigerator of his kitchenette.
For years I've laughed at all of the people I've looked up too for how much they complain about touring. I remember once reading about Zadie Smith's first book tour:
I have just completed a book tour, which is somewhat like being on safari but without the attendant dangers of thick bush-land, extreme heat, guns, or wild animals. But book tours offer their own perils to the young writer. I have been on an American book tour before. Four things come out of an American book tour:
1. The writer gains 15 pounds.
2. The writer can find a minibar within five seconds of opening a door, irrespective of wood-paneling camouflage.
3. Any original thought the writer ever had – every pretty black mark she ever made on a piece of white paper – is replaced by the endlessly reoccurring phenomena of the writer’s own name rising up at them in embossed font on the front of a book they have come to despise.
4. The writer is reduced to embracing the only creative subject she has left: writing about writing and writers. And, if she is lucky, hair.
I understand this now. I miss home, I miss my friends. It is already slightly unnerving to be ordered around by people. Sometimes we will come up with a perfect plan for a show as we have always done and it won't be until we are actually executing it that the label-assholes will bring up their objections.
Meanwhile I find myself taking the questions, requests and demands from various people who, treat me as though I were an iPod and not at least a part-time human being.
This is all, of course, the natural amount of bullshit that happens before any performance. In the meantime I am having a full-time adventure being a part-time human.
The people I run into in LA are freakishly friendly, attractive and all the bars and cafes are overstaffed.
The first burrito I had here came with a charming waitress who wanted to tell me all about her new life that has begun in LA since leaving Phoenix. To estimate that would be in the two-and-a-half inches that have grown in since her last blonde dye-job.
I spent my morning today in a coffeeshop that felt like home. The whole staff was made up of attractive 27 year olds and I traced their faces to see what exactly their lives had amounted to before this. Most of them have a gallery of tattoos on their arms and haircuts that may have been paid for my some kind of agency.
On the wall is a comforting shelf of used books. A faded paperback Leaves of Grass smiles back at me, telling me to relax and sing the body electric. Brooklyn will still be there when I get back.
Between shows I went to meet up with some friends at a bar and I didn't have the time or resources to change out of my stage costume. I wore my obnoxious sunglasses, a wifebeater, my leather jacket and I tied a black napkin from my old job around my neck.
Someguy stopped me and said, "I like the bandana. It's different."
Yesterday the dancers rented a Mustang at the airport in LAX on their way to the hotel. They took a drive in the afternoon and I worked on Mercutio for the rest of the day.
Above each of the double beds were two eight-foot high black and white photos of women. Actually one was of the woman's cleavage. The other was looking up her black skirt and was probably an out-take from the photo shoot for the paperback of Lolita.
The desk in the hotel was directly in front of the mirror in the room. This meant that everytime I needed to come up with a facial gesture for handsome, rugged Mercutio I would look in the mirror and see a pair of eight-foot breast smiling back at me. Then I would glance at the person in the mirror:
This man is a stranger to myself but had you ran into me at the party you would not have been startled at all because you see me exactly how you always have known me. Seeing this stranger makes me smile because this hideous alter ego had just breathed his last and I should never meet him again in my lifetime. But the comfort that I take away with me at the end of my relatively short life comes from the little joy I share with him as we made our symmetrical exits. He—so equally confused and awkward— smiled back at me.
It will always be the greatest pleasure in my life to watch bands go from guys-on-my-couch to guys-in-a-music-video. This is a fantastic band from London whose records I would put out if I had any money at all.
I cannot believe I never read the lyrics to this song before
Now look at them yo-yos thats the way you do it You play the guitar on the mtv That aint workin thats the way you do it Money for nothin and chicks for free Now that aint workin thats the way you do it Lemme tell ya them guys aint dumb Maybe get a blister on your little finger Maybe get a blister on your thumb
We gotta install microwave ovens Custom kitchen deliveries We gotta move these refrigerators We gotta move these colour tvs
See the little faggot with the earring and the makeup Yeah buddy thats his own hair That little faggot got his own jet airplane That little faggot hes a millionaire
We gotta install microwave ovesns Custom kitchens deliveries We gotta move these refrigerators We gotta move these colour tvs
I shoulda learned to play the guitar I shoulda learned to play them drums Look at that mama, she got it stickin in the camera Man we could have some fun And hes up there, whats that? hawaiian noises? Bangin on the bongoes like a chimpanzee That aint workin thats the way you do it Get your money for nothin get your chicks for free
We gotta install microwave ovens Custom kitchen deliveries We gotta move these refrigerators We gotta move these colour tvs, lord
Now that aint workin thats the way you do it You play the guitar on the mtv That aint workin thats the way you do it Money for nothin and your chicks for free Money for nothin and chicks for free
I was just playing the 45 of it at work while thinking about how embarassing it is going to be to see my cousins at easter after they see the video I'm working on.
I'm doing another music video in the morning but my roommate is in the hospital. I can't really deny that I'm having fun. It's like a vacation with X Rays!
When my hands stop hurting next month I promise to stop being so sexist. Kyle slipped today skateboarding and we spent the whole night in the hospital. He has health insurance just like I used to have so he was treated well.
"How old do you think that doctor is?"
"The question is: how much older than him are we?"
What is it with girls and nails not finger-nails but the kind you hammer into the wall. My entire apartment is not only covered in nails from Annie but half of the nails were painted over in obnoxiously trendy colors and I don't have the time or resources to just paint over everything and make my apartment look like it did the day I moved in.
Like, the fucking walls in my bedroom are purple and pink.
The reason I bring this up is that Ben gave me one of his art-school paintings. I hung it up where I used to have my vespa girls parked. They were a collection of old Vespa girl pinups that I've had around since college. Annie imprisoned them in little picture frames and I finally took them down five minutes. Ago.
For all the shit of mine that she ended up leaving with, I really wish she--and by this I mean every girl I've ever dated--would have just taken one of my screw drivers before they move in with the next guy and fuck up his apartment.
I finally got the call last night I'm flying from Miami directly to L.A. at the end of the month. One of the things I never really got around to talking about in college is the tiny fact that I am, vaguely, from L.A. My Gramma was covered wagon people who had a cattle ranch out in the desert. They sold it and some company turned it into LAX. So, yes, every time I'm in LA there's part of me that thinks, "Now I'm back on Gramma's farm."
None of this is very important. But if you were my demented psyche my month would sound like this:
Take heed 'cause I'm a lyrical poet Miami's on the scene just in case you didn't know it My town that created all the bass sound Enough to shake and kick holes in the ground 'Cause my style's like a chemical spill Feasible rhymes that you can vision and feel Conducted and formed This is a hell of a concept We make it hype and you want to step with this Shay plays on the fade slice like a ninja Cut like a razor blade so fast other DJs say damn If my rhyme was a drug I'd sell it by the gram Keep my composure when it's time to get loose Magnetized by the mic while I kick my juice If there was a problem yo I'll solve it Check out the hook while Shay revolves it
Ice ice baby vanilla Ice ice baby (oh-oh) vanilla Ice ice baby vanilla Ice ice baby vanilla ice Yo man let's get out of here Word to your mother Ice ice baby too cold Ice ice baby too cold too cold (x2) Ice ice baby
(downbeat slides, bass to zero, fade up)
When the lala hits ya lyrics just splits ya Head so hard, that ya hat can't fit ya Either I'm witcha or against ya Format venture, back through that maze I sent ya Talkin to the rap inventor Nigga wit the game tight, Bic that flame right Spell my name right, B-I, Double-G, I-E Iced out lights out, me and Ceasar Leo Gettin head from some chick he know See it's all about the cheddar, nobody do it better Going back to Cali, strictly for the weather Women, and the weed -- sticky green No seeds bitch please, Poppa ain't soft Dead up in the Hood, ain't no love lost Got me mixed up, you drunk them licks up Mad cause I got my dick sucked and my balls licked, forfeit, the game is mine I'ma spell my name one more time, check it Its the, N-O, T-O, R-I, O U-S, you just, lay down, slow Recognize a real Don when you see Juan/one Sippin on booze in the House of Blues
[Chorus: repeat 4X] I'm going going, back back, to Cali Cali
[Verse Two: Notorious B.I.G.] If I got to choose a coast I got to choose the East I live out there, so don't go there But that don't mean a nigga can't rest in the West See some nice breasts in the West Smoke some nice sess in the West, y'all niggaz is a mess Thinkin I'm gon stop, givin L.A. props All I got is beef with those that violate me I shall annihilate thee Case closed, suitcase filled with clothes Linens and things, I begin things People start to flash, 818's, 213's 313's, B.I.G. Frequently floss hoes at Roscoe's If I wanna squirt her, take her to Fatburger Spend about a week on Venice Beach Sippin Crist-o, with some freaks from Frisco
[Chorus]
[Verse Three: Notorious B.I.G.] Cali got gunplay, models on the runway Scream Biggie Biggie gimme One More Chance I be whippin on the freeway, the NYC way On the celly-celly with my homeboy Lance Pass hash from left to right Only got five blunts left to light, I'm set tonight Paid a visit to Versace stores Bet she suck until I ain't got no more, only in L.A. Bust on bitches be-lly, rub it in they tummy Lick it, say it's yummy, then fuck yo' man Fuck your plan, is it to rock the Tri-State? Almost gold, 5 G's at show gate Or do you wanna see about seven digits Fuck hoes exquisite, Cali, great place to visit
Parnell came down the road, he said to a cheering man; 'Ireland shall get her freedom and you still break stone.'
345 What Was Lost
I sing what was lost and dread what was won, I walk in a battle fought over again, My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men; Feet to the Rising and Setting may run They always beat on the same small stone.
346 The Spur
You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attendance upon my old age; They were not such a plague when I was young; What else have I to spur me into song?
I completely forgot the best part of the story from yesterday. After all of the polite ways she shook him off he went back once more for a hand shake. "Hope to see you again soon," and he slipped her his business card.
And when she showed it to me it said "Doctor of Oncology."
1) When you're an oncologist your primary focus is to study, diagnose, and treat cancerous tumors. And you want to see her again??
2) Wait a fucking second. Guys do lots of strange things to get laid. Some wear cologne. Some buy expensive drinks. Some drive expensive cars that always smell like cheap cologne. In Boston they'll fight over girls. Large, unattractive men in the art-world tend to have sandwich bags of blow on hand. But, bro, did you seriously go to medical school for the ladies?
3) I've done plenty of creepy things in my life but I'm a low-life. I owe thousands to the IRS, the electric company sends the fuck-you-pay-me guy out to see me monthly, etc. But when I fuck something up because I've been out all night with some girl: no one dies. The only thing more pathetic I can think of is if I ran into my family Veterinarian at one of these things. ("...I'd like to put that girl to sleep...with me!")
People go to cocktail parties to get laid and that's okay. But now that I'm getting older I see it as increasingly pathetic. I see it this way because I work at cocktail parties in some capacity all the time and I watch people in their forties try and get laid.
A good friend of mine and I had a conversation about this the other week at Chipotle. What would your life be like if you were in your forties? "If I were in my forties and still dating, I'd have the most anal apartment. I'd have, like, filing cabinets."
"I'd probably have a garlic press."
"I'd definately have a flatscreen."
"But what if you got a flatscreen in your thirties? Are you then gonna go get a whole'nother flat screen ten years later?"
"I don't know. If you spent a thousand dollars a year fixing up your apartment you'd probably have twenty grand in features by then."
"I'd definitely have a tie rack."
"Fog free mirror."
"Expensive slippers."
"One of those refrigerators for wine."
"One that makes square ice cubes."
I was at this particular cocktail party to honor a very talented chef I had once worked for. It meant that instead of slinging drinks, I wore a chef coat and made small fresh samples of one drink that had sixteen ingredients and explained the process and the recipe.
However, since it looked like a cocktail party staffed by 'spics: most of the people there couldn't give a shit, although they might be looking forward to their gift bag later. In the middle of explaining what I was doing--food network style--these middle aged assholes would walk up to me and order a vodka tonic. "I'm in the middle of something here."
Instead of being embarrassed, they all did this move which is only hilarious if you are Rodney Dangerfield: they swoop in, make the first joke that comes to their moronic minds and walk away. This pissed me off because the final step in the drink is to pick a fresh leave of sage, hold it in your hand, and clap it once. Or, rather, smack it once. "They should call that drink the bitch slap. You like that name? Bitch slap! Smack! You like that? He doesn't like that. I don't think he likes that."
The photographer he was standing next to was paid thousands and thousands of dollars to photograph this drink. (I smiled at this forty year old loser, because I remembered a thing from my conversation at Chipotle: "I'd probably have a huge liquor cabinet." "Yeah, but what girl is going to give a shit about that? Look at me, I'm forty and I have both rum and coke on hand.")
There was a girl there to see me. She is tall and beautiful and it was a nice day. During the break we took a scooter ride.
Rodney Dangerfield's obnoxious cousin sidled up to her. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but by the look on her face I could only assume it was, "I've got filing cabinets."
As a general rule I don't ask people what they "do." It's obnoxious and presumptive. If you do anything of value you're probably not at cocktail parties spouting off about it. During the event a small posse of office girls flocked around my table and confessed that they knew nothing about the party or why there was one but they were only in it because a friend of there's works for one of the liquor company's PR firms.
"That's the way it goes," I said. "After all, New York City is the largest office building in the world."
"That's a great quote. Who is that from."
"That's from me. I'm a big famous novelist."
"Really?"
"Yes. That's why I work here."
"I'm going to put that on my blog!"
"Just don't fuck up the wording. It's important."
"You're cheeky. I like that. I want to sound bite you for something."
"I'd love to be soundbitten."
I looked over and saw that Dangerfield was looking over at me. Later I learned that he said--to the girl who came there to visit me--, "I'd really like to get your number."
She said, "Thanks. But I'm with someone."
He turned cautious, "Someone at the party?"
"Yes."
"Is he upstairs?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"The bartender making 'The Bitch Slap.'"
Crestfallen, he walked over to the table once again. He perused the ingredients and the glassware, admired my row of jiggers and muddlers and swizzle sticks. Although I can be quite sexist, I am extremely sexist against middle aged loser guys because--without women in their lives--they become a parody and case study of all that is wrong with men. They make the rest of us look bad.
He looked up at me in my oversized chef coat and the pants that I've been wearing since valentine's day. I handed him a copy of the recipe, "Here. Put this in your filing cabinets."
Things I don't still want to be doing when I'm 30:
1) Fumbling around strange, dark apartments in the morning, opening the refrigerator just for light. For some reason every apartment in Brooklyn is wired by commedians who do things like put a light switch in the kitchen that connects to a giant florescent light in the roommate's room.
There's a fantastic series of articles in The Economist this week about the historical importance of the potato. I really like reading the economist because I get to pretend that I'm sitting around London watching my stock ticker and snacking on the bones of young Scottish children.
It is written in the most antiseptic language available:
The potato promoted free trade by contributing to the abolition of Britain's Corn Laws—the cause which prompted the founding of The Economist in 1843. The Corn Laws restricted imports of grain into the United Kingdom in order to protect domestic wheat producers. Landowners supported the laws, since cheap imported grain would reduce their income, but industrialists opposed them because imports would drive down the cost of food, allowing people to spend more on manufactured goods. Ultimately it was not the eloquence of the arguments against the Corn Laws that led to their abolition—and more's the pity. It was the tragedy of the Irish potato famine of 1845, in which 1m Irish perished when the potato crop on which they subsisted succumbed to blight. The need to import grain to relieve the situation in Ireland forced the government, which was dominated by landowners who backed the Corn Laws, to reverse its position.
In general, I'm a huge fan of abbreviations. I love the way that ASAP somehow means something more urgent than the polite and indefinite "as soon as possible."
I really love the idea of my stock-ticker counterpart picking up the tape and saying, "1m Irish dead? That's going to cost me 10s/t! Governess! Bring me 1b of brandy and whip the Indians 15x each."
And then the governess walks in and says, "The stock ticker won't be invented for another 12yrs."
"Argh! Fine! Let's repeal the corn laws. Put this swill in a barrell until then and we'll sell it to wealthy Americans."
"The Americans are going to have a civil war then."
"Argh! When is the wealthy white male going to catch a break?"
Because I am not a very good person I've been stuck for the past three years banking at the crappiest bank in New York City. There's only two locations. One on Bedford, right by the L Train stop and another in Bushwick. They speak Polish to a degree that they are mildly offended when you ask for the English speaking teller.
They just updated their security and it's glaringly obvious that their banking is not meant for upwardly mobile denizens of New York City.
Question: What is your favorite restaurant? What is your favorite drink? Who is your favorite person?
I don't have the level of income that I've had in the past, but even I look at these questions and think, "Favorite restaurant? Like, this week or of all time?" "Favorite drink that I've had today? Or in general? In general it's probably my third whiskey."
And then I get to the third security question and think, "Favorite person? I mean, if I'm on my third whiskey it's definately not the same person who took me to my favorite restaurant."
It's thoughts like these that make me realize I will never be invited back into civilized society.
