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NYC’s Holiday Nostalgia Ride

NYC Rocks

The next morning, I was getting the kid ready to go to his guitar lesson when I realized that I didn’t have my iPad…or even my bag.

Me: Shoot, I think I left it at one of the bars last night. I’ve gotta bring the kid to his guitar practice, can you ring up the bars and see if they found it?
Her: Oh no! OK, I’ll call them.

Actually managed to stop by the first bar to see if they had it but they didn’t. And the Firecracker said that the bartender for the second bar wouldn’t be in until after 6PM, so there wasn’t much to do but wait and hope.

So, after I dropped him off, I walked back with another parent when we saw these people queuing for a movie giveaway.

Me: Let’s check that out?
Him: Sure!

With that, I got the Firecracker both a tote and a hot chocolate, courtesy of the film, Poor Things.

Now, the thing about dating the Firecracker is that she’s all-in when it comes to holiday family activities. She has these annual traditions with her and her kid that she invites my kid and me to join.

Her: You should come, Lo. It’ll be like the trains you rode when you were a kid.
Me: (grumble)

Invariably, they’re something that I thought about bringing the kid to myself but never got around to doing.

Like The Holiday Train Show in the Bronx.

Well, turns out that there’s another holiday train thingy – her kid’s really into trains – that they would go on together, and that’s the Holiday Nostalgia Ride, where really archaic trains are taken outta storage and put back into service for a blast from the past.

So, after I picked up the kid from his guitar lesson, we dashed off to 145th Street to board the nostalgia train.

We arrived at the station with less than two minutes to spare and just made the train.

Gotta say, it was pretty cool.

The maps were the original old subway maps…

…as well as the old ads and old signs…

…even the old fans…

…and old wicker seats.

Now, while I found the whole thing pretty cool, one of the kids did not and had a meltdown during the trip.

The thing with dealing with her kid and my kid is that they both trade meltdowns – sometimes it’s my kid melting down, sometimes it’s hers.

Most of the time, it has something to do with the fact that they’ve both grown up as only kids and aren’t used to having to deal with another kid. Her kid is two years older than mine, so he’s had two additional years of not dealing with another kid to boot.

In any case, one of them had a meltdown this day so the rest of the night was less than ideal.

But then the next day, things were pretty much back to normal.

I suppose any relationship – adult or child – has to deal with some growing pains.

Here’s hoping we all work it out ok.

Oh, speaking of working out ok, I found my iPad!

The bartender at one of the bars I went to put it away for me.

Him: I looked inside and figured you’d come back for it.
Me: You figured right, thanks man! NYC rocks.
Him: (laughs)

Location: home, cleaning and avoiding the rain
Mood: year-end busy
Music: I want to get off and go home again (Spotify)
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Being ancient

Running into old ghosts and possible pasts

Told you once that I used to work on Times Square.

That entry was a long time ago – I had just started seeing Alison then – and when I wrote that, my working at Times Square was almost a decade before that.

Well, when I went to see that Broadway show with the Firecracker, I showed her my old office.

Me: See that building there? I worked there for years. Had a perfect view of Times Square back then. And I lived just four blocks from work. I could wake up at 9:10 for a 9:30 meeting.
Her: I’m so jealous! I can’t imagine that.

I can’t either, actually. That was almost three decades ago.

Did you know that, Cleopatra’s reign (ending 30 BCE) is closer to today, about 2,050 years, than to the construction of the pyramids, which were probably built about 2630 BCE, or 2,600 years before she started ruling Egypt?

In other words, when Cleopatra was born, the pyramids were already 2,600 years old/ancient.

In some ways, I look around the city and feel that about myself.

People think that I’m old with life experiences but they have no idea how old I actually am and how many different lives I’ve led.

Alla them here, in the Big City.

For example, while waiting in line to watch Merrily We Roll Along, I pointed out the Belasco Theatre.

Me: I took my bar review class there.
Her: Right there? In the theatre?
Me: (nodding) Yup. It was like a solid month, five days a week, for eight hours a day.

That’s the thing about living in the same place for five decades. There are old ghosts everywhere.

Everything reminds me of some possible past, whether I want it to or not.

Location: home, realizing I forgot to get the kid tickets to a show. He’ll be so bummed.
Mood: disappointed
Music: drop your drink, then they bring you more (Spotify)
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My 18 Year-Old Toilet from Hell

Believing it

I think people move a lot in NYC – or in general.

Like, the Firecracker’s moved six times in the last decade.

Me: Wild.
Her: Yup.

My college buddy and I moved into my current apartment waaaay back in 1996, but we ended up buying it in 2004, which is still almost 20 years ago.

Been here ever since.

Anywho, in November of 2004, we gutted one of the bathrooms ourselves and hired a contractor to fix it up, including putting in a new toilet and vanity.

We ended up buying the Kohler Rialto K-3386 for $349, which is roughly $19 a year, amortized across these 18 some years.

Now, the seat on that bad boy cracked so I decided to just swap it out – the first time since it was installed in 2004.

Welp, that started a long journey that ended up with my getting rid of the entire toilet.

See, the reason we got this toilet was because it was the absolute smallest toilet you could buy that was still mass produced.

BUT, because it’s so small, it had a special mechanism to attach the lid to the toilet. I did not realize this until it was too late.

Evidently, I’m not the only one.

I’m living in an interesting period of my life right now in that I’m aware that I won’t be here forever.

After all, Everybody knows they are going to die, but no one really believes it.

Figure that, at some point, this pad will be the boy’s and I wanna limit his frustration.

Was gonna buy the kit to replace the toilet but, having read up horror stories of people doing all that only to crack their decades old toilet, I just decided to toss the whole thing.

Enter my buddy Wally who said he would do it for free.

Him: Just the hands-on experience is enough.
Me: Absolutely not!

I’m frequently surprised how many really lovely people I’ve met in my life, and he’s one of them, for sure.

So, last weekend, he and I discovered just how gross removing a 20 year old toilet could be.

Yes, this is super gross looking – that’s what bits of wax ring looks like over a flange after 20 something years.

One thing that we did was remove the old wax ring that seals the gap between the flooring and the toilet.

Him: Sorry, I got some on the floor.
Me: Dude, no need to apologize, this stuff is getting everywhere.

What shoulda been like a two-hour project, turned out to be four hours because so much had rusted in place and needed replacing.

And at least three hours trying to clean up the ridonk mess. Ridonk.

Buuuuut, afterward, this is what my bathroom looked like.

It’s a slightly longer toilet – 27.5″ from the wall versus 25.5″ but it’s now dual flush and is probably gonna be good until I’m 70.

I’m aware the flaps are up on the bolt for the seat. Too lazy to retake this picture.

Then it’s the kid’s problem, not mine.

Boy: That’s so cool!
Me: Glad you think so, kid.
Him: I’m gonna watch YouTube.
Me: (sighing) Yup.

It’s fate after almost 20 years of loyal service – oh, the ignominy!

Location: the kid’s BJJ class, watching him take an elbow to the face (accidentally)
Mood: panicked, not about the elbow
Music: I’ll be back home one day, before long (Spotify)
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Getting Old is a Privilege

My theme songs

Me: Look, we just have to make this work for…
Simultaneously: 40 years
Her: Jinx! You owe me a coke.
Me: What? That’s not a thing.
Her: Yes, it is grandpa…

The Firecracker likes to poke fun at our age difference but I don’t really mind at all.

See, I wear it like a badge of honor.

Cause the ability to get old is a privilege. Not everyone gets that chance so I’m grateful to get to be an old man.

Years ago, I asked you what your theme song would be.

I think our lives go through a series of thematic changes.

Back when I was young and stupid in my early thirties, I thought that my debilitating insomnia and my breakup with the Reporter was the worst thing that coulda happened to me.

Looking back, I’m shocked how naïve I was.

During that time, my life was a dramady – some comedy mixed with some minor drama.

During that time, my theme song was Overkill by Colin Hayes.

Speaking of Colin Hay, when I met Alison, I think that my life was still a dramady but definitely more drama than comedy, as we felt the weight of life as a young married couple.

We had our ups-and-downs but we were just trying to figure out how to have a life together. With a fatty of our own, somehow.

Always felt that, once we got the kid, our real lives would begin, that any minute now, our ship would come in.

But it never did.

It never occurred to me that I was living my real life until it was too late.

See, every day was a holiday with her…

…until it wasn’t.

Until it all turned to shit.

During Alison’s sickness, Lorde was huge because it was the only album I had on my phone and I was so busy trying to save her and our life that I didn’t have time to change it.

Still never listen to Lorde because it brings back such vivid memories.

Think I would throw up if I heard Pure Heroine again.

Jesus, I musta heard that album easily 200 times during the first four months.

I was so busy that I literally didn’t have a moment to download any new songs and it was waaaaay before Spotify.

Anywho, in the song, Buzzcut Season, there’s a line that goes, “It kissed your scalp and caressed your brain.”

Remember hearing that line and thinking that, even with Alison bald and stick thin, I still thought she was beautiful and I was so lucky to have met her.

When she was sick, suppose that my life was probably best summed up by Chaos Chaos’s Do You Feel It?

Some days I’m built of metal, I can’t be broken
But not when I’m with you
You love me real, we have it all
Can’t leave me now
I love the way, you are today
Run away with me now

Kept hoping it was all a bad dream, I’d wake up, and she I could run away somewhere with the boy and live the life we were supposed to live.

The years afterward were gutting for so many reasons that I’ll just keep my theme song during that time to myself, if you don’t mind.

But right now, at this moment, honestly don’t know if my life’s gonna be a dramady again, another tragedy, or something altogether new.

There’s a song by a fella named Mike Blume, who released his latest song under the name Whatever Mike for some reason, called In-Between.

The chorus goes:

I’m inbetween
Right here where I want it
Right here where I want it
I′m inbetween

Dunno if the rest of the song is really super appropriate to my life right now but those few lines perfectly encapsulate how I look at my life right now.

I’m in-between alla these memories and hopes, life and death, happiness and sadness.

All of it. I’m in between all of it.

Somehow, it’s ok because it’s better to be in-between than toward the end. Nowadays, at least.

Nothing is as I wanted it to be, but I’m happy where I am right now.

Which makes me anxious because happiness is so rare for me. Then again, what is life, if not a tragedy fulla joy?

I think our theme songs changes with the years, so I suppose we’ll revisit this topic again from time-to-time.

What about you?

What’s your theme song?

Me: Why do you hurt me?
Her: (laughing) If I don’t have old jokes, I have nothing here, Logan. Nothing!

Location: this afternoon, walking in the sun with Firecracker down Broadway
Mood: introspective
Music: I’m between, right here where I want it (Spotify)
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My second colonoscopy

So much different from my first

Got a message from Chad the other night.

Him: [I’ve got the flu.] Would it be possible for you to teach class tomorrow night?
Me: Sorry to hear that. OK.

I’ve actually covered class a couple of times in the past, so that part was fine – kinda fun, I gotta say, because I got to focus on some things that I both really like and need to work on.

What I messed up in, though, was that I scheduled my second colonoscopy for the very next day and had to be up at 5AM doing god-awful stuff to myself.

So, I went in, taught the class, rolled around, and bolted as soon as I could get off the mats and shower.

Her: You did a good job.
Me: You think?
Her: (nodding) That’s one of my favourite moves and you explained it well.
Me: Thanks! That means a lot to me. I appreciate the vote of confidence.

If you’re a long-time reader, you know that I got a colonoscopy almost exactly eight years ago.

Alison made me orange jello.

Don’t remember much about the first time except that she came to pick me up. See, when you have a procedure under anesthesia, you’re required to have someone pick you up.

I remember that Alison took a half-day off from work and came to get me. Didn’t tell you any of that part because it was a such small thing about our day-to-day life.

Had no idea that day that she would be dying less than a year later.

Who the fuck would ever think such a thing?

I didn’t tell you that when she opened the door, she had the widest smile when she saw me.

With the exception of my son, don’t think anyone was ever that happy to see me ever in life.

She thought I was greatest thing and I thought she must have self-esteem issues to think that she couldn’t do better than a fella like me.

Don’t remember what she said when she saw me. I’m sure it was something like, Are you ok, honey?

But I remember that smile. I loved it so.

I remember I was still dazed from the anesthesia and when she came in –  despite our being together for years by that point – thought I was the luckiest guy on the planet that such an important, smart, and pretty girl would take time outta her busy day to pick a nobody like me and make sure I got home ok.

Ah, fuck.

I’ll finish this tomorrow.

I hate the goddamn holidays…

 

Location: home, putting up a Christmas tree and trying to forget things
Mood: sober for now
Music: don’t wanna see what I’ve seen (Spotify)
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Crashing the party, Pt 1

A walk down my memory

The problem I have with dating is that it’s totally binary for me. Either I don’t date – at all – or I have eight dates in a week. There’s no middle ground.

This is not sustainable.

Her: Where were you?
Me: I left after 20 minutes.
Her: You left?! Who does that?
Me: Me. Being, admittedly, very pretty is no excuse for being rude. And pretty girls are a dime-a-dozen. Lose my number, please? Good luck with life.

On a different note entirely, the boy’s a social animal himself.

We’re not the same, he and I.

I taught myself how to be social, never having friends as a kid. My son, though, he’s a complete natural. But lemme back up a bit first…

We start out the day at a picnic at a playground where I catch a shot of the rainbow you see above.

Then we go to my gym for a quick spell, not much to say there.

Not from that day/night but this is a fun pic.

After the gym, he and I head off to another birthday party for the Surgeon’s kid at Chelsea Piers but it’s a gorgeous day, so we walk.

Ended up walking past the Maritime Hotel, which is where Alison and I had our first real date. I wrote about it here.

I met the girl that lost her fella there as well.

Never told you that she was the coke girl. She was 22 then and dealing with the loss of the man she loved, hence the drugs and alcohol. And me in her life.

Don’t think she’s ever recovered from that loss. But that’s her story, not mine.

I get it now, though.

Me: (staring at the Maritime Hotel) I went on a date with the prettiest girl here.
Him: Mommy?
Me: (nodding) Yeah. Mommy.

He wanted to walk along the Highline so we did. The last time I was there, I was with Alison as well.

But, let’s not go down this route. Alison and loss, that is.

In any case, the Highline was packed. We went about three blocks on it before…

Me: There are too many people here and we’re close. Let’s get off this ride?
Him: OK!

Here’s the thing, I totally messed up the time and arrived at Chelsea Piers two-and-a-half-hours early.

Him: Papa!
Me: (apologetically) I know, I know, I know. My memory is swiss cheese these days.

For any other kid, this woulda been a problem, but not my bright-eyed, bushy tailed kid.

But, it’s getting late and I gotta get off this ride.

I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow.

Location: in my head, the Maritime Hotel
Mood: (still) super annoyed by these goddamn hives
Music: They don’t got a pill for this (Spotify)
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Two Pizza Joints, an Indian Restaurant, and a Park – Pt 3

The Cavalier’s dream

After Blond Banker left, I walked past the station and ended up walking down that, somewhat familiar, street. Vaguely remembered how to get to the GBA’s old pad.

Last I heard, she had a kid or two and is living in the City with them and her fella.

But 20 years ago, she lived around here. Somewhere. And this was the street I walked down to get to her then pad.

Walked by this Indian restaurant and remember that this was maybe our first date place? I don’t remember.

My memory’s like Swiss cheese these days. But it was definitely this restaurant where we went on one of our earlier dates. I think she paid.

Had just bought my apartment a little before I met her – maybe a year or two earlier?

Was looking into possibly getting a second place at the Majestic Theatre Condos, which was a theatre that just turned into condos. Don’t think it was open yet at the time.

But back to my story; I was still kinda lit so I just went with my instincts and ended up outside Van Vorst Park, which is where we used to hang out from time-to-time.

Couldn’t – for the life of me – remember which apartment building was hers but I knew I was on the right street.

Oddly, I remember the address of a nearby building, 285 Varick Street. This is because the owner wanted to sell us the building, which had a deeded parking spot, for $800,000.

It seems she sold it for $895,000 back in 2006 and it’s selling again for a cool $2 million now.

Wonder what my life would be like right now if GBA and I bought the building and just stayed there. We’d probably be divorced.

Because we weren’t each other’s person, obviously.

Never did figure out which one was her exact building. That’s 285 Varick Street, above, not her actual old pad.

I taught myself how to forget because of her and it seems that it’s worked like gangbusters.

Still, I do remember that, the week I met her, there was a snowstorm when I’d gone to visit her for the first time and we ended up getting snowed in that weekend.

I remember that we had a snowball fight but I don’t remember much else.

For this entry, I dug up a picture someone (her roomie?) took of us that day. I was 29, almost exactly two decades ago.

Have almost no pictures of her because I wasn’t yet into photography and no one’s camera on their phones were worth a damn.

There’s a song by Pink Floyd called, The Gunner’s Dream that has the lines:

Floating down, through the clouds
Memories come rushing up to meet me now
But in the space between the heavens
And the corner of some foreign field
I had a dream

Suppose that’s what I was expecting: To walk down the street and have my memories come rushing up to meet me.

All I could remember was that she had two cats. I forgot their names. She liked scarves and adrenaline. Struggled to remember anything else.

See, when I decide to do something, I go all out. I wanted to forget her and she’s almost completely gone from my head.

We had something-a-lot-like-love but not actual love.

Because true love is a self-proving thing; it either stays with you forever, or you struggle to remember anything you did together.

Spoke to my therapist about it today.

Her: But, it’s what you wanted isn’t it? To forget her, completely and move on?
Me: Yes, but I thought maybe they’d still be there, somewhere in my head. My memories.
Her: But it worked, didn’t it? You forgot her so was able to move on and meet Alison.
Me: Yes, but, now I’m forgetting Alison. I’m forgetting so much.
Her: You’re surviving. That’s why you do it. Because it works.
Me: Suppose you’re right. But what are we, if we’re not our memories?


In any case, I walked back to the station and headed home. I felt like I visited a ghost. It didn’t feel good, at all.

Started remembering things of a friend from years ago who disappeared. And nuthin made sense.

In the first entry of this brief series, wrote that my past came to visit me and I went to visit my past.

Suppose it would be more accurate to say that my past came to visit me and I went to visit someone else’s possible past.

Because, while I know it was mine, it didn’t feel like mine at all.

My memories are all copies-of-a-copy-of-a-copy.

Just realized now that, perhaps, I’m a copy and the real me is out there somewhere.

Man, wouldn’t that be something?

Location: Penn Station this afternoon, to go get my treasure
Mood: fake
Music: Night after night, going ’round and ’round my brain, his dream is driving me insane (Spotify)
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Two Pizza Joints, an Indian Restaurant, and a Park – Pt 1

Simple things of kindness

Recently, my past came to visit me and I went to visit my past.

Regarding the former, my buddy Ed came into town with his kid the other day. His son’s heading off to NYU this fall as a freshman.

I met him here via my then-girlfriend, the Doctor. He actually ended up living in my building for a spell, which was maybe 20 years ago?

It’s funny, we used to hang out alla time, but we lost touch after he moved back to Cali. My life is a series of endless venn diagrams.

It was such a kick-in-the-head to see him here with his almost-adult son.

Brought them to John’s Pizzeria at Times Square so they could (a) check it out since it’s in an old cathedral and (b) they wanted really good, authentic NYC pizza, which this definitely was.

The last time I went, it was October of 2017 with Gradgirl. She said it was an awful date – it might have been one of our first – and she wasn’t wrong.

Didn’t tell you about that because I was such a mess back then. Not that I’m not still starkers now.

Do think that, if circumstances were different, she and I might have had something. Maybe even a fatty of our own right now.

Fucking cancer is the awful gift that keeps on giving.


On a related note, it’s funny, for a long time, I divided up my life by the women I seriously dated/cared for.

Everything’s been such a mess since…you know…

Everything and everyone just blends together into a soupy, grey, mess.

Anywho, it was nice seeing Ed and his kid. I joked that, despite us being roughly the same age, I had a second-grader while he had a freshman in college.

Me: Give me a buzz if you need anything. I’ve been here my whole life and I’ll probably die here too.
Him: For sure, thanks! (later) Anyplace else we should head to?
Me: (thinking) Go to Hudson Yards. I always loved that place.

As for the latter, and on the topic of ex-girlfriends and my past, that’s a much longer story.

Essentially, I tried to visit an old version of myself but it didn’t pan out – at all – like I’d hoped. Lemme explain:

It all started when I hit up Blond Banker to see if she wanted to catch a show (totally as friends).

She countered with an invite to go to a mixer with some co-workers of hers for a project that she was volunteering for – out in Jersey City.

Her: I’m going to Barcade tonight. You can come to that if you want
Me: Hmm, ok, I’m down! Any particular dress code or just don’t be a schlub?
Her: Just how you’d dress for Barcade.

Since she wasn’t planning on getting there until after 6:30, I slipped into kali for 45 minutes before I hopped the PATH across the river.

On the way there, I sat down next to this one hulking dude and he turned to me and said, That’s a cool tee-shirt, man.

I got two more compliments before I arrived in Jersey City and one more when I was at the bar.

Man, simple things of kindness really make your day, don’t they?

Me: Get home safe, man!
Him: (smiling broadly) Oh, you too!

The last time I went to Grove Street in Jersey City, was May 5th, 2013 – Cinco de Mayo – almost a decade ago.

Alison and I went there for a chili cookoff and we met up with a couple from my old gym. Don’t think I ever saw them again.

Venn diagrams, like I said.

This was almost a decade ago in 2013. I have pictures of alla these randos but not of Alison.

It hurts because I keep thinking, if Alison was alive, I could ask her questions like what did we wear and what was that game we played?

Do you know how many pictures I have of her that day? Zero. Zero fucking pictures, because she didn’t like being photographed.

Sigh.

I’ll pick this up tomorrow. Suddenly got super tired.

Location: tonight, having my arm relentlessly attacked in kali
Mood: thoughtful
Music: God knows it’s not supposed to be easy (Spotify)
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Still speaking Martian, Pt 1

With a Queens accent

Him: I don’t wanna go to camp!
Me: I wish I had camp as a kid! (annoyed) For goodness sakes, why not?!
Him: (sadly) I don’t want to be away from you, Papa!

Well, I’m a jerk.

Just got back from a 12-hour Scenic Fights shoot. Pac, Chad, and the resta the crew are still there shooting.

I suppose that I’ll tell you more about the shoot some other time but Pac was there along with the producer, who – like Pac and me – grew up in Queens.

Pac: (insert very questionable language here)
Me: It’s funny. I spent years trying to hide my Queens accent and speech patterns and you highlight it.
Him: Why would you do that?
Me: (shrugging) Long story. You know, I stopped cursing when I was 18 and started up again just a few years ago?

Told you once that I read the entire side of a library once. But never told you why.

What were your summers like as a kid? Camp? Parties? Just hanging out with friends in a basement?

Mine were nuthin like that at all.

Like I said, I grew up poor. Really poor. Air conditioning was essentially non-existent.

But the local library had air conditioning and both my parents worked full time.

So, every summer from third to roughly seventh grade was about the same: I would wake up, eat, and walk to the library – either by myself or with my mom – and sit at the entrance of the library and wait for it to open.

Here’s what it looks like, same as it did when I was nine years old.

I knew the librarian there so well. She wore a red sweater no matter what the temperature was outside because, man, that AC inside was kicking.

I was always the only kid sitting outside, waiting for the library to open, unless my brother or sister were with me. Then I/we would go in and read.

I read until they kicked me out. They literally kicked me out every night. Although I did head home in the middle of the day for lunch.

This lady named Susan Wiggs once said that, “You’re never alone when you’re reading a book.” And that makes sense to me because those books were my friends.

I read entire series of books – every single one of the Little House books, all the Narnia ones (The Horse and His Boy was always my fave – The Silver Chair sucked.), all the Great Brain books, all the Sherlock Holmes books, all the Tom Brown books, the entirety of the World Book Encyclopedia – for serious – all of Bullfinch’s Mythology, etc.

By the time I was 15, I was reading 750 words a minute. I still read about 650-750 words a minute.

I read the entire fucking wall. It took me four summers. But I read that whole goddamn wall.

These were my friends. My only friends, for most of my childhood.

It doesn’t make one well socialized. At least, not for a long while.

Ultimately, though, you either change, the world changes, or a little bit of both.

Him: Cursing is fucking great.
Me: (nodding) It’s fucking great.

I told the Counselor about my summers not that long ago. She found it both sad and endearing, which was really sweet of her.

There’s a point to alla this, though.

But it’s super late and my brain’s feels heavy, so I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow.

EDIT: Day after tomorrow. Got injured at the gym being dumb. Again.

Location: 8:42PM, just catching the train before having to wait 12 minutes for the next one, on 14th Street
Mood: nostalgic
Music: Every day’s another day to have the best day with you (Spotify)
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personal

Everybody wants to rule the world

That must be nice

When my dad dropped me off at college, he gave me a hug and told me loved me before he left.

My suitemate – who was also Chinese – marveled at that.

Him: I don’t think my dad ever told me that he loved me.
Me: Really?
Him: Yeah. It’s not a really Chinese thing to do. Was he born here?
Me: (laughing) No, not at all.
Him: Oh. (quiet) That must be nice.

When I was a really young adult, I went to this rooftop party and chatted with this pretty girl. I suppose to impress her, I hopped onto the parapet while we were speaking.

Decades later, I still remember her eyes widening in horror. “Dude, we’re like 20 stories up! Get down from there!”

I remember laughing and hopping back down but then glancing over and realizing just how stupid that was. It was a straight drop down onto the Manhattan pavement.

The rest of the night was a disaster as I fully absorbed the what-if of that whole scenario.

The war in Ukraine eats at me for any number of reasons, least of which is the inequity of everything. These people were literally just living their lives when some douchebag decided to start murdering people, including pregnant women and unborn children.

And therein lies my own personal nexus with the matter.

Unlike Russia, which has been called the world’s gas station, Ukraine has a number of industries that the world relies upon. One major shadow industry they have is surrogacy:

It’s one of the only countries in the world where you can legally pay someone to have your own biological child.

For reasons we don’t need to get into now – although I’m sure you can guess – since 2021, I’ve been heavily researching surrogacy. To the point where I got one of my Russian speaking friends to speak to an agency about costs and procedures.

Fast forward to now. There are hundreds – if not thousands – of day/week/month-old infants whose biological parents are probably emotional wrecks knowing that their child – possibly their only chance to ever have a child ever – is being kept alive by nurses that are literally risking their lives just to keep them somewhat alive.

Man, Putin is really a special kinda motherfucker. Women really should rule the world.

It’s heartbreaking and maddening and yet another thing that pulls me away from the golden mean.

Just like the what-if of my parapet jump comes out of nowhere from time-to-time to haunt me, I’m haunted by the what-if I sent one of my only chances to have another biological child of mine and Alison’s to a warzone?

Would I try to get her, somehow? Or stay here to take care of the boy and not risk leaving him alone in the world?

Would she roam the world wondering who her parents were? Would she even be alive? Would people be nice to her? Would she be nice to people? Would she know she had a brother? Would she know I loved her?

Would she have Alison’s laugh?

 

 

Shit.

Him: Why are they doing that?
Me: I don’t know. I suppose everybody wants to rule the world.
Him: Do you?
Me: (thinking) If only to keep you safe. (later) I love you, you know?
Him: (laughing) I know.

Location: earlier tonight, just off West End Avenue and W. 79th Street, waiting
Mood: so conflicted
Music: It’s my own design, it’s my own remorse (Spotify)
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