If I had 50 more I.Q. points what would I be doing? Probably thinking about Noam Chomsky like I am now, but in a mental hospital.
I used to go to the Frick all the time, baked, checking out the trompe l’oeils and listening to the headsets where you punch the number.…
Gainsborough is a cool name. Kind of like outerborough and Triboro. Like to go visit Ilya at Paul Mole and get a haircut and shave. Graying on the sides. Need to dye my chest hairs, too. No gray pubes yet. Maybe one or two.
So Hedda Gabler was one uptight dissatisfied Norwegian bitch. Shot herself in the heart and died with a smile on her face.
Women are complex. Isabella Rossellini got mad at me once. Guess I shouldn’t have called her at home. Just doing my job.
Sure are a lot of people in motorized wheelchairs on Roosevelt Island.
Lost 10 I.Q. points when I moved to Roosevelt Island but gained it back from the clean living and sitting around watching Sister Wendy videos.
First stop the bank. Hash out the bounced check situation then cruise up Madison, cut across 72nd, then up and over to Bicycle Renaissance. Nothing like getting fresh air in the tires. Get a Gatorade and crash out on the Great Lawn.
Still pissed at that guy at the Reebok Sports Club who made me get up from the pecs machine six months ago. I was in between sets and he couldn’t wait 30 seconds? Then he did it again. “I just got one more set, can I get on there?” Why’d I let him? Cause he was bigger than me? Yep.
Not a big fan of British people saying “call me on” instead of “call me at”; do not like “I apologize for this mass e-mail but I’m trying to find a one-bedroom apartment blah blah blah.”
I don’t like Peter Greenaway or the regular old Kleenexes without lotion and people who refer to the Hamptons as “the beach”—kind of like “the store” but worse. Don’t like sandals and croc shoes, “tickets” and all the hassles and tricks involved with scoring ’em—rather stay home. Don’t like rock climbers and thrill junkies. Read a book.
Can’t stand Ralph Fiennes, Natasha Richardson and Liam Neeson—they wouldn’t like me so why should I suck up to them?
I don’t like how when something “black” happens at an awards show they cut to someone black like Morgan Freeman or when something “Hispanic” happens they cut to Carlos Santana.… Not a big fan of sports after 1985, music after 2000, hedge fund guys named Steve, skateboarding and skater “culture,” that avant-garde experimental junk they play on NPR every night.
On the flip side I do like “neck of the woods” and “nanas” for bananas, “splash of wa-wa,” clean pajamas, fluffy kitties, bubble baths, Art Garfunkel, Bach, the photographic montage in Superfly where they’re cutting up all that 1971 blow—I never want to say goodbye completely to hard-core raging and that’s why Roosevelt Island is a good place to hide out. I do my big night out once a week, take the cab back home at 6 a.m. and everything’s cool.
Think I’ll go for a dip this afternoon. Lay out. Maybe that curvy fleshy zaftiggy (but it works) blonde in the bikini will be there. Hope there’s no kids there. If I had my way, it’d be adult swim from 1:30 to 4:30 p.m. Every time I try to swim some laps, some monster gets in my lane and its parent does nothing. That were my kid, I’d say, “Hey, stay out of that lane there, mister, cause the nice man is swimming his laps and you got the whole goddamn rest of the pool. Get outta his way!” Nope! Little junior’s got as much right to be in that lane even if he’s fucking up my ten minutes of laps.
Dipping down now, passing over First Avenue, there’s Scores. First time I French-kissed a girl was over there at a nightclub called Magique. Seventh grade. Made out with her again in the middle of Airplane! Broke up with her on the phone, she said, “Okay, no problem, bye!”
Roosevelt Island can be a little grim. Maybe like East Germany in the 1970’s. It’s best at night, out my window—skyline of Manhattan. Completely silent. Big vacant lot between me and the soccer field. Gives me the illusion I’m on a safari. Okay, time to get off the Tram.
