Monday, September 8, 2008

Journal Entry: February 8, 2008

The following is a character for character copy of a journal entry I wrote last winter.

Saw a pic of me on Leslie's phone and thought I looked handsome, though slightly overweight. I weigh, at least, 185; Hemingway talked about being a big man of 192 in Islands in the Stream. It's relative.

Just left the apt, walked to the subway in the mild Feb weather. Heading to the Village for Jacqui's party at Kettle of Fish. Currently sitting on the C train passing 86th street. Got a flask of Svedka in Les's purse and am looking forward to the decadence, though low on money and Presidents' Day is the week after next -- cutting into funds. Some guy with plaid scarf, black shoes, jeans and red shirt is trying to look cool -- who's he entertaining? Maybe I'm cynical.

Just got off and walked to 1 platform where some Indian music is playing across the track. A man in red head-to-toe dress is standing staring. Hear a guitar now -- no, it's the clatter of ladders carried by a hard-hat construction worker.

Leslie's cute in curls, scarf, lipstick and women's peacoat. I'm huddled up to subway pillar. Girls fucking talking in valley accent -- though dressed to the NY nines....

Took a swig outta the flask after blocking view for Les to take swig. Now on the 1, she asks if she looks cute. I tell her she's adorable. She is.

Drunk women are giggling and acting like they're not conscious of their cleavage. Car crowds. Young French couple in own world, laughing at how train makes them fall on each other. Man of iron jaw, cigarette face, and 19th century plastered mane is popping mints in mouth and watching young girls exit at 34th street. Guy, balding, glasses, lame goatee, frumpy belly, Yew Yauk accent, work boots, jeans, leather coat, complains to thinner look-alike friend. Guy next to me puts straw in Pepsi bottle, opens sketchbook and begins drawing Iron Jaw across from us. Black guy, black shoes, black jeans, black coat, all casual.

At 18th, going, doors open, doors close, drunk girls laugh -- they're still on. Working boots' buddy sits. The girls are speaking Spanish. I hear "barracho". No, they're practicing Spanish.

Out of the ground at Christopher and 7th Ave. Some guy with practice high-hat drum with rubber top talks with girl who just finished performing mime. He acts like a mime for her and she gives a fake laugh. I'm "the enemy" takin' notes w/my eyes. We're in Kettle O' Fish and Jacqui's roomate Jenna is pretty, thin, 23, long hair and insecure -- wanting to get attention, but too many dive bar knuckle heads ignoring her. Alexa, another roomate, is less secure and gabbing to Les about ... nothing... "Alabama... I have to do this/that... he's a lawyer... It was like 5 years... he's so smart." The tender is making good drinks. Jenna took a joke. Jacqui's roller-derby-jeer-leader diva friend looks like a washed up wanna-be-beauty at 40, though she's in her 50's. Jenna's back with a cute gay guy. Nobody's happy but me, Les, and the Bday girl.

The party disintegrates as the night goes on. People give each other less attention.

The black gay guy rubs my beard and tells me I'm cute. Tells my wife she's a liar when she says we have gay friends in Oklahoma. Bday girl comes up to us and confesses her drunken love of man who met her intellectual fantasies after she had just moved to the city.

So Les and I hop on the A. Wrong way. Are forced to buy a ticket and get back on the A -- tipsy and tired -- and take long track back home, among boombox guy, middle-aged couples, hipster girl with white coat, black skirt, black tights. Off the A, into the night, on the sidewalk, back home. Breathing heavily on our futon pillows -- capecod dreams.