Today’s soundtrack: Slipping through the states to find the static and there’s something to believe
Today at 7:32pm: Sitting in the dark in a pile of my own filth

Nothing kills an online journal like self-consciousness. When things go well I feel like I’m bragging, when things go lamely I feel I’m complaining. Nevertheless I continue typing.

Yesterday was gross, I woke up and the clocks were dead. Which means Uh-Oh Fuck, it’s blackout time in downtown Manhattan. Happens every other year when the mercury starts aspiring to triple digits. Hits parts of town sporadically, as if your building suddenly got sick but the neighbors are all fine.

I can live without electricity for a while--I mean it’s nice to put off the laundry and the ironing and the accidental self-electrocutions--but it was hot as a bitch, and the A/C was dead as a doornail.

Strangely, some of the power outlets in the apartment still worked; The ‘fridge was running fine, as was the DSL modem. I had produce and bandwidth.

Outside the Con Ed guys were tearing up the street. Climbing in and out of gaping maws in the asphalt and inserting big pieces of machinery. “Any idea how long?” I asked one of ‘em.

“Midnight,” he said. Aiyah.

By 3pm SmokedPanda, Ji Eun and I are up at the air-conditioned Met*, checking out ancient Asian art. (*Metropolitan Museum of Art, don’t make me say it again.)

Ji Eun wanted to find some golden buddha statue she’d read up on. Me, I like the guys with the nineteen arms. Forget what they’re called but those guys are the coolest. The ultimate in multi-tasking, they can hold everything from ripened fruit to flaming swords of justice. If I had nineteen arms I would be tearing shit up. Simultaneously juggling, throwing up gang signs and slapping people for no reason. Also two of my arms would be dedicated to simultaneously rubbing my tummy and patting my head at all times.

Afterwards I went to train at the dojang. Hapkido Betty and I spent an hour sweating all over each other on the mats. It sounds a lot more sensual than it is.

Yuka’s apartment is also partially blacked-out, except her bedroom is electrically intact. Her bedroom A/C works so at 8pm I’m stuffed in there with Shady, Mike, and four Japanese girls she’s working on some project with.

“Okay get out, get out,” Yuka eventually says, to us guys. “Too much body heat.” So the three of us head up to “Go” (restaurant on St. Mark’s) for some Japanese food and freon-tainted air. Chloroflourocarbons are my friend.

After dinner it’s 10:30. Ninety minutes to kill until I can go home and experience indoor lighting. Mike and I go to see “Signs” while Shady and Jerry head to a bar.

“Signs” was, ahhhh, I dunno. I really liked “Unbreakable” so I’ll just cling to that.

After the movie we call Shady on the cell. “Where you guys at?”

“The usual,” he says. So Mike and I head over to Forbidden City, to double our numbers and consolidate our strength.

I run into Pimpilla at the bar. She works at the Asian American Writer’s Workshop and her nickname is Pimp. I drink a martini with chrysanthemum in it and ramble out loud to Pimp. She rambles back.

I’m so proud of Shady. There was a grade-A cutie at the bar--a woman, not a girl--with some low-level Eurocat hanging all on her. Subtle cues indicate they’re not a couple, perhaps just feeling each other out. Anyways Eurocat goes to the bathroom and Shady, having observed the dynamic, moves in to engage.

By the time Eurocat gets back, Shady’s got the girl laughing up a storm, and soon she’s sharing drinks with him and Jerry and Mike, who are fun drunks. Eurocat sits next to her again but now he’s uncertain. What can I say? Move it or lose it. In this city you can’t just be a white guy with a shaved head and weird tattoos; you gotta have some personality, Jacques. What are you doing wearing black leather anyway, it’s gotta be 95 degrees in this bitch. If she dug you she’da stayed.

Next we run into Emi, who practically lives at this bar. Soon Pimp leaves and the fellas settle the check. Ten minutes later we’re at St. Mark’s Pizza, watching a fight brewing on the sidewalk. You know the deal, “ker-azy” white guy from Long Island talking like he’s black and generally making a spectacle of himself. All spark, no action. He hops up and down, taunting his opponent for five but no punches are thrown.

We get back to the house around 3:30am and the A/C’s running! Con Ed’s done the job. We’ve gotta wake up in a few hours--I’m going upstate and Shady’s gotta work--but at least it’s cool in here. I say goodnight to the CFCs and nod off.