This building is growing a friend.

Today’s soundtrack:
we’ll trampoline
finally through the roof
Today at 8:02pm: back on my old college campus


Maybe it’s stupid, or a New York thing, this thing about your shit. And watching your shit. And the notion that there’s a whole city of people out there ready to take your shit. Blink and something bad happens.

In the mid-90s I was backpacking around Europe. I was nine years younger so I was fine with sleeping on park benches and public floors and stuff. I went all over the place and those days are, without a doubt, something that would flash in front of my eyes in a near-death situation.

When traveling alone in that environment, you tend to meet a lot of other travelers from all over. So I was at this one train station--in Germany, I think--and I ended up shooting the shit with some other English-speaking, dirtily-dressed cats that had rucksacks on too. We’d all dropped our bags and were trading travel info in the center of the floor.

A couple trains came in and the station became flooded with people, so we decided to move. There was a swarming crowd around us now. I leaned down to grab my bag--and found another hand stealthily pulling the bag away from me! Triggering the automatic response:

“WHATTHEFUCKISYOUDOON,” I yelled, grabbing my bag with both hands and snatching it back so hard I almost fell. I yelled it loud enough that several people stopped to look at me.

I was surprised to see the would-be thief remained motionless in front of me, shocked, rather than disappearing into the crowd. It was an Arabic or South Asian cat. Then I realized that although I hadn’t seen him before, he was one of this random group of backpackers, judging by his clothes. And his, er, backpack.

“I just helping you,” he said, and held both hands up as if to say What the fuck is wrong with you.

I felt like a heel and apologized right away, citing the misunderstanding, but the cat was shook up and the damage was done. He made a face like he’d tasted something unpleasant and walked away from me.

A year before that I was living in Brooklyn and dating this Puerto Rican girl. Who was actually from Puerto Rico. She was a grad student at the college I’d graduated from, Pratt (where I actually returned to tonight, but that’s another story). Anyways she was a sculpture major, did some painting and printmaking too, and she had a super-tight-knit family.

In May of that year she was flying back to Puerto Rico to see her parents for the summer. We were at the airport and had all of her shit loaded up in this cart, which I was pushing.

In an era before e-tickets, getting her boarding pass took some time, and we were in danger of missing her flight. We rushed through the concourse, which was thick and hectic with travelers in a hurry.

The crowd was swarming and we were getting jostled. Lucia was behind me, the cart was in front of me, and I was trying to keep us together.

It wasn’t until we made it to the gate that we noticed the brown portfolio at the top--the one that was right under my nose--was missing. And then in my head I saw a replay of me being jostled while my head was turned around to look at Lucia.

The portfolio had been filled with Lucia’s artwork, including an original etching she’d done for her mother. She’d slaved over it and, it being art, it was one-of-a-kind, irreplaceable.

She cried and cried, both sad and angry, and she couldn’t look at me. I apologized over and over and was getting ready to run all over this airport looking for a guy with a brown portfolio, but I looked at the crowds behind us and my stomach just sank. On top of which Lucia was the only person who hadn’t yet boarded her flight and they were about to close the door.

Later that night she was back in Puerto Rico and we talked on the phone, and she said it was okay, that she forgave me. But I know that to this day, there is still some small part of her heart that thinks of that etching she carved with her own hands and will never see again, and that small part of her heart has a shitlist with my name at the top of it in big block letters.

I guess you could say New York does it to you, or maybe it’s just me. I’ve got baggage about baggage, and swarming crowds are not my thing.

Today’s soundtrack:
my doctor put me on
milk cream and alcohol
Today at 8:02pm: coffee at a sidewalk café on 2nd


Handsome Dan swears up and down he saw Chubb Rock on Lexington Avenue. Pushing a Volkswagen Beetle. With two white people inside.

“Get the fuck outta here,” I say.

“I saw it,” he says.

“There’s no way that was Chubb Rock. Musta been somebody else.”

“Yo, it was Chubb Rock, I saw it,” he says.

Getthefuckouttahere.

Every once in a while I see someone posting their answers to an online quiz or LJ questionnaire, and I think wow, that’s kind of narcissistic.

So I wrote an entire quiz about myself, which is more thoroughly narcissistic.

How well do you know me? Take my fun quiz!

(Please note you will only find it “fun” if you find “fun size” candies--i.e. Reese’s Pieces the size of a fucking aspirin--“fun.”)


1. My name is:

a) Rain Noe
b) Ray Ray Venticinque
c) Susan
d) red-flagged at the American Red Cross Help Line


2. I live in:

a) New York City
b) Los Angeles
c) the New York City mockup at Epcot Center
d) a profound personal hell of unspeakable torment and self-hatred


3. I live by:

a) my wits
b) my word
c) my integrity
d) myself


4. My favorite thing to accuse people of being is:

a) a barbarian
b) a savage
c) a philistine
d) trying to kill me (and doing a terrible job)


5. I’m looking for:

a) Ms. Right
b) Mrs. Right (married)
c) Mrs. Right Wing (married Republican)
d) Mrs. Wing (married Chinese woman)


6. I’m not looking for:

a) the other sock, because I found it this morning behind the dresser
b) trouble
c) love in all the wrong places
d) people to e-mail me the results of this quiz


7. During sex, I like to:

a) discuss the scientific and biological ramifications of what we’re doing every step of the way in cold, clinical language, occasionally producing a textbook so I can point to corresponding diagrams
b) stop every few seconds to “raise the roof”
c) say over and over again, “Ohmygod. I can’t believe we’re doing this. Ohmygod.”
d) hum inappropriate and distracting tunes, like the theme to “Gilligan’s Island”


8. I love listening to:

a) The Skatalites
b) Smokey Robinson
c) Elvis Costello
d) people who begin their sentences with “You know what your problem is?”


9. You can often find me:

a) at the diner around the corner
b) at The Corporation on Park Avenue
c) at one of Manhattan’s many exciting hotspots
d) in my apartment, sitting in my own feces


10. Chicks dig me because I

a) am tall and good-looking
b) am fabulously stylish and well-heeled
c) have lots of money and eat at the best restaurants
d) usually back off when they say “Sure, I’d love to get dinner sometime. How about the first Tuesday after NEVER?”


11. I write because:

a) I haven’t failed at it yet
b) I heard writing is a really good way to make money
c) nothing makes your parents prouder than saying “Our son writes, but since he’s incapable of finishing a book he works as a corporate drone to pay the bills and clear his five figures of debt.”
d) because it’s...it’s...all i’ve got left (cue choking sob, violin)


12. I am going:

a) to Hell
b) to Newark, which is filling in for Hell during renovations
c) to bother you the next time you think about me sitting in a bathtub and covering myself in dog food while listening to Puccini
d) to bed.

Today’s soundtrack: for ten thousand years
Today at 11:02am: getting an unexpected phone call, which will probably be the point of tomorrow’s entry

Listening to Adam Ant’s “Beat My Guest.” I think I just like the title. “Zerox” is good too, if you like British New Wave.

The apartment’s still a mess, feels like it’s never going to be ready. I’m converting it into a mixed-use space; the plan is to rent a portion of it out as commercial space to make the other half of the rent. If it doesn’t work then I’m going to have a major problem with three credit card companies.

I’m kinda rolling the dice here. Work slowed down again and I’m way behind on the VW payments, but what could be less interesting reading than this. I live in debt city and I am the mayor. If I fail I have no backup plan. I’m not really smart that way.

I’m pretty psyched, ‘cause my friend Suz is getting married in July, in Vancouver, and I’ll be going. It’ll be my first time. I’ve heard such good things about the city.

Vancouver’s far and I’ve decided I’m going to take a train there. I’ve always wanted to take a train cross-country, like Mekhi Phifer’s character at the end of Clockers. But instead of fleeing crack gangs I’ll be running from myself, which is ultimately more satisfying. The voices in your head, like any sensible ex-girlfriend, will not follow if you run far enough.

Turns out the train is more expensive than flying, which will of course add to my debt. But I don’t care because a) I’m stupid and b) experiences are the most important thing to me. The long-distance trains I’d ridden in Asia and Europe were good experiences, and if it sucks in America as much as they say it does, I want to know why.

A friend of mine took a train from Baltimore to L.A. (If you’re from outside the ‘States, that’s far.) She recommended I get a sleeper car because apparently sleeping in Coach for three nights is hell.

I looked at the Amtrak website for prices, and while I technically can’t afford this trip, I really, really can’t afford a sleeper car for three nights. But I probably can’t spend three nights sleeping in a train chair either ‘cause I’m not a young and carefree adventurer who doesn’t know the meaning of “back pain” anymore.

So I think I’ll sit with the losers in Steerage for the first leg of the trip, then reserve a sleeper for the second leg so I arrive all bright-eyed.

Arrive in Seattle, not Vancouver. The train only goes as far as Frasiertown. So from there I’ve got to rent a car and do the rest of the trip the old-fashioned way.

Roadtrips are great. Every time I pull up to a gas station in the middle of nowhere I like to pretend I’m going to rob it. I get myself all psyched up and say “Okay man you can do this, don’t freak out and shoot the clerk this time” and then I mainline fifty cc’s of heroin just to make sure I’m good to go and I cry a little because I’m scared but then I wipe my eyes and grab the pistol off the seat and run into the station and say

“Excuse me sir, is there a bathroom I could use?” or I buy some kit kats.

I wait in line patiently and buy kit kats.

Then I get back in the car and eat my kit kats and say “Man that clerk doesn’t know how lucky he was” and “He can’t talk to me like that! I don’t like the way he said ‘Here’s your change, thirty-five cents’ man who does that motherfucker think he is.” Yes, roadtrips are fun.

Apparently mob hitmen don’t fly, they take the train. Because there’s no metal detectors so you can get a burner onto the train no problem. This is a well-known piece of urban lore, so I always picture long-distance trains being filled with hit men crisscrossing the country, all on their way to kill people in different cities and maybe get a tan. Just a bunch of guys in fedoras with violin cases and a bottle of SPF 20 just in case.

So in July maybe my seatmate will be on his way to Tuscon to kill Big Frank D’Amelio for sticking his hands in the till, but I will be on my way to Vancouver to see two people engaged in holy Canadian matrimony. I will be traveling in my preferred mode, which is alone. Maybe I’ll bring my gift in a violin case so I’ll fit in.

The Police have a song called “Voices In My Head.” Wouldn’t it be some shit if the voices in your head sounded like Sting? Or Bono, or something? I bet that would send some mixed signals. Imagine if the Son of Sam was guided by an inner Lionel Richie.

I went through everyone’s music suggestions for the iTunes Music Store, and I didn’t find any I liked. Thanks anyway though! I really appreciate it! And you’re all a bunch of savages.

(Kidding.)

Today’s soundtrack: I miss Mister Magic
Today at 1:02am: feeling like a “winner”


I “won” three free songs, because I’ve been drinking a lot of Pepsi lately. The bottles with the yellow caps. One out of three times you get a cap saying you’ve won a free download at the iTunes Music Store.

What should I download? Any recommendations? Name an MP3 you’d hope would wash ashore if you were stuck on a desert island.

It’s probably not a good idea to seek completely random recommendations since everyone has such different tastes. I guess a good place to start is: If you happen to know and dig any of the songs I’ve mentioned in other entries, please drop me a recommendation.

If it’s mainstream and was made in the last five years I’ll probably hate it, so I’m hoping somebody will drop that obscure gem. The kind of track you hear for the first time and you’re like “Man, where have you been all my life.”

I never used to drink soda, but lately I’ve gotten hooked on the stuff. I don’t know why, like Norah Jones. Pepsi cravings are surprisingly compelling. But it’s really bad for you, right? What does it do to you? Sicker, fatter, typical stuff? I’m new to soda.

I’m going to run out and get one right now. It’s like they put cocaine in there or something.

Just got my Pepsi. I will celebrate by making a Random List:



Top Five Most Confusing E-mail Addresses to Give Someone Over the Phone:

atsymbol@period.com
period-space-backslash@semicolon.org
hyphen-dotcom@at.com
AreYouReadyOkayItsEmail@com.com
IWontGiveOutMyEmail@anytime.com

Yeah the caffeine, it does something to me. For me. To me.

Today’s soundtrack: in the daytime, radio’s scared of me
Today at 6:52pm: on the mats, counting out push-ups in Korean


Lately I’ve been listening to fucking Bon Jovi. It’s like he’s speaking to me, man. My love is like bad medicine.

That picture above was taken at APT. Do you know it? It’s a bar on the west side. More or less hipster central, and I mean that in a pejorative way. But I went there the other night because a friend was spinning.

The last time I’d been in this bar was a long, long time ago. In the upstairs room I was introduced to this girl Sunny and her friend. Sunny was supercute and we got along well. I had a good feeling about her. I liked her and I think something would’ve, could’ve and should’ve happened between us, but at the time something was brewing with this other girl, and I went along with this other girl.

I picked wrong, of course, and the relationship I’d chosen went to hell.

Sunny moved back to L.A., last I heard she got married. Can’t help but wonder.

Well. Everyone wants to live a life with no regrets, right? Let’s try that on for size.

I hadn’t been back to the bar since then. When I went the other night, I know this is really gay but I walked in hoping to god I’d see Sunny sitting there at that same couch with no rings on her fingers.

But in the space where she’d sat was some fat guy with glasses. I didn’t care if he had rings on his fingers. At the bar, I manned a stool and paid too much for a Tanqueray.

Tonight after Hapkido, Betty came by to see how fucked up my apartment is. Well it’s really just more of a mess. Anyways we shot the shit about relationships and timing and opportunities and all that. Betty’s in a pretty good situation right now, she’s got a good man. I’m sure Sunny’s got a good man too.

I don’t know what the deal is, like am I just waiting for my turn for things to get good or what? Or maybe this is as good as it gets. Things aren’t terrible by any means, they just ain’t...exactly right. Some fucked-up things here and there.

I need to put down the Bon Jovi and put in some New Order. Good times around the corner.

It’s a little big on me.


Quick, make a list! Make several.

New favorite track
Jorge Ben, “Cinco Minutos”

Old favorite track
James Brown, “Bewildered”

Three Public Enemy tracks I had to dig out of retirement

- “Don’t Believe the Hype”
- “Shut ‘Em Down” (Pete Rock remix)
- “Give It Up”

Three slept-on De La Soul tracks

- “Wonce Again Long Island”
- “Fanatic of the B-Word”
- “Let, Let Me In”

Three good things about the 80s and early 90s

- The Pointer Sisters, “Automatic”
- Billy Idol, “Hot in the City”
- The Black Crowes, “Descender”


Fuck it I’m going to bed.

“I am ruler of this fair land. I am master of all I survey. I am--hey, is that a squirrel?”

Every guy you know has, at some point in his life, peed against the side of a building or tree. Some of the guys you know are doing it right now. And it’s easy; the male anatomy is well-suited to directing the flow away from you and onto brick walls or slow-moving friends. But before this trip I don’t think I’d shat in the woods in my entire life.

Tony told me that when he goes camping, his bowels typically go into ‘Away’ mode and he lacks the urge to go. I hoped the same thing would happen to me, but within an hour of choosing our campsite, my bowels started sending me urgent internal e-mails.


To: Rain@Rain.com
From: Downhere@colon.org
Subject: OPEN IMMEDIATELY


At first I thought it was spam and deleted it, but after the third one came in, I grabbed the orange shovel and roll of toilet paper. “Well, how bad could it be?” I thought. “People have been shitting in the woods for thousands of years, right?”

The first thing is, you’ve gotta pick your spot. I walked through the woods for what I felt was a good amount of distance, but when I turned around, I could still clearly see the campsite and my friends in their brightly-colored clothes. I looked down at my own shirt, which was blue.

I ventured deeper into the woods until I couldn’t see them anymore. It occurred to me that I might be very close to someone else’s campsite, but I squinted in each direction and couldn’t see anything.

After dropping trou, I looked around at the ground. What are you supposed to do? Should you shit by a tree or away from one? Why do guys piss on trees anyway? I compromised and picked a spot that was merely near a tree.

Then I hit a snag, in the form of physical logistics. How shall I say this. If you move next to your desk and squat right now, you’ll see that the part of your body that discharges matter is directly over where your pants would be around your ankles. And while guys are practiced at aiming things in the front, the back is more of a plug-and-play situation. (Or unplug-and-play. Well, I don’t have time to come up with a better analogy.)

No matter how I positioned myself, I couldn’t get the bomb bay doors far enough from the non-target of my pants. I thought about taking the pants off entirely, but was like “What if I have to run?” You know, bears and stuff. And getting eaten by a bear must be even worse if you’re half-naked.

Unable to devise a more dignified solution, I had to shuffle my feet closer to a tree, then grab it with both hands and lean backwards while squatting. Which made it look like I was fucking water-skiing. When I realized that I started to laugh out loud, which must have looked bizarre. If my life was a cable sitcom there’d be a pack of unseen campers sitting around a fire ten feet away from me, going “Hey, check out the Chinese guy” and there I’d be, hanging onto a tree, guffawing and defecating at the same time.

During the initial pitching of tents, Julie and I had more of a supervisory role.

Tony assures me you cannot sleep in a tent when it’s like this.

Back at the campsite, while unpacking the gear, Jiae came across a newspaper. “Who the hell brought The New York Times?” she asked.

“I did,” said Tony.

“It’s for starting the fire,” I explained, grateful that I knew something about being outdoors. Last year on an outing I’d learned how to start fires. It’s a good skill to know, useful for outdoor survival and insurance fraud.

“Well, I want to read it before we burn it,” she said, and I did too.

After unpacking everything it was Miller Time. Except we forgot to bring the Miller. Or any kind of beer. John pushed some large rocks into the approximate shape of a beach chair and I stretched out with the Metro Section.

Here I am sitting in the woods, reading some article about how the new thing among Manhattan’s super-rich is to put a swimming pool in their apartment, which has an average up-front cost of $500,000. The annual heating bill is $25,000.

When I realized what I was doing I put the paper down, stood up, then Tony and I started the fire. The Metro Section came in handy.

This fire brought to you by The New York Times.

Everyone had centralized the chow, bags upon bags, and left it in a pile by a tree. And now I knew why everyone’s bags were so goddamn heavy--Julie, who handled the food shopping, had gone fucking nuts in terms of bulk. We had enough here to feed an Iraqi insurrection.

Julie sat next to the tree in front of a large, flat rock which she’d covered in plastic and was using as a prep surface for the chow. I couldn’t believe how much of it there was.

Not that I was complaining, especially when the steaks came off the fire. Julie and Sing had rubbed them down with garlic and they were delicious, especially after that hike.

There is nothing better than eating a steak cooked over an open fire.
Unless you’re rich. If you’re rich, I’d imagine there’s a good deal that’s better.

After we polished the steaks we were almost full, but there was still a giant pot full of lentils, and grilled corn, and grilled chicken, and pita bread and cold cuts and cheese. This is what happens when you go camping with a gourmand. I’m surprised she didn’t provide crème brulee for dessert.

It got dark quickly, and after eating I was super-tired. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, not like I ever do, and the night before I’d gotten maybe ninety minutes. I crawled into the tent at eight-something and was out like a light.

I awakened with a start, covered in sweat. The inside of the tent was extremely humid. I could hear Tony breathing next to me, though he’d had the decency to sleep head-to-toe so we could avoid any accidental homoerotic episodes brought on by ill-timed dreams of coveted females.

The humidity was pretty uncomfortable, so I hoped it was morning, time to get up, and that I’d got a restful eight hours of sleep. But when I fumbled for my bag and broke out the cell phone, I saw it was 12:25. At night.

My stomach started sending more e-mails. I tried to ignore them, but it was hopeless. I dug around for my flashlight and pulled my shoes on. Outside the tent, I located the orange shovel and the toilet paper. Everyone else was fast asleep in their tents; I could hear snoring all around.

Walking through the woods at night is friggin’ scary, even with a flashlight. You’ve got a ten-foot radius of light but everything outside that is pitch-black. Instead of the familiar noises of car alarms or drunken neighbors or honking horns, you hear the wind, and things rustling, and the occasional twig snapping. And even if it’s you snapping the twigs it’s still creepy.

After returning to the campsite I found myself exhausted but unsleepy--you know that feeling?--and I didn’t have anything to do. It wasn’t like I could log on to read a webpage or three, so I decided I’d get the fire going.

In five I had flames and the front page was history. I sat on a log, thought about a girl and tried to warm my hands near the fire. Every now and then I’d stare at the stars, so bright and vibrant they didn’t seem real to me. You’ll never see this in the city.

It was pitch, pitch black. The crackling of the fire drowned out any sounds of snoring, and I felt like I was the only person for miles around. I felt like this fire was the only light for miles around. It would die down every ten minutes or so, and I’d keep feeding it.

Like being alone, there’s something addictive about eyeballing a fire, and I stared into that damn thing like it was TV. I think it was about an hour before I crawled back into the tent.

The next morning I was awakened by voices, and I crawled out of the tent to see Tony, Sing, and the sun were all up.

The one alarm clock you can’t snooze.

It was 7-something a.m., and Julie was off in a glade doing yoga. She’s a yoga fanatic and I later found out she did a two-hour session that morning, having awakened at five-something. I snapped some pictures of her and she didn’t react.

This is Julie doing yoga. When she gets like this you can hit her with flaming sticks ‘n shit and she doesn’t even feel it.

When everyone was up we started making breakfast, and again I saw why our loads were so heavy. Two kinds of bacon, two kinds of sausages. All these things add up. They were, however, delicious.

There is nothing better than bacon cooked over an open fire.
Unless you’re rich, in which case oh, never mind.

Dawn of the Dog. (Not Tony, the canine. Can you see him?)

Afterwards I had to use the shovel another two times. Don’t know what my problem is.

Within hours we struck the tents, packed up all our garbage and buried the fire. With the packs on our backs, the site looked like we’d never been there.

Dawn of the Dog II: Day of the Dog.

Our loads were noticeably lighter now that we’d eaten (and I’d shat out) all the food we’d carried. But a four-mile hike is still a four-mile hike, and half of it was still uphill.

Tony and I managed some conversation on the trail.

“Now I know why it took people so long to advance out of the Dark Ages,” said Tony, laughing. “It took us fucking four hours to cook dinner!” (Not to mention we didn’t even have to catch it.) “Yesterday we basically got here, cooked, and went to sleep. Between gathering firewood, preparing and cooking the food, eating, and cleaning up afterwards, there’s no time to do anything.”

It’s true. Living out here, like this, it’s a different kind of hand-to-mouth living. There’s simply no time to do things like fax resumes or set up crystal meth laboratories or pursue careers in marketing. There would be no traffic snarls or co-signing leases or making out with girls in bars. No action movies, no trips on airplanes, no accidentally deleted voicemails. No free evening and weekend minutes.

Still, at the end of this trail sits a car I worked hard to afford, and even though I’m behind on the payments, I can still use it. And it will take me back to an apartment I’m struggling to pay rent on, which is my home base for the career I’m struggling to get off the ground, and that perfect girl I’m struggling to meet, and on and on. So I guess struggle is universal, it’s just a slim difference of amenities.

One thing I will say, though; when you’ve got a heavy physical load on your back, man, you are aware you are struggling. Pounds won’t let you forget it.

“So listen, yeah, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

And soon we were back in the car.

Upwardly Mobil.

At 5:30am the buzzer goes off, and by 5:35 I’m groggily stepping over the bodies lying on my floor.

By six-something a.m. everyone’s on the sidewalk in front of my building, gear in tow. I got the car parked outside, right behind an identical silver Golf. I’ve been seeing the auto-doppelganger on the block for a couple years, it looks exactly like mine right down to the wheelcovers, except it’s a turbo. Some old lady drives it.

After grabbing a couple coffees at the diner, I leave one on the roof of my car, then walk over to John & Jiae, who have just pulled up in their station wagon. The dog is chilling out in the back seat.

Turning around for a second, I notice this white woman hanging out by my car--then she goes over there and snatches the coffee off my roof.

“Ay, that’s my coffee!” I yell.

“That’s my car!” she shoots back.

“No that’s my car,” I insist, jabbing my finger at it. “That’s your car,” I say, jerking my thumb at the car in front of it.

She looks confused for a moment, then notices that there are two silver Golfs, then puts the coffee back on my roof. We walk towards each other.

“I’ve seen you parked on the block,” she says, laughing. “So you’re the other Golf.”

“I’ve seen yours too,” I say. “The turbo.”

“Yeah. How do you like the non-turbo?” she asks, all smiles.

I knew right away she was a New Yorker: Nasty up front, friendly as soon as she realized we’re on the same side. I’m the same way with strangers.

Car One, loaded and ready-to-go.

Car Two. I like this shot because Dobie looks like a dinosaur.

Everyone pulls their own weight, including the dog. If I knew his bags were so roomy I’d have brought my laptop and a wireless router.

After a couple hours on the highway we pulled into Woodstock, New York. The town whose very name will go down in legend, remembered for generations, forever embedded in the pop cultural consciousness for sharing the same moniker as that yellow bird who hung around with Snoopy.

I didn’t expect to see any hippies in town, but pulling up to the local bakery we saw several. I like aged hippies. Long story.

We drove five minutes out of town to the jump-off point, which is the edge of some wilderness preserve. Marked only by a parking lot and an opening in a fence that led up and into the woods.

We unpacked the cars, and as we shouldered our gear I saw Sing was thinking about bringing her extra bag, a bad idea. The hike to the campsite was four miles, two to the top of the mountain and two down into the valley, and each pound we carried was sure to make its presence known. I’ve seen Band of Brothers, man.

“You’re not gonna need this, and this, and this,” I said, rummaging through the extra stuff in Sing’s bag.

“But I need my lotion!” she said, trying to snatch it back. She’d brought two different kinds. I confiscated both bottles and put them in the trunk.

Julie, who’s five-foot-nothin’, yanked into place her ridiculously unwieldy backpack, approximately the same volume as her, full of electronics gear. Julie’s a filmmaker and had come loaded with camcorder, wireless mics, extra tapes, audio gear and a shitload of batteries.

A large part of why we were on this trip was because Julie wanted to film us in the woods, and she claimed every piece of equipment she’d brought was indispensable. I knew trying to get her to part with any of it was pointless.

Dobie (John & Jiae’s dog) was carrying his own food, in saddlebags strapped across his back. He seemed excited to be out here.

After divvying up the last-minute water supplies we’d bought, we locked up the cars and trudged through the fence, into The Wilderness.

Two gangly teenagers in workout gear passed us, running up the mountain, and then we were alone.

First thing I noticed was the air was much fresher. Second thing I noticed was my pack was heavy, and seemed to get a little heavier with each step. The extra two gallons of water--one in the pack, one in my hands--wasn’t helping either.

Tony and John were carrying more than I was, so I gritted my teeth and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. I told myself to be thankful I was doing this voluntarily, and thought of how much worse it’d be if I also had to carry a rifle and trade fire with Nazis at the top of the ridgeline.

During the planning phase of this trip, when Tony had said “hiking,” I pictured some Sound of Music-type of shit where we’d stride confidently across verdant, elevated pastures. It ended up being more like putting your head down and trudging up a steep, rocky slope with what felt like a very fat man hanging onto your back. Left, right. Left, right.

Although we started out moving as a group, after a short while Tony suggested we take a break, and after taking one look at his face I knew his pack was a little heavier than he’d thought too. Four of us stopped while Julie and Sing plowed ahead. Julie, wearing studio headphones and shooting her future footsteps, was in her own world.

After a minute we continued, and suddenly every cigarette I’d smoked in the past thirteen years came back to haunt me. But I wasn’t the only smoker in the group, and after ten minutes we came around a bend to see Sing, leaning against a rock with half-lidded eyes. “Thought I was gonna pass out,” she said.

It was like the Bataan Death March, except we could stop whenever we wanted and eat trail mix.

Me, about to vomit blood and trail mix.

One of the gangly teenagers we’d seen before ran past us again, this time going down. “Weren’t there two of them?” somebody asked. I thought it would be funny if we then spotted his companion chasing after him with a fresh head wound. I need to stop thinking dark thoughts.

With no watch and readily-available cell phone, I lost all track of time. After an hour (I think), we came upon the ruins of an old hotel. Tony had read about it in a guidebook, it was a turn-of-the-century building that had burned to the ground, leaving only the stone façade. It was a cool-looking structure, roofless and with staircases that went nowhere. Julie was sitting on one of its ledges with her legs dangling over the edge.

The ruins of an old hotel, and a very good example of why you shouldn’t smoke in bed.

Same old ruins, fresh new angle.

After more hiking we reached the peak of the mountain, where there were some picnic tables and a fire tower. I don’t know how the hell they hauled the raw materials to build these damn things up here. We dropped our packs and broke lunch out.

Before eating I approached the fire tower, and my stomach started churning. For someone who loves places with tall buildings, I’m scared fuckless of heights. So I figured I’d better climb the damn thing. It’s a cheap and superficial rush, but I am a cheap and superficial person. I started climbing the stairs.

Well, it’s a lot scarier than it looks once you get up there. No shut up.

The tower wouldn’t look like much at sea level, but because it was atop the peak of the mountain, you felt the vastness of empty space around it, and you could see 360 degrees of drop-off. Hate to sound like a pussy but I had to stop several times on the stairs because my legs started shaking. I had to grip the handrails super-tight and take deep breaths.

At the top was a little enclosed room the size of an elevator, and my relief at reaching it turned back to fear as the wind started shaking it, like when Homer chokes Bart. I could feel the damn thing moving several inches in each direction and I think a couple drops of pee came out.

View from the fire tower, one. It looks like God’s screensaver.

In all of my most terrifying nightmares I’m way, way up. Balancing atop the mast of a swaying ship and looking down at the tiny deck, or catapulted into the air high above the countryside, or hanging from an insanely high trapeze. When I looked down from the tower-top I saw the familiar perspective of my nightmares. I snapped a couple quick flicks and got the hell out of there.

View from the fire tower, two. Right after I took this shot I screamed like a twelve-year-old girl.

We set off again, and a couple hours later we reached the valley with the lake in the bottom. My shoulders were burning and my feet felt like they were filled with twice as much blood as they should be.

There was just one spot of grass on the lake’s shore, and as we descended from the trail we saw it was already occupied with three brightly-colored tents. I figured we should break out the hatchet, but instead Julie went to scout for an alternate site near the shore.

After walking along the edge of the lake, she came up with this:

Our campsite. It looks like if you fired enough rounds into the air, eventually Orlando Bloom would fall out of a tree.

It looked fine to all of us, so we dropped our shit and broke out the tents. After pitching them, I collapsed on a rock and pulled my socks off gingerly, worried my feet were going to come off with them. A Navy SEAL I ain’t. I’m more of a Navy Baby Seal, the kind that get clubbed so you can make coats out of ‘em.

To be continued.

Today’s soundtrack: I does my thing like Ben Grimm
Today at 8:02pm: checking a rented sleeping bag for foul smells


Friday night finds me standing naked and alone in my shower, water off, shaving my head with electric clippers. I do this once a week.

Afterwards, during the shower portion of the ritual, I heard voices in my apartment. Five minutes later I come out of the bathroom to find Outdoor Tony, Sing and Julie in my apartment.

The lot of us are going camping tomorrow, Saturday; and since everyone’s apartment is far-flung (Flushing, Harlem) and since we’re leaving at 6am, we decided it’d be best if everyone crashed at my place tonight. Slumber party at Rain’s. Bring your sleeping bag and a strong desire to leave me mercifully undisturbed during my stage four R.E.M.

John & Jiae, campers #5 and #6, live on the L.E.S. and would be joining us in the morning, along with their station wagon and their dog.

Due to the reality of work schedules, we’d only be able to spend a single night outside, but we figured that was better than nothing.

A large part of the appeal of camping, at least for guys, is the gear. Tony has almost everything, and whatever he didn’t, Julie rented from some camping place earlier in the day. So Tony and I spent the earlier part of the evening laying it all out.

We ran a simulation and erected the rental tent in my living room, to ensure we didn’t have any nasty surprises (like missing pieces) later on. We put the whole thing up and had two aluminum bars and two plastic pieces left over--a very Ikea-like feeling--but they actually did seem to be extraneous.

The tent was kind of cool, like having a small studio apartment inside my living room. I thought about leaving it up and subletting it to a struggling actor.

Next Tony showed me some of the basic camping shit:



A Sven-saw.You need this for cutting firewood (unless you plan on burning kindling all night, which is only efficient if you have a ready supply of hardworking children who obey without question). The blade can be detached and concealed in the handle so it won’t tear your flesh off when you reach into your bag to get it. Also, and I’m not trying to start any rumors, I’m pretty sure it cuts through bone.





A hatchet. This tool will come in handy if there is a nearby camp of competing settlers whom you need to eliminate the old-fashioned way. The ergonomic handle prevents you from getting blisters while you hack your way to wilderness supremacy. Can also be used for cutting firewood.




A head-lamp. While I initially thought this strap-on miner-style flashlight extraneous, Tony swore it was indispensable for taking a piss in the middle of the woods in pitch-blackness, and you only have to have accidentally urinated on yourself once to see the wisdom in this. We packed two.




Plastic liquid containers. These things are Unbreakable, like Bruce Willis. Here we see Tony filling one with a dozen eggs, because only a fool puts a regular carton of eggs into a backpack. (I was making an egg-carton-sized space in my backpack just before Tony showed me this trick.)




A shit-shovel. That’s not what it’s called, but that’s what it’s for. Apparently in the camping world, you shit into little self-dug ditches and afterwards you bury the toilet paper wipes in them. When Tony explained this to me, that’s when I realized camping, even for a single night, would be substantially different from my regular life.




A sleeping mat. A lightweight layer of insulation to be placed underneath a sleeping bag. Tony explained that without one, the ground (which is cold and frigid, like Joan Crawford) sucks the heat out of your body as you sleep. I’ve slept on cold surfaces before and it’s about as much fun as being thrown from a moving car.


A sleeping bag. I didn’t take a picture of this because if you don’t know what it is, I want you to close this window, log off, go outside, and do something, anything.

We had enough bags for all six of us; Tony brought four backpacks, and I still have the rucksack I’d used to backpack around Europe when I was younger and invincible. Julie would be bringing her own bag, filled with electronic equipment (I’ll explain later).

While we suspected the girls would try to bring things like extra underwear and superfluous clothing, I followed Tony’s model and packed light; the only clothes we were bringing were the ones we were wearing, plus a clean T-shirt to wear for the return trip.

We packed the backpacks light for the girls, giving them all the sleeping bags and down jackets, which are mostly volume but little weight; Tony, John and I would take the heavy gear.

We loaded a tent, portable camping stove, portable cooking platform, cooking gear and two forehead-lights in my bag. Tony and John would take the remainder of the tents, gear and the food Julie had bought. I felt like a communist; nearly everything in our packs was for the group and we had nearly no personal possessions.

I hoisted my bag a few times and wondered if I’d be able to handle it for the eight-mile round-trip trek.

Then I hoisted John and Tony’s packs, which felt like they were filled with fucking car batteries and/or uranium, and made a mental Note to Self: Invent camping carry-on bag with wheels. And a motor. I had no idea how these guys were going to haul these things uphill for four miles. If someone broke into my apartment, they could use these two bags to pin me securely to the ground while they ransacked the place.

Around 1:30a I climbed into bed, while Tony, Sing and Julie stretched out on my floor in sleeping bags. We had to be up at 5:30a. My sleep cycle is about as screwed up as it gets, so I stared at the ceiling until close to four in the morning. This oughta make the hike interesting.

Today’s soundtrack: who could ask for anything more?
Today at 9:32am: manning the six-train with a stiff cup of coffee


Want to write something but not sure what. There’s something inside but I can’t quite get it. Like when you drop something behind the couch and you stick your arm back there to fish for it, and maybe your fingers scrape it but you just end up pushing it further away.

Yup, I want to write something but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a banal analogy (a banalogy) about dropping shit behind a couch.

Lately I’ve been too busy to live. You know what I mean? It’s kind of like being too tired to die.

I’ve got some living coming up soon, don’t know when. But I can smell it. Maybe next month during my trip. I’m happy to be going away, though I admit I’d be extremely thrilled if it was someplace I hadn’t been before. And I mean someplace good, not someplace like Tenafly or prison.

I want the same things you want, which is to get laid, build something, listen to good music and make enough dough to not have to worry. Forgive me if I’ve presumed too much, maybe you want something totally different. But chances are you want something, so at least we have that in common. We Want.

We also Get.

Things we can get:

- jokes
- subscriptions to Popular Science
- disgusted with ourselves
- nice work (see: subject line; also Holiday, B.)
- slapped

Things we should get:

- dinner
- drinks
- the check
- her phone number
- driven to the airport in big, expensive cars

Things we will get:

- sleepy
- spam
- hungry
- headaches
- what’s coming to you

Things that will get you:

- the monster under the bed
- city, state and federal taxes
- the Grim Reaper*

Things that won’t get you:

- girls from France who smile because they deduce you’re making some kind of joke
- the monster in the closet, because he’s too busy worrying about what his friends might think or if society will truly accept him

*Notes on the Grim Reaper:

- He carries a sickle but, this being the year 2004, should upgrade to a farm combine or something more modern.
- He started wearing a hood way before you thug-wannabes were even born, so you better recognize.
- The Russian Grim Reaper carries stars and stripes.
- It must be a cruel sort of irony if you are murdered with a sickle and then the Grim Reaper comes to pick you up and he’s carrying a sickle. You’re sitting there going “Yeah, that’s it, rub it in, asshole.”

I wanted to write something but instead I find myself up at 2:38am, ruminating on death like a high school kid with a paper due tomorrow.

If only I knew then what I know now. And what I know now is, that which doesn’t kill me...will eventually be replaced by something stronger which will kill me.

Until then, I’ll try to enjoy myself.

Eat the dessert. Stay up late. And after you land and get to the car rental counter, tell them you want the convertible.

I think that’ll make things better at the end.



GRIM REAPER: It is time, Rain Noe.

ME: Good thing I got that convertible....Hey, can I check out your sickle?

G.R.: Uh...sure.

ME: Wow, it’s a lot heavier than it looks.

G.R.: Tell me about it. My back is killing me.

ME: What’s with the hood, anyway?

G.R.: I don’t like when you get that drafty feeling on the back of your neck.

ME: Yeah, me neither. But why not a turtleneck, then?

G.R.: It sends the wrong message.

ME: Gotcha.


(Long, awkward pause.)


G.R.: You’re stalling.

ME: I know.

Today’s soundtrack: Tell your mother, tell your father, send a telegram.
Today at 3:02am: on line for the bathroom


So on Saturday night I was a gay wingman.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: In NYC some people like to party hard, but I like to party smart. Which means no going out on weekends or to hotspots praised in publications, so I can avoid the retarded crowds. In terms of partying, I am not going to pay a lot for this muffler.

But after a day of cleaning the apartment on Saturday, and badly in need of a drink, I broke my rule and went out even though it was a weekend. I headed up to the East Village catch a drink with West Coast Artist Girl, who’s in town from L.A., and a bunch of her friends. They’d chosen to go to Holiday Cocktail Lounge, a dive bar on St. Mark’s.

On the way I rang up East Coast Film Guy, knowing he’d be out and about on a Saturday, and California Kirk, ‘cause he lives in the area. Received confirmation and sent them the coordinates.

“Dive bar” was no exaggeration--in terms of depth, Holiday Cocktail Lounge is the fuckin’ Kursk. Which made me happy because Saturday night or no, this place was emptier than the Red Cross building in Fallujah. A true shithole, with wood paneling older than Nixon’s lies and every square inch of the joint reeked of urine. Practically deserted. This would do nicely.

I had a hard time believing the three honest-to-god-truck-driver-lookin’ motherfuckers at the bar actually agreed to meet for drinks in New York City, but more power to ‘em. I was thrilled to see the bar stocked Miller Genuine Draft in a bottle--oh, to be in college again--and shocked to see they ran only two or three bucks. At some bars you’re aware you’re spending money, at this bar I felt like I was making money.

West Coast Artist Girl was at a table in the back, with two white guys and a girl. East Coast Film Guy was at the next table, with a white guy and an Asian couple. Neither table knew each other.

I said hello to everyone, brought that sweetly trashy MGD to my lips, and sat first at WCA Girl’s table.

I didn’t know her friends, and after a round of intros I learned the white guy next to her was from Sweden. I’ll call him Torkel. Torkel seemed a nice enough guy, and was fluent in English at any rate.

WCA Girl and I shot the shit, then I bounced back and forth between the two tables. During one of my rounds at ECF Guy’s table, all four of ‘em leaned towards me conspiratorially and asked “Hey, you know that guy at the next table?” They were indicating Torkel.

“Just met ‘im,” I said.

“Is he gay?” they asked, obviously extremely interested in the answer.

“Well, he’s foreign,” I pointed out, and everyone groaned. (As everyone knows, the very act of being foreign throws gaydar off.)

“Why, is one of you guys gay?” I asked, sensing someone was interested.

“Yup, him,” said ECF guy, pointing to his white friend sitting next to him. I’ll call him Brian. Brian expressed a strong interest in Torkel.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” I said, and headed back for the first table.

I waited until Torkel was engaged in conversation with the cat across from him, then leaned towards WCA Girl.

“Hey don’t take this the wrong way, but is anyone at this table queer?” I whispered.

“Why, you got a problem with that?” she said, putting up two fists. I explained the situation and indicated Brian.

“Ohhhhhh,” said WCA Girl.

“So izzy?” I asked.

“Well, Torkel ‘likes girls’,” she said, using her fingers to make quotation marks. I took that to mean Torkel was one of those cats that expresses interest in chicks, but no one’s ever actually seen him date one. I feel like there’s one of these guys in every group from those areas where being homosexual will get you chased through parking lots.

“Then I’m gonna have to let Brian figure it out,” I said. My responsibilities as a wingman stopped at basic intel and introductions; I wasn’t about to suss out a total stranger’s sexual preferences through nuanced conversation in a bar like this. I returned to the other table, to report my findings to the council.

Eventually half of each table stepped outside to smoke, and I found myself standing in front of Torkel, who was polite and started making small talk with me. Or maybe he was just happy that I’d actually heard of a Swedish city besides Stockholm--specifically, his home city of Orebro. I find that when you meet a foreigner and you actually know a little about their country, they’re surprised and sometimes happy.

When Brian came outside I took the opportunity to shift over and stand by WCA Girl, and it worked like a charm. WCA Girl and I shit-shot while Torkel and Brian got to talking. I hoped Brian had heard of Orebro and that Torkel had heard of amyl nitrate. (Statistically speaking, I guess only 10% of you will get that joke and only 5% of you will actually find it funny. But hey, this is LiveJournal, not the fucking Nielsen’s.)

California Kirk showed up, and the lot of us headed back inside.

For some reason, the fine management staff at Holiday Cocktail Lounge decided to close the bar early--around 11:30p!--probably because the urine smell was starting to fade and they needed to spray again. ECF Guy said his friend had just opened a bar up in the 40s and was having a party tonight.

“East side or west side?” I asked. I might have broken one of my rules, but I’d be damned if I’d go out on a Saturday night and start hanging out on the west side of Manhattan. I mean I might as well start taking heroin or join the Taliban.

“Between Lex and Third,” he said. So we headed up there.

We had to take two cars to fit everyone, so I figured I’d throw Brian the last bone I could. “Torkel, I don’t think you’re gonna fit, my car is small,” I said, which wasn’t a lie. “Would you mind going in the other car with Brian and them?”

“Sure, no problem,” he said.

We arrived at ECF Guy’s Friend’s Bar--I mean that’s not what it’s called, but I can’t remember the name for the life of me--to find the party in full swing. The crowd was shockingly manageable for a Saturday night, meaning I could walk from the front of the bar to the back with a full drink and only have half of it jostled out of my glass, as opposed to having all of it tumble to the floor and shatter at the feet of a hoochie mama who screams and prompts her Riker’s Island boyfriend to bury a haymaker in my thorax.

Price-wise the drinks at this place were closer to normal range, meaning a twenty was enough for two cocktails and half a tip. The space was nice but the DJ, apparently A.D.D.-afflicted, was driving me nuts--he’d play one or two good tracks, then five tracks of trash, then one or two more good tracks, then more trash. Can’t keep the floor moving like that.

We met up with Brian and the other car and got the story. Turns out Torkel’s not gay, or he’s still keeping the clothes hangers company or whatever the case may be. Hey, I tried.

In the back room, we lit up illegal cigarettes and waited for the music to get good.

Today’s soundtrack: the butter track
Today at 1:32am: still trying to mop sheetrock dust


The first time I saw Jon Stewart, I was a twenty-year-old college kid in charge of booking comedy acts for the school. He was doing nothing but stand-up, and I used to get demo reels sent to me all the time, and his was good so I booked him. Back then he was unknown and although I dug his act tremendously, I had no idea he’d end up where he is now.

The last time I saw Jon Stewart was last Wednesday night, and instead of a twenty-year-old college kid I’m now a thirty-two-year-old man-boy. Lam got tickets to The Daily Show for our little crew--me, Lam, Outdoor Tony and California Kirk. Apparently you just call the number on the screen and it’s free.

The Daily Show studio’s on the west side, up in the 50s. Which is one of those neighborhoods I normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. Not because there’s some kind of snobbery cachet associated with avoiding it, but simply because there are few things I like less than the west side of Manhattan. I mean you walk down 11th Avenue and you expect to see tumbleweeds blowing down the street. If I was a hitman I’ll do all my body-dumping on 11th Avenue.

Anyways they start taping the show at 6:30p, and you’re supposed to show up by 4:30 to get a seat. By the time all four of us had arrived the line was maybe 200 people long, and we were somewhere in the middle since Lam got there early to stake out a spot.

The line started moving around 6p, and we totally lucked out--we were the last four people they let into the building. After Lam came through the door they closed it, separating us from 100 or so newly-minted losers doing nothing more than keeping the bottoms of their Nikes connected to the sidewalk.

I felt a little bad for them, but hey, it’s survival of the firstest. Not to mention I’ve been on the ass-end of a line that went nowhere too many times to feel bad for long.

After getting through the door we found ourselves in a large vestibule with the pleasant ambience of an auto garage. About a hundred of us. They keep you standing around for a while like cattle, then this clean-cut Midwestern-looking kid comes out and stands on a box.

“Everyone can I get your attention please,” he yelled. It took him a few tries before people realized he actually worked for the show (as opposed to being some Midwestern guy who stands on a box and craves attention) and started listening to him.

In a friendly and rehearsed lecture, he gave us the basic rundown: Turn off your cell phones, no cameras, don’t yell out during the show, etc. I thought it would be funny if one of us ran up and wordlessly drop-kicked him off the box, but I failed to act on it.

Next they let us into the actual studio room, and again we were the last four admitted. The studio’s a lot smaller than you’d think, and you’ve got about as much legroom as on a Delta commuter flight. We sat in the last row but I still felt like I could spit and hit the stage.

After we took our seats, a comedian you’ve never heard of came out to warm up the crowd. He was dressed in sweatpants, clearly a man who doesn’t have an office to report to. Moderately funny.

After the Unknown Comic breaks out, Jon Stewart walks in, tells some jokes and talks to the audience. He’s quick-witted and fucking funny and had us laughing within moments. Then he opened the floor up to questions.

A girl raised her hand. “What are you writing on those pieces of paper at the beginning of each episode?” she asked.

“I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself,” he explained. “I hate myself, I’m no good, I’ve failed everyone who’s ever loved me, typical stuff.”

After the Q&A, a DJ fires up some blaring rock tunes and Stewart gets behind the desk. A fat guy behind the camera yells “Okay everybody, we’re on in five, four, three” (he starts clapping here) “two....” and the show starts.

The first guest was Tim Robbins, whom I don’t really care about. But the second was Jason Bateman, which was kind of cool, because I’m a huuuuuuge fan of “Arrested Development.” Funniest show I’ve seen in a while.

Unfortunately Bateman didn’t talk about the show at all, and it seemed there wasn’t enough time for him to launch into one of his amusing anecdotes (like the one he told about his stalker on “Carson Daly”). Instead he talked about the hardships of being an actor. I can’t remember it line for line, but it went something like this:

“This business is crazy, just crazy. I’ve been in this business for twenty years and look where I am today, our show is on the verge of being cancelled. We finished taping for the season so I’m basically unemployed until we hear back from the networks.

“Twenty years in the business and I’m unemployed,” Bateman continued. “If I’d spent twenty years in any other job, in any other field, I’d be rich by now, or the president of the company.”

“Yes,” said Stewart, “but if you’d spent twenty years in any other job, you would have had to actually work.” I was dying.

After the show the four of us were starving, and Outdoor Tony suggested we head over to The Burger Joint, a burger spot “hidden” in the upscale Parker-Meridien Hotel. Tony’s good with the food recommendations so we hoofed it over to 57th Street.

The Parker Meridien is your typical high-class hotel, which is to say, the second I walked in I felt like I didn’t belong there, like I should be carrying Somebody More Important’s bags. Marble floors, tasteful lighting, fluted columns, expensive furniture, snooty clerks, that type of thing.

Like Tony’d said, The Burger Joint was hidden behind a curtain in the lobby. Literally hidden--like the Wizard of Oz, there’s no signage or any indication whatsoever that there’s anything behind the curtain. But you pull it aside and see this bare hallway, at the end of which is a small neon sign shaped like a hamburger.

You go down the hallway, turn a corner and find yourself in a room that looks like somebody’s basement. Rec-room faux wood paneling for that dive-bar feel. And unlike the lobby, no one in there looked like they were any better than me. I felt at ease at once. Who’da thought I’d be comfortable someplace on 57th Street.

We ordered at the counter and scored a booth. The burgers were inexpensive (five-something) and absolutely nothing special, but that’s kind of the point.

This is what I like, just me and the guys chomping on burgers and talking about broads. For some reason I feel like I’ve never had this. I’m looking forward to our upcoming camping trip, even though it’s gonna be a larger group with chicks.

After burgers we walked up to the AOL-Time-Warner shopping mall complex thingy. I had to see it. It’s obscene, a shopping mall in the middle of New York City.

In the basement there’s something called a Jamba Juice, which is some kind of L.A. fruit-smoothie place. (California Kirk filled us in on it.) The counterpeople were freakishly friendly. The drink prices made gasoline seem cheap. I tried one for the hell of it but had a hard time holding it down.

Sitting there at the Jamba Juice, one thing all four of us noticed--on the Upper West Side, I’m sorry to report, the women actually are better-looking. Or at least more put-together. Wearing nice but sexy clothing and all that. I actually prefer the more natural downtown aesthetic, but once in a while it’s nice to come up here and see how the other half lives. Particularly the hot other half.

Afterwards Tony dipped out, then Lam, Kirk and I took the train downtown. By 10pm we were at Good World, a bar on Orchard Street, to meet up with my friend Wendy and some cast members from her latest short film.

Good World used to figure prominently on the hipster radar, but thankfully it seems to have fallen from grace, meaning it was dead on this Wednesday night.

Ten years ago, weekends were deemed to start on Thursdays but nowadays even Wednesdays are packed, and I was thankful to see this place contained nothing more than a dozen people drinking quietly.

Cute Dancer Girl showed up, which was great, but she still has a boyfriend, which is not great. I tried not to stare at her as I talked to her and her friend from San Diego. I can’t believe how cute she is.

As the night wore on people started to dip, and Wendy got drunk enough that I wouldn’t let her operate a forklift. We called it quits early; at 1am I put her in the back of a taxi and walked home smelling like Sam Adams. Chinatown was pretty dead so I felt like I owned the place.

All in all it was a good night--an evening full of activities, a stomach full of burgers, a head full of Jon Stewart’s comebacks. And while I don’t care much for that Jamba Juice, The Burger Joint’s going in the mental rolodex.

Today’s soundtrack: shoo-fly pie and apple pan dowdy
Today at 10:02am: trying to keep my eyes open on the train


The past week has been a blur. First there was the demolition. After me and the fellas trashed the walls I had to get rid of the debris. I had so much garbage in here that pigeons were circling. In anticipation of this I rented a dumpster.

You know how much a fucking dumpster costs in NYC? Seven hundred fucking dollars, and that was the cheapest quote I got for a 30-yard (22’ x 8’ x 5’).

You can’t just get a dumpster dropped off at any time either, there has to be ample space on the street to leave it, so my dumpster delivery was scheduled for 4:30 in the goddamn morning.

So after doing the demo and getting less than an hour of sleep, I was downstairs at 4:30 in the morning waiting for the dumpster guy who, as all New Yorkers know, is employed by people with nicknames like Tommy the Finger and Fat Anthony and could show up any goddamn time he wanted to.

Sure enough, he didn’t show at 4:30am.

Or at 5am.

Or 5:30.

I wanted to go back to sleep, but was afraid he’d show up at any minute. Well the motherfucker didn’t show ‘til 7am. Then me and Handsome Dan spent 90 minutes hauling what felt like two, three tons of debris down to the corner and hoisting it over our heads to hurl it over the five-foot lip of the big green box while breathing in drywall dust. It was no fun.

After we filled the dumpster the sun was well over the horizon, and I had to run to my tax appointment. My tax guy is booked tighter than Gramercy Tavern so I couldn’t afford to miss the appointment. I ran inside the apartment, changed, tried to slap the dust off myself, grabbed my pathetic financial history for Fiscal Year 2003 and hopped a cab I couldn’t afford down to Wall Street.

The elevator doors opened on the 46th floor. After spending seventeen hours in the mess of demolition, I almost gasped at the reception area, which was fucking gorgeous--the backdrop was a stunning panoramic view of lower Manhattan and New York Harbor, with the Statue of Liberty perched on her little island and the sky bigger than you’ll ever see it from the sidewalk. It was nothing short of ridiculous. Looking down on the city, you got the sensation you could push a button up here and make things explode down there.

In the reception area I encountered a New York archetype: The ultra-professional, charming, sly-eyed, fast-talking, one-up-on-the-boss, nobody’s-fool New-York-bred black female receptionist who can crack jokes, patch calls and drive the computer at the same time.

“Goodmorningwhoareyouheretosee?” she asked as the phone rang. Her voice was soft but firm. I told her my accountant’s name. She answered the phone at the same time and motioned for me to sit in a specific chair.

The reception area was done up in marble and looked like it cost more than my entire building. The chairs and the art on the walls were probably worth more money than I’d made in ten years of labor.

My seat faced the receptionist. To work at a place like this is no regular secretary’s job--Wall Street high-rises like this are some Masters-of-the-Universe type of shit and I can only imagine the competition to get this gig. Sitting dead center with the blinding, wide-angle view of New York behind her, she looked like God.

“[Mr. Accountant] will be ready to see you in a minute,” she said, slowing her voice down for me and smiling after she finished the call. I was surprised she didn’t give me a disapproving glance; when you walk into a place like this, looking the way I was (“scruffy” would be a polite way to describe it), you can usually expect to get some shit.

After a few minutes in a seated position, the lack of sleep started to get to me, and I subconsciously reclined and closed my eyes. The chair was so comfortable. I heard the receptionist on the phone with someone, relaying detailed information interspersed with smooth wisecracks. Then I suddenly heard her voice turn on me:

“DUDE!” she shot, sternly. “WAKE IT UP!”

I sat bolt upright, like I’d been called on by my tenth-grade Math teacher, the one who carried the stick. I guess in a place like this, the last thing you want is some scummily-dressed layabout like me fucking up the décor by snoring with his mouth open.

I felt kind of embarrassed, which she detected. “It’s just that if you go to sleep, you’ll make me want to go to sleep,” she purred. “I’m tired too, honey. And if I can’t sleep, you can’t sleep.” I didn’t argue.

Presently an expensively-dressed black man came in from the elevators. Immaculate suit, cufflinks, the type of watch you ransom people for. “I’m here to see Debra,” he said. He had a file under his arm. “My name is Kwame.” (And no, it wasn’t the guy from “The Apprentice.”)

“Have a seat, Kwame, she’ll be right out.” The receptionist indicated which seat he should occupy, the one next to mine, and then she rang Debra up.

Apparently Kwame was there to have his taxes done, but was important enough to not have to make an appointment like I did, because Debra scurried out and they did it right there in the reception area, turbo-style. They spread his papers out next to me and Debra shot a bunch of rapid-fire questions, which Kwame answered while Debra jotted things down on a clipboard. I learned the guy’s whole history in about five minutes.

“Occupation?”

“Market analyst.”

“Dependents?”

“One, my father.”

“Married?”

“My wife, Juliet; here’s her paperwork.”

“Property?”

“The home in Connecticut....”

The more he rattled off, the more I realized how incredibly successful this guy was. But the end of it was the kicker:

“Date of birth?”

“X-X-1976,” he said.

Damn. This guy was five years younger than me and already had everything. He was even supporting his father. I bet his wife was hot, too. I felt my mouth tightening into its usual grim line as I clutched my thin folder tight and tried not to look at Kwame’s papers spread all over the sidetable next to me.

I eventually got in to see the accountant. My taxes took about five minutes to do, which is how long they take if you make very little money and have no assets, dependents or, um, future. The accountant said little, focusing on his monitor and (I imagined) trying not to laugh.

I stared out the window at the Statue of Liberty, holding her book and torch, standing stoic and motionless. A few boats or ferries crawled through the water around her as she held her arm high. It almost looked like she was trying to keep a remote control away from them, like they were vertically-challenged siblings.

“Okay, sign here, and here,” said the accountant, handing me fresh printouts. I signed the papers without reading them, imagining that they said things like “By signing this I hereby certify that a) I make less money than everyone in a fucking 10-block radius and b) I will get to witness environs as magnificent as this only once a year, when I visit my rich accountant, unless I apply here for a job as a janitor.”

On the way out I looked forward to passing the receptionist, hoping she’d send me off with some quick witticism or maybe even call me “Dude” again, which for some reason I kind of liked. But she must have been in the bathroom, because some guy was sitting at her desk instead.

I took the elevator down, and after it dropped twenty storeys or so my ears started feeling the pressure. By the time we reached the ground floor it felt like I just got out of an airplane.

The 46th floor is high, dozens of storeys higher than my dreams and aspirations. In fact if you wanted to reach my dreams and aspirations you could take the stairs. If I was hanging out in my dreams and aspirations and there was a fire, I could just jump out the window and not get hurt.

I still had to go to work, so I walked a few blocks to the subway and trotted down the stairs. Here we go. The subway platform is a couple storeys underground and, unlike the 46th floor, dark and familiar. I unkinked my neck and waited for the local.

“Another day, another dollar,” I almost said out loud. Then I thought about it: Another day, another dollar. Well I just spent two going through the turnstile, so I’m already down a buck. Goddammit.

Day 201

Today’s soundtrack: without a spark I’m in the dark

Today at 8:02pm: at the dojang, unsuccessfully trying to resolve a dispute between hotheaded orange belts


Have you seen the trailers for Hellboy? It doesn’t look that good, right?

All my friends are like “Let’s go see Hellboy!” but the protagonists don’t look that interesting to me. Especially that blue cat. They’re supposed to be superheroes, but the blue dude is a fucking fish, no? I guess his superpower is that he’s rich in Omega-3 fatty acids.


HELLBOY: Fishboy, help me! This monster is overpowering me!

FISHBOY: Give me a minute, I’m busy lowering somebody’s cholesterol.

They should make a sequel about the fish guy and call it Healthboy.


It’s time for Random Lists In No Particular Order!


Best song to play after a female accomplice you were secretly in love with is killed while the two of you were robbing a bank together:

“Angie” - The Rolling Stones


Best song to play while you’re sitting with your legs dangling over the ass-end of a caboose, watching the countryside unspool and the tracks flit beneath your feet:

“Want Ad Blues” - John Lee Hooker


Best song to play while you’re reclining across the backseat of your obscenely oversized convertible, parked in the shade of a tree on the top of a country hill:

“I’ll Go Crazy” - James Brown


Best song to play on a diner jukebox while you’re having a cup of lousy coffee and waiting for a date that’s never going to show:

“You Send Me” - Aretha Franklin


Best song to play while you clean your rifles out by the shed after you’ve finished chopping all the firewood:

“Draw Your Brakes” - Scotty


Best song to listen to when you’re riding the subway and you catch a glimpse of a beautiful girl in a passing train that you’re never, ever going to see again but you just know she was perfect for you:

“Glamour” - Jackie Gleason


Best song to listen to on a beach in a foreign country while you reflect on how you can never go home again because you’re a fugitive from the law:

“High Blood Pressure” - Huey ‘Piano’ Smith & The Clowns

That’s it for now, boss.

I know it’s sideways, I like it better that way.

Today’s soundtrack: your landlord say your rent is late
Today at 7:02pm: applauding


I want to write, I have much to tell (of middling interest) but I am so, fucking, tired. I can’t remember the last time I was this tired. Such full days lately.

Do you know what it is to be truly tired? These days, sometimes I find I am tired of living. I don’t mean that I want to die, because I don’t, but sometimes I wish there was a temporary alternative to living. Besides dying.

Wait, I guess there is: Sleep.

So that’s what I am going to do now, go to sleep. I am going to go to sleep and forget about to-do lists and deadlines and pretty girls. Tomorrow I have a lot of things to do.

I love my bed.

Scratchy Billie Holiday tracks are great to fall asleep to when you’re exhausted.

Today’s soundtrack: got a photograph, picture of
Today at 3:02pm: mopping the hallway


As I type this I’m sitting amidst chaos. The floor’s covered in an inch of sheetrock dust and there’s shit everywhere. All my possessions are dirty and spilling out of boxes. Last night I slept with a dust mask on, only got about an hour of shuteye.

Yesterday we finished the demolition in eight hours. Knocked all the walls out, removed every last stud, track and screw. In the middle of the apartment was a pile of debris Donald Rumsfeld would find satisfying. I should have had Paul Wolfowitz call in a tactical strike on my apartment, perhaps they’ve got a bomb so smart it could clear out my interior walls without damaging the exterior.


ME: My interior walls are part of the Axis of Evil.

RUMSFELD: I will destroy them.

ME: But not the exterior walls or the bathroom. Like American lives, they must be preserved at all costs.

RUMSFELD: Roger that.

ME: Describe the role Special Forces could play in all of this.

RUMSFELD: They can collect on-the-ground intelligence, conduct covert ops and lay waste to the enemy.

ME: Can they lay tile?

I wish I had taken a picture of the demo(lition) for you, but I packed everything away and couldn’t find the camera. We had a crew of five guys in here going at it with drill, hammer and crowbar. I blared ‘80s tunes the whole time, so everyone found out about the shameful Bryan Adams tracks in my MP3 collection. All I have to say is it’s not about the individual songs, it’s about the era.

Tony wins the wrecking crew MVP award, he did all the heavy lifting and took the fewest amount of breaks. Looks like Tony’s gonna be the Scout Leader for our upcoming camping trip, which is reassuring. I’m pretty sure if I was in charge there would be a disaster along the lines of someone getting eaten by a bear for following my uninformed directions. I can hang a door and build furniture, but once you take me someplace far from concrete I lose my usefulness.

Tomorrow (I guess today, since it’s 4:33am) I’ve got the Princeton gig to look forward to. Wednesday we’re going to see a taping of The Daily Show, Lam scored tickets. Last time I saw Jon Stewart live was back when he had his Channel 9 talk show in the ‘90s. I think he was coked up then.

Thursday I teach, then I think by Friday I can take a breather. Not for long, though; this place is badly in need of a coat of paint, and clearing the dust out is gonna take a while. You ever try sleeping with a dust mask on? It’s no fun.

Remember The Man in the Iron Mask? I wonder if he had to sleep with it on. That must have been gross, especially if he drooled in his sleep, because it would probably rust. Anyways I’d love to waste more of your time on this valuable topic but the sun is coming up soon and I gotta get back to work.

Almost forgot, on the way back from Yale I spotted this (’67?) Corvette with the removable hard top, how hot is this thing.
Today’s soundtrack: trying to get my mansions green
Today at 7:20pm: breathing a sigh of relief


Hi, how are you. I just got back from the gig. I walked over to NYU feeling like shit because I had no confidence in the speech.

By this morning I had the seeds of an idea and I started writing. By 2pm I had bits and pieces. By 4pm I printed out the skeleton of my “speech,” and I realized that if you looked at it through a microscope, it would be indistinguishable on a molecular level from CRAP.

I tried fixing it for two more hours and finally gave up at 6pm. I printed up what I had without even getting to give it a read-through or a once-over because I had to be there by 6:30. On the walk over there I wasn’t sure if what I had was any good so I wasn’t feeling so hot.

It ended up going over okay, though. After the speech--which was, like me, short--there was chow. I couldn’t each much though because I knew I’d have to get up in front of the room again after dinner and read one of my column pieces.

I ended up at a table next to this elderly white woman. She was pretty lucid and ended up rattling off some points about my speech. She explained that she was a playwright and we started talking about writing.

During the conversation, small pieces of food would regularly fly out of her mouth, at such a speed that I didn’t understand how they could generate that kind of velocity in her mouth. She was really nice though, so I did my best to pretend I wasn’t noticing. Kind of like when you’re talking to someone and little pieces of spit are flying out of their mouth and hitting you in the face, so you try to be polite and not blink or give away that they’re spitting on you.

Anyways I figured this lady was a professor or something, but then she revealed she’s just an NYU alumnus (alumnae?) who lives around the corner and comes to events when she can. I know this is terrible but I felt a little sorry for her, because I assumed she was unmarried or perhaps widowed, and it seemed she didn’t have many people to talk to and this is how she passed her evenings. So I tried talking to her even when she started losing me in the conversation. I wonder if that’s going to happen to me.

The reading of the column excerpt went fine, though I now see there are parts that need to be tweaked. At the end of the show the people who set up the conference were really nice, they gave a bouquet to Kate Riggs (the other performer) and I. It was this big fluffy orange bouquet, very pretty, and the first thing I thought was Man I am going to get my ass kicked carrying this back, which is of course untrue; I’m just not used to carrying bouquets around at night.

I walked back home through a darkened, empty SoHo clutching my oversized bouquet. Back to my apartment where I now live alone. It’s weird to open the front door and my roommate’s room is now perpetually dark, or at least until this weekend when I demolish the rooms. And then I’ll start something like a new life.

So glad to have that speech off my back, and relieved it went over. I can’t tell you what that kind of (self-imposed, admittedly) pressure feels like.

I’ve got a gig next week at Princeton, but I’m really looking forward to it because it’s just a laid-back dinner with students, like a Q&A-type of thing I assume. No speeches.

I thought it might be funny if at the Princeton gig, I just go out total no-class style and start voraciously scarfing every piece of food I can get my hands on. Like the students would be asking me questions and I’m going at a piece of chicken like Mr. Peoples eats an apple. “Passa salt,” I’d blurt, mouth full, face all covered in chicken.


STUDENT #1: Rain is an animal.

STUDENT #2: Look at him--he’s eating the bones.

STUDENT #1: Oh my god, I think he’s choking.



Then I would self-Heimlich and continue eating.

Busy busy busy! Got projects rolling into work and the demolition coming up, and two script contest deadlines and a camping trip in the near future. Yessirree I am a busy boy.

I gotta bang this out quick ‘cause my DSL is getting shut off tonight (long story). I think I’ll be back online by tomorrow though.

Today’s soundtrack: some people work for a living
Today at 8:02pm: hoisting a box labeled “weapons” into the back of a truck


Writing the speech is killing me, I can’t think of a damn thing. If you want to see what I’ve got so far, go to “File” and click “New.” I’ll be delivering the damn thing in less than 24 hours and I’m way behind on sleep.

Spent a few hours moving my roommate out today. I also started rolling my own cigarettes and I suck at it. The first few I turned out looked like misshapen caterpillars. It was like The Island of Dr. Moreau but with caterpillars.

This is the first time I’m living without a roommate since Japan! Feels pretty good. Not that I didn’t like my roommate, but it’s a luxury to have a place to yourself, you know? Pants are about to become optional.

I’d write more, but this page has words on it and I need to switch back to the blank one that I’m going to read tomorrow. Ccccccciao.