Archives for posts with tag: Whiskey Wilson Molson Knickerbocher Peaches McGee

It was cold all night. I left my window open because my radiator is a temperature dominatrix and I like to let a window be a safe word.

I want to try a different coffee shop today in an effort to try a different life.  Maybe not even get a soy latte.  I heard there was a place that sold chicory coffee near me.

When I was moving away from Michigan, I had no specific plans or goals.  I gave myself two options.  New York City or New Orleans. Michigan doesn’t have the word “New” in it, so I knew i had to go somewhere that did.  I had visited New York City once before to perform a show at the Guggenheim. Sounds fancy, but we stayed at a YMCA in bunk beds and I got so drunk at an Irish Pub I woke up and found more than one tampon inside of me.  I guess that was the clincher.  I chose New York.

There’s a picture of Judy Garland in my bedroom and a calendar I made so I could give myself stickers for everyday i do a p90x work-out.

I made my bed this morning. I do that now in New York.

Lorca as translated by Carlos Bauer.  Lord how I wish I spoke Spanish.

It’s gotten colder and my dog wants to always stick his nose in my armpit while I write.  Why does he do this? I wish he’d open his mouth just once to talk to me in words.

I plan things and plan things.  Appointments for blood tests and x-rays and dinners with poets.  Flights to cities with airport codes I’ve memorized.  Reading assignments for the students I’ve yet to meet.  My library card gets so much action.

Wednesday I wade through the Market Street river of orange-shirted bodies, armed with my pink totebag stack of Baldwin and Dickenson, Notley, Bersenbrugge, and Wright – both James and C.D.  It’s a weirdly hot day for November and the people are walking on broken cups and crushed brown-bagged cans of Sparks.  In front of the Blick off Sixth, a teenager – so skinny like a clapper in the bell of his wind-filled t-shirt – climbs a streetlight to either hang or tear down a black and orange flag – it isn’t clear which.  Fifty people gather to chant at him and I can’t get through without holding the books in front of me as a shield or a weapon.

On Friday I bring mudcake to the bar and carve it up with plastic spoons and cocktail napkins.  We play slaps and I bust my foot on the heavy wooden door.  Nicole laughs her way through another birthday.  The first girl who tries to sell us lighted silk roses from a heavy tray reminds me how much better it is to be writing a syllabus than to be treking up Broadway in heels. But then Saturday night comes and I’m gathering dollars from a hotel carpet. I’m riding the elevator with fur-collared tourists on their way to the Top of the Mark, knocking on the door of an 11th floor suite with Lilah beside me, and between us our bags of heels and costumes, rolled lights and wet wipes and sharpies and cans of whipped cream.

The bachelor’s single friends have brought girls up to the room.  Female guests at a bachelor party can go either way – as Lilah and I are setting up I hear one of the girls say: “how much would you pay me to strip?” And I think: really? Do you go out to dinner and barge into the kitchen to show the chefs how well you can cook?  But the girl turns out to be sweet and curious, if naive.  Lilah and I lock ourselves into the bathroom to count out and the girl is in there with us, peeing.  The girl says, “So how did you guys get started? Did you take classes?  I want to go to your class.”  And while I’m glad for the recognition that this job requires skill, I can’t help but laugh at the image of a girl in a four hundred dollar hotel suite asking the stripper where to take lessons.

In the suite’s bedroom, men who are younger than me smoke cigarettes out the window.  They’re wearing khakis and button down shirts and they still have money in their hands.  Outside, it looks like Gotham.  Like every lonely hotel movie sequence.  As we’re leaving, one of the guys, slurring over a plastic cup of vodka and ice, asks “Where do you girls go to college?”  He turns to the guy slouched next to him on the beige couch and says, “All strippers go to college.”

A pile of unpeeled fava beans and Whiskey Wilson the Pomeranian-papillon blonde make this a Wednesday in May, make this northern Californian spring.  The shrinking potion and scattered clothing and my immigrant houseplant mark my arrival, as always – you will know me by the texture of mess in your apartment.

This summer we’ll both move away from trains and I’ll worry about everything – as usual: work, money, fiction, The Right Thing To Do – and you’ll continue to be too busy to stretch or ice your hurt knee.  There is so much.  Paperwork and bean-peeling and boxes to pack and suitcases to buy and airplane rides to pay for and sleep through.  Tuition to earn.  There is the sublettor to find and there will never be an end to the unanswered e-mails and phone calls. There will never be an end to the unread books and unwritten grant applications.  And there is the bed-making and sheet-destroying, there are the songs to listen to and wine that must be drunk.  There is always, always the necessary filming and performing of pornography.  Mascara to put on and wash off.

I can’t believe we’re here: running the dog at seven forty-three a.m. in a deserted patch of Golden Gate Park with one leaky cup of coffee between us.  The crows that Whiskey Will chases through the particulate grey are bigger than he is; they swoop black-patent-shine just above his head and land in a cluster, ten feet away from his frantic, galloping body before taking off again, with absolute grace and disregard.  We’re sleepy and unwashed in elasticized clothing.  Two different meanings for the word “jumper”.  The dog eats two-thirds of a corn-cherry scone while we try to teach him to come when called, and I wish that someone would do this for me, would teach me my name.