letter to noone really.

--


"sir?
sir?
-are you waiting for a bus? are you? no? leave."

he scowls. at me.

him in armani suit, prada shoes, shaved head, leather
notebook, manicured nails, gym built full shoulders.

hes a black man in his late 30s, blue eyes; his
tired-yet-angry bunched up face is one you havent seen
yet. he fucks men, not women.

career waiter, former aspiring actor, now hes a
general manager of celebrity chef john-george
vanderrichten's take on modern chinese - 66 - a place
frequented by entertainment celebrities - will smith
on friday, the band Jet, etc. etc.

his staff wear gray chinese jumpsuits a la 1960s
cultural revolution era china - four pocket jackets,
tight collars designed by celebrity fashion designer
vivienne tam of hong kong.

he chastises his staff daily, in the true new york
restuarant fashion - noone is good enough and the
staff is ridden with slackers and idiot-theives; he
says 'pacifically' instead of 'specifically' due in
part to his lack of education and in part his
outrageous lisp

for 3 weeks hes been my boss.

--

at ludlow and stanton, in the lower east side,
watching outside as a pilot for some dumb new show is
being shot - PAs and camera people scuttle around as
their walkie talkies chatter. lookers-on watch for a
glimpse of the "talent" as they walk out of their
motorhomes to get a muffin or a power-smoothie from
the talent motorhome.

im typeing on a mac in a trendy little hole in the
wall nearby. it is run by affluent persians, it is
called ini-ani. there are walls made out of cardboard
and velvet drapes, there is clinky high treble lounge
music on and i wonder what im doing here. outside the
window, couplets of girls all wearing the same latest
fashion musts, guys with shoulder bags and pumas,
everyone is dressed like its TV, everyone knows how
good the wrens album is, girls in stripes and guys in
perms, everyone sucked off that guy from the giraffes,
and we all know eternal sunshine was amazing and
breakthrough. except for the limp-strutting black
kids and roosterish puerta ricans who live in the govt
housing and keep the check cashing places in business.

--

2 AM drunk and reading, as usual, the stories from the
wire.

iraq is on the brink of the abyss, and we knew that,
we said that, noone fucking listened. uzbekistan just
got bombed, we all wonder what that means - but i
dont. i knew and i know, and im just watching in the
paper waiting to be proven right again.

through the bourbon, i recall a serious conversation
earlier in the day between two queens at my job -

"these are sugar cookies."
"no - shortbread."
"sugar cookies -"
"shortbread"
"ITS A SUGAR COOKIE!? OHHHHH-KAY? BITCH!"

iraq is imploding, and these are my priorities.

the fuck am i doing? will i end up like www.mommyanddaddy.com? like them? why am
i in new york? shouldnt i be sniffing for murder in
dirty places, pissing into holes, eating chicken feet
and fermented shrimp?

--

maybe ill go back to rome. theres always the black
cat.

i applied to the AFL-CIO's International Solidarity
Center, part of the Iraq team. i interview in DC on
the 16th.

the defense intelligence agency gets back to me soon
enough.

i have a job offer to teach in the muslim corner of
china, Xinjaing aka eastern Turkmenistan.

i dont know
but for now, ill write to one of tomorrow's
aristocrats, clever, attractive girl with - i can
imagine - smokers fingers and a wicked half smile.
shes only there through latenite messages and one
blurry, purple haired photo in the corner of my mind
but -
thats all i need to know.

right?