
How the hell did I chalk on the TOPS of my boots?!

How the hell did I chalk on the TOPS of my boots?!
It happened again. Again on the train (tho’ not at midnight): time-warp backwards.
This time it was a Sundays song, ‘Here’s where the story ends,’ and I flew back to high school, not college.
I didn’t listen to the Sundays in high school. I doubt I knew who the Sundays were. So the question is not Why was I pulled back, but why too far back?
Maybe because that song reminds me of a type of song, (post) new-wave (ish) Euro alterna-pop (got that?) that was a fixture of early MTV. The Sundays. Cocteau Twins. Berlin (mebbe). Nena (definitely). Kinda synth, kinda sad, kinda odd.
And then I remembered: the AFS students! AFS was the local student foreign exchange program, and SmallTown was very active—a center for the region—so AFS students stationed elsewhere would occasionally gather in SmallTown. I remember meeting one Danish girl, and was so impressed with her. She seemed very confident in herself and what she wanted, and while somewhat detached, was not unkind in her observations of the US in general or the state in particular. She seemed. . . sophisticated, mebbe? Worldly—definitely.
I wanted that worldliness. It was my last year of high school, and amidst all the general partying, what I wanted more than anything was to Get. Out. I wanted what was beyond, whatever was beyond. There had to be something more, right? Weren’t these students, with their different names and different languages and different lines of sight evidence that there was something Out There?
I’m sensing a theme. . . .
He was wearing a jacket which reminded me of my dad’s old canvas Air Force coat, the one I took with me to and wore regularly at BigTenU.
Just the sight of that jacket took me back twenty-odd years—I mean, warped-backward-swoosh to the mall, in front of the library, on a light-gray autumn day, crisp and open and accentuating the features of every builidng and every person, the sharp smell of impending cold, possibility everywhere.
My god, middle-aged on a train at midnight in Manhattan I was eighteen or nineteen and revelling in the midwestern collegiate air. I could see myself grinning, striding toward. . . something. And there was something there, I’m sure of it.
A second glance at a stranger’s coat and I’m sent reeling into my past.
It wasn’t a bad reel.

Photo by Steve Granitz/WireImage.com
I’d watch Gabriel Byrne floss his teeth. I might even pay.
No, I’m not a dental fetish. But, oh, I do like Gabriel Byrne.
He’s not conventionally attractive, i.e., he’s not pretty. And his body, ehhh, tall and thin, and I doubt there’s a six pack beneath that open-necked shirt. But mention his name to women who are attracted to men (and even some who aren’t), and we’ll swoon. Ohhh, we’ll say, we do like Gabriel Byrne.
What is it about him? The dark eyes? The Irish accent? The smile that only seems to accent the sadness in those dark eyes? Do we confuse him with the characters he plays, soulful rogues, doomed both by and in spite of their intelligence?
Or is it something about the mash-up of physical oddity and charm which makes him beautiful? Something which hints at a deeper beauty than mere surface prettiness would allow?
I generally don’t like pretty men. I was never much for Tom Cruise (even before), and while I wouldn’t kick Brad Pitt out of bed, he’s never done much for me. And I fixated on Harrison Ford’s chin scar as something which set him apart, and a crooked smile on anyone always works on me.
No, I like guys whose surfaces are not quite right. I watched The Thomas Crown Affair last week (before I unplugged my t.v. set again), and found Dennis Leary much more appealing than Pierce Brosnan (although Brosnan, as he ages, is getting interesting). And then I thought of Steve McQueen—incredibly attractive, but handsome? I guess, but it’s really his eyes and intensity which draw.
Or voice. Alan Rickman was the only person worth watching in a Robin Hood remake a decade or so ago, and god, what perfect casting for Snape in the Harry Potter movies. We’re meant to be repulsed, but. . . it’s Alan Rickman! Or Yaphet Kotto, and his baritone gravel. I’d pay to listen to him read Bush’s speeches.
Okay, so there’s George Clooney, and it’s not just his crooked smile. Gimme a break: it’s Clooney. (And Clive Owen, but gimme a break: it’s Clive Owen.)
Now, women, I don’t really have any sense ahead of time of who I find attractive. Sure, Angelina Jolie, but ecccchhht, enough of Angelina. (Nothing against her—just, Enough.) Perhaps I am too newly attracted to women to have developed that sense. Maybe I’m just less fascinated with my kind, that the consideration of the qualities of men is predicated on the fact that they’re. . . men, i.e., not like me.
Not that any of this matters: adoration from afar. But, oh, what I wouldn’t give to meet Gabriel Byrne up close.
Yeah, much to say. Too tired to say it.
Went as well as a suck-ass experience can go. Amazing movers.
Everything now is in its approximate, if not final, place.
A recap:
Thursday, 2:00, then at 4:00, then Saturday afternoon:





It’s now, what, Monday night? Shit got shifted around, and it’s still a mess, but somewhat less so.
It’s not perfect—the bedroom floor is a bit spongy, and the bathtub is a ski slope (no drunk showering), but there’s plenty of heat and hot water, and best of all it’s MINE MINE MINE.
The joys of dictatorship.
So I’m moving tomorrow.
Ready? Nah. Will be, though.
Have to keep telling myself that. I will be ready I will be ready I will be ready.
All the books are packed. The clothes. (When the hell did I get so many clothes? I don’t like shopping for clothes! And yet, there they are.)
Most of my kitchen stuff is still packed from the last move, so not much to do there. Ditto with rugs and towels and all that miscellaneous crap that I forget about until I have to pack or unpack it.
Have to pack the printer. Various bedroom stuff. Various office stuff. Pull the rubbermaid bins out of the creepy basement, the bike from the back yard, oh, the other bike from the creepy basement.
Easy. Really. Plants—got that.
No problem.
Of course, my sternum has been steadily contracting for a week, so that it is now bunched tight in the middle of my chest. And the movers—yeah, yeah, confirmed the movers, they’ll be here, really they will. Syllabi? I can do that Sunday. Filled out the address change at the Post Office, but my New Yorker, the bank, credit card, other jobs, whatelsewhatelsewhatelse.What if someone breaks into the old apartment and hauls all my stuff away? What if there’s a fire before I get home from work tonight? What if there’s a fire at the new place? Storage unit, don’t forget the storage unit. Credit card—do I have it? What about the cash for the movers’ tips? Do I have a number for a car to take me and the critters to my new place? What about the charger for my cell god knows that battery is shit. Where the hell’s my black agenda? JesusMaryandJoseph I had it Monday it was in the green bag didn’t I transfer it to the blue bag did I pack it where the hell is it it has all my access codes I don’t know my passwords to all my accounts what about the yellow index cards with the access codes where the hell is it did someone steal it did I throw it away ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
Yeah. I’m fine.
. . . but sometimes you do.
Yessss, I got the apartment.
What apartment, you ask? Why, the one I looked at in Lefferts Garden, Brooklyn, the one I knew I wanted the moment I walked through it. The 1BR with 3 (THREE!) closets, one of which is a WALK-IN. The one within walking distance of Prospect Park, and a coupla’ blocks off the train. The one I’m moving into next week. The one I chose not to write about so as not to, erm, jinx it. (No, not generally superstitious, but, you know. I took everybody’s luck, too. Just in case.)
So how do you find an apartment in New York City? Assuming you don’t inherit a relative’s place, or have so much money you can simply point and say ‘Want’, you do one of two things:
You go to a broker, prepared to spend 15% of the yearly rent on broker’s fees. Plus another $50 or $100 on credit and background checks. Oh, and have a coupla’ hundred bucks in cash to hold the apartment (refundable if you don’t get the place.)
The rest of us, however, use Craigslist. You pick a category (all apts, all no-fee broker and owner apts, owner apts only), check off the variables (number of BRs, critters, cost, location), and let ‘er rip.
Assuming your search parameters are reasonable (i.e., you’re not looking for a 2BR Manhattan apartment for 800 bucks a month), a lot of apartments will pop up.
Do not be deceived.
Many are re-posts (scroll down the page, and, ohp, there it is again), and a fair number are cons. You’ll know the cons as soon as you receive an e-mail in response: they’ll mention the failed attempts to find a God-fearing broker or agent to take care of their beautiful home, an unexpected return trip to West Africa, and their sincere desire to see you in this apartment. I’ve never taken it further than that, but I assume at some point they’ll want you to send them money, at which point they’ll make the keys available to you. Ha.
Other ads will note that a picture is available, but it’s only a photo of the agent, or of the exterior of the building.
Rooms described as big are not. Closets described as expansive are not. Kitchens described as charming are not. (This is not just a NY thing, I know.)
The agents or owners won’t return your e-mails or your phone calls, or will try to direct you to this other properties they manage, which they know—they know!—will be much better for you.
If you do manage to set up an appointment to see the place, he (almost always a he) will be in a rush, barely tolerating your desire to open closets, click on lights, or check the water pressure in the shower. ‘This is a very good place,’ they’ll say. ‘I’m showing it to two more people tonight, and more tomorrow. If you wait, it’ll be gone.’ He’ll be lying about the first part, but not about the second: if you find a place you like, say you’ll take it immediately.
If you hesitate, he’ll tell you about his other properties, which are likely in worse shape or more expensive than this one.
You’ll look at apartments which frighten you. Yes, frighten: all of the buildings’ windows will be sheathed in rusted, cross-hatched steel, the lights in the hallway won’t work (‘we’ll be fixing those this weekend’), the stairs will be missing a step or two, the cabinets will sag, and you’ll save yourself the trouble of looking too closely at that growth in the bathroom. When you leave the building, you may see someone urinating against the lone tree on the block.
Welcome to East Williamsburg/Bushwick—the hip neighborhood.
But then you find a place—halleluja! Step one, complete. Now, step two. Gather receipts for everything on which you’ve ever spent any money. Dig out the information for every landlord you’ve ever had. Be prepared to show pay stubs and tax returns going back to 1973. Bring passport, X-rays, and DNA sample. And a bank check.
Okay, so that’s a bit exaggerated, but not much. In GradCity, I usually filled out a one-page form, sometimes two-paged, wrote a personal check, and got the keys, all within an hour or two of looking at the place.
For my new place, I first saw the apartment, then set up an appointment with the management company, bringing all of my financial data (including, honestly, my cell phone bills), then, after the records and credit check checked out, made another appointment to hand over a bank check and sign the lease.
This is the lease:

Double-sided, of course.
Then I had to sign additional papers regarding window bars (mandatory if one has young children) and to note the receipt of information about the presence of lead paint in the building (entrance door: yes) and apartment (no).

It’s good to have this material. I will not read it.
So I signed on all of the necessary lines, handed over the check, and made an appointment to pick up the keys on Monday.
Thursday, I move.
It’s all falling down. Secretly pleased?
Some of us are. Maybe. Partly. Kinda.
I wasn’t in New York in the 1970s, but to talk to some New Yorkers who were, you ‘d think I’d missed the last, best time in the city.
You know, high crime rates. Graffitti everywhere. Distrust and malaise. Son of Sam. Bankruptcy. The good old days.
I’ve only been a New Yorker 2 1/2 years, but even I curse a scrubbed Times Square and the relentless pursuit of money. Still, I won’t claim nostalgia for a time not mine, and I’m skeptical of those who claim that New York a generation and a-half ago was a period of glorious artistic expression, unfettered by high rents or the (art) market. As if the artists and punks back then weren’t all on the hustle.
New York is a hustling town, mean and generous in turn, indulgent of those on the make and unforgiving of those who don’t make it. (Except, of course, when it does forgive. Crazy place.) So underemployed white kids get shoved out of the east Village and the Bowery and into Queens and Brooklyn and somehow this means New York ain’t what it used to be.
No shit. This city ain’t never what it used to be.
Still, amidst my squints and skepticism, I, only half-ashamedly, admit to a secret pleasure at the fall. Yeeeeaaaaaaah, a part of me thinks, now we’re gonna get real! Let it all fall apart!
Silliness. How nice to get on the train at midnight and not have to worry (except once) about robbery or assault. Air conditioned subway cars in August? A lifesaver. And I’d rather stroll by store windows full of clothes or food or paint cans than those hidden by plywood or graffitti-ed gates.
I love ruin, I do. I thrill to the old and abandoned, the crumbling and fading. But it is an aesthetic thrill, a delight in these old and sad connections to pasts hidden and forgotten. The delight and the sadness are sincere, but limited: I want to enjoy these unreconstructed ruins, not live in them.
As for that secret pleasure? Maybe we’re (or maybe just I’m) high on our finally-unleashed anxiety. Yesss! We get to worry! Fuck that happy talk. . . .
Angst. Back in style.
I got sucked into the speakers yesterday.
I don’t remember the song (something about heartbreak) and was surprised when Jonathan Schwartz credited Betty Buckley as the singer (it didn’t sound like her). But I was caught by all that she gave to the song—that’s what caught me. Yes, she has a lovely voice, but it was the. . . I don’t know, that sense that she scraped away herself and in so doing scraped away the skin of that sad and pretty melody to lay bare nerve and bone.
How could she do that? Where does that come from? When I was (way) younger I wanted nothing more than to sing, to be a singer. That didn’t happen. I have a competent voice—a ‘chorus’ voice—but my lack comes less from technical faults than the inability to inhabit the song with my voice. Oh, I might feel moved, but that feeling doesn’t come through. It’s posing.
Was Buckley posing? I’ll never know, but man, it doesn’t sound like it. Does Patti Smith sound like she’s posing? I remember when I first listened, really listened to Patti Smith—it wasn’t until grad school. Where the fuck was she when I was in high school?! Of course, I had Janis Joplin back then, but Janis was already dead, and Patti was, is, blazingly alive.
Neither Janis nor Patti has classically trained ‘great’ voices, but man, can they sing! Dive into that song and pull off all their clothes and dare us to dive in with them. This is it, they’re telling us. this is all a song can be. Can you follow? Are you brave enough to care?
In my responses to Ainadamar I noted my marvel at Dawn Upshaw and Kelley O’Connor’s passion. Did I mention it was almost as hard to witness as it was wondrous? I was embarrassed, fearful for them. Oh no, I thought, what are you doing? You’re so naked on that stage; you’ll be caught out, alone and exposed!
What could compel them to take such risks?
Perhaps it is because I ask such questions that I get in my own way. Do they see what they do as risky? Perhaps the danger is in not singing, in not throwing oneself into the music; perhaps it is only the embrace of the music which carries them. Perhaps the question is How could they not?
I don’t have it in me—the singing, I mean. Perhaps had I had the Voice (be it Joplin’s or Upshaw’s), I would have lain all other concerns aside to tend to that gift.
Or not. What do I do now with my modest talents? Tend to them, fitfully. Take them seriously, kind of; treat them warily. I protect them. I do not risk them. I do not risk anything.