12/19/97ce
–55 West 13th Street, Manhattan, New York, late morning

Yesterday I went down to the Village east theatre and saw Woody Allen’s latest offering.  It was a good time, though it is sad to see his scripts handled by the pathetic actors available to him these days, Demi Moore?  Kirstie Alley?  sad.  Some nice magical realism with film, but generally nothing too radical.  Still very linear but comedic.  I enjoyed very much the dirtyness, the roughness of the cut and the character.

After the film I went to a little bar across the way and had a manhattan (maker’s) and it was again not so tasty.  I think there is something wrong with the way they make manhattans here.  that must sound ridiculous but they don’t taste the same to me as the chilly, delicious up variety I had at Aqua or those delicious ones at Lulu in San Francisco.  Too bad.

After the drink I went down 2nd ave to meet Peter for a beer at the Mars Bar a small, cramped, dirty little leather and biker and beer joint.  Crass and real.  We had a beer and watched the people and talked.  Everyone at the Mars Bar knows Felix. – a mentally retarded, drunk half-wit who wanders around the little bar wailing and incomprehensibly pointing at people to do things in his own language from deep within his own mind.  It’s that kind of place.

The kind of place where the bartendress, a stringy-haired, middle-aged, white woman with tattoos and a friendly manner, says things like, “You shouda seen Felix when the Irish guys came in the other night.  He took care of all of ‘em.  When they went to the bathroom Felix ran up here and took each of their drinks and put them on top of their money and he watched over them.  He was really good to them Irish guys.”  She is sweet on the inside and daunting on the out.

And there was a young very high or drunk woman with thin, stringy brown hair which had been painted another color at some point, moving slowly from person to person commenting on her own general fatigue which plagued her so until she sat down and couldn’t find a comfortable seat, prompting a male customer to say in half-mocking derision, “it’s worse when you sit down, you’re better off standing.”  and she looked at him incredulously and swung around slowly saying, “what?  But I’m so tired!!” as if he just didn’t get it.

We finished our drinks and then went to see an apartment. I had made the appointment earlier and it was for a room to share in a two-bedroom place.  It was a crazy experience.  I mean here I show up – with Peter – and there are a handful of people there, too.  We are all desperately seeking a place to live and it’s weird weird weird.  The kids were young.   It was weird.

Peter and I went from there over to my office here because the Art Blakey Ensemble, directed by Peter Tolliver was having a performance.  We checked it out.  The students were ok.  The singer was quite lame lame lame.

After that it was off to the coffeeshop on Union Square for a few drinks and to chat about art with Peter.  It was good.  we had fun. Dropped a chunk of change on booze – had three martini’s.  But you know what, nothing tasted good.  Only the gin and tonic I had was nice to me. I think the city is a weird place.  I am not sure what they are putting in the drinks but it seems fishy to me.

I got home at 1:00 am because the goddam subway skipped stops from 96th to 137th for some repairs and we, all of us wait-ers, had to hang out at the 137th stop until the downtown-bound 1 train came back by to pick us up and take us the twelve blocks home … because nobody would walk from 137th to 125th at that hour, out of fear.  I crashed out almost immediately and had yet another hard time rising today.

I need my own place very badly.  At least my own room.

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