These are some very nice people. They have moved to your neighborhood of Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Be nice to them. Approach them with flowers and dinner invitations and you will receive some fine company.
Last night I spent a long time perusing Violet’s fine photographs, missing them and thinking of the Manhattan skyline, back then visible from my high school on the hill in Jersey City, and now from their living room. When I was fifteen I could ride a bike (borrowed from a neighborhood skate boy, we never had bikes)to the waterfront and those glittering gray slabs of promises loomed right there, but we could go no farther than the grimy Hudson, pitching cigarettes into the oily drink and going home before we got in trouble.
Maybe some time I will go the rest of the way. I miss the lights.
I got my hand caught in an elevator door today, and the passengers inside did not hit “doors open” right away, preferring to leave me stuck and twisting in pain. Sneaker ‘n’ Suit wearing Bastards.
I can’t wait until I move to New York, and can get my hand stuck in more affluent places. Actually I was thinking of moving on to my former home town, Jersey City. Then the Creator would truly have the last laugh, as I always swore that city is a hell to which I would never return. Actually, it’s kind of cute and has a movie theater now. So they say.
The main thing I need to get famous, and stop drinking flavored coffee in this air conditioned facsimile of purgatory. But my Boston sell-by date has not yet arrived. For now, my immediate plans include making boys wear makeup, and making paintings of them. Oh and eating another cookie.