Scene: Two men dressed in business casual sitting at an East Village bar on a Friday night, ’70s punk rock playing in the background.
Friend: What have you been up to since Sabine’s been out of town?
Me: Uh… I went to The Strand for a couple of hours.
Friend: Lingered in the erotic art books section, did you?
Me: Ha ha, no, I bought (voice getting quieter as I realize what I’m saying) a Guy de Maupassant novel about the bitterness of growing old.
Friend: (Thoughtfully) I like to play classical music really loud when my wife and the baby go out of town.
Lights go out, curtain comes down.
According to the New York Times, Edward Albee’s estate is planning to sell the playwright’s art collection at Sotheby’s in an auction that’s expected to raise more than $9 million. My painting won’t be included in the sale because I used to be too cool for school.
READ THE STORY IN HYPERALLERGIC
Every so often, I try to clear a little space on my already overstuffed bookshelves. Today I’m leaving two books on my porch, one of which had a big effect on me when I first read it–and possibly on two people who didn’t.
I was making my way back to work after lunch with a friend at La Loteria, one of the few Mexican restaurants I like in Manhattan.
I don’t like to walk around in Greenwich Village because I always get lost, but I do it because, as anyone will tell you, it’s rare to find good Mexican food in New York. I also like that place because most of the people working there seem to be Hispanic. I’m sorry to be so judgey, but I hate Mexican restaurants that only employ white waitstaff.
It won’t come as a surprise to learn that I’m not comfortable dancing. That’s exactly why last year, for my wife’s birthday, I signed us up for dance classes. The gift was not me learning to dance, it was my willingness to put up with the humiliation of taking dance classes.
There I was, in a crowded 4 train on my commute to work in the Financial District, reading another horrifying story about the ravages of neoliberalism, when something caught my eye.
As I do most nights (and as she described in this lovely article), I was reading to my wife in bed. This time, it was a very strange story about a community of people who believe a ’90s children’s movie starring Sinbad has disappeared, possibly due to a crossover with other dimensions, a glitch in the computer simulation we’re all living in, or simply a conspiracy (read it yourself, it’s amazing). Then the doorbell rang.