Face down on a Brawny paper towel with a hole improvised through a padded table, I wait for the sound of the curtain hooks gliding so slightly and for the massage therapist to ask, “ready?” She starts with a sheet that covers me just from neck to ankle, and strokes my back gently before digging into my upper back so hard I wince. She giggles. “It’s okay?” I nod, burying my face into the table.

I think it’s funny she has to gain so much purchase on my limbs and the table to get to my back, as if levering herself over a wall like one of those army physical training courses. My elbow jambs into the fulcrum of her Y. It tells me she’s older than me, but probably not by much. Am I into that? Is she into this? After the massage I walk up to the register to check out and her back is to me, rifling through paperwork. Her embossed flesh outlining the bra under her regulation massage shirt—a black tunic—not because the shirt is too tight but because the bra is old, acquired in her last body.

When I leave I get on my bike and glide down the bike lane on Washington. I can’t believe getting this lane painted was such a political crap storm. There’s another older Asian woman now riding a child’s bike on the sidewalk. I feel like reassuring her the bike lane is safe. “We’re protected by the parked cars.” I think of the house she is going to return to. A foyer littered with abused slippers and sneakers that have been washed multiple times, the residue of care. One of her kin is an intern at the publishing company I started my career in. Emily, so small and excited just to have access to free books. She was always shocked when we told her she could take home our books to read. Imagine, a book being enough. This is so far from the possession of my desires. I vow to never go to the nice massage place again as penance.

I should have gotten Chinese pastries to surprise my kid, despite his favorite (a cream bun) being the opposite of mine (the hot dog). He’s only seven but already knows how much I like getting massaged. He loves when I rub his feet, which are so sensitive he goes into a fit when his socks aren’t just so. And one day those feet will fit in places where shoes are like books, and it will not be enough to have nice things if we weren’t amazed by the gift of our gratitude.

I recently read and re-read two books, which renewed my curiosity about a third book. Two were written by restaurateurs and the third was by Samuel R. Delany. I picked up Danny Meyer’s Setting the Table because I remember really enjoying the editorial he wrote for the NYTimes (or was it the New Yorker?). It was a primer on hospitality and management practices, rules like “if their plate is more than half full, they didn’t like the food and you don’t need to ask them.” I got the book because thought I’d benefit from brushing up on my own management and hospitality skills, as my day job winds up for a year of hosting two major events.

Simultaneously, I wanted to ground myself back in queer history while preparing for two college visits I have approaching. And college being that utopia of expansive genders and sexualities, of course I’d re-read Times Square Red, Times Square Blue by Samuel R. Delany.

I don’t know if we still refer to the act of boosting one chemical drug reaction with the consumption of a second competing drug as “candy flipping” — and speaking of “college,” that’s surely where and when I learned the high efficacy of LSD followed by smoking a blunt—but reading Danny Meyer and Sam Delany at the same time had the same profound effect of one reaction oxidizing the other, like foam in a Diet Coke catalyzed by a Mentos, one thing ejaculating, and the other, disappearing into the synthetic and saccharine atmosphere of conception.

For the unread: Setting the Table is about Danny Meyer’s journey to becoming a foremost restaurateur, business manager and CEO of the Union Square Hospitality Group whose flagship operation was, at least at the time of publication, Union Square Café. The book was published in 2006. In other words, he had not had a chance to talk about his now publicly traded restaurant company that Americans are much more familiar with—Shake Shack. Setting the Table begins with his upbringing in St. Louis Missouri. Parents and close family members from whom he arguably inherits a love of food, music, and culture, as well as formidable business acumen. He moves to New York as a kind of travel agent with tons of anecdotal wisdom about Rome and Paris, specifically. Capitals of cuisine. But the majority of the book is about the Union Square and Madison Square Park neighborhoods of New York City from the 1970s to the 1990s.

Readers here are probably more familiar with Times Square Red Times Square Blue. The namesake is the obvious milieu of that book, published in 1999. It is mostly about Time Square porn theaters, johns, hookers, consumers of sex media, and direct intercourse. And in reading these two books as reflections on New York neighborhoods and changing communities, the fact that there are two men with first person accounts of business sectors, telling a story taking place in more or less the same time frame, and that those accounts tell such starkly different stories while also somehow sharing many conceits of self-discovery and change in a community, is astonishing.

Meyer writes with a patrician naiveté about New York’s hard knocks and the harder work ethos of manifest Americans. Delany’s account of the transmogrification of Times Square on the other hand, is denuded of hope, is clinical at times, bordering on what I’d cheekily describe as anthropological, and because it is dry in such a way as to seem academic, his personalization of the truth hits like thunder. Meyer’s soap opera has a soundtrack. Delany’s tragedy has sound effects.

I don’t pretend one is more important than the other. Meyer’s wisdom could be exceptional to those who follow in similar footpaths of leadership and complex project management, and Delany’s lived experience is critical, should be requisite, to the telling of any history of a neighborhood. But Meyer’s Union Square, his relationship to his team, his conflicts with the media (and the bygone status of today’s service journalism) are all metaphors. An light perversion of aggregate cliches. Statements like “I have gay friends” and “the staff, not the client, is number 1” truisms we’re all familiar with now, but were once ironic.

If metaphors abide, Delany’s Times Square is Atlantis. The tales of “how to survive without trying,” mean this culture has failed to thrive, and that that may be the more important story for the reader.

The third book I have to harken to is Keith McNally’s I Regret Almost Everything—I’ve already talked about this somewhere else so I won’t belabor—but I think of it because of the synthesis of moods alongside Delany’s Times Square and Meyer’s Union Square. McNally is a bisexual bus boy turned manager turned restaurateur of Balthazar. Balthazar is the Tower of Babel.

Meyer and McNally ultimately read to the public as “successful” because they are real estate mavens, and it is any wonder SoHo and Union Square have positioned themselves by class in a way Times Square simply cannot. Even with the m&m store in the shadow of the Renzo Piano New York Times building, Times Square has continued to make itself much more inclusive than these hotbeds of fine food. What’s funny about these juxtapositions is also the gayness of it, and by gay I mean homosexual penetrative sexual gayness. I’d say queer but that leaves the option of penile intercourse left ambiguous. Who is left to take it up theirs is a question I will keep asking myself when I think about this city.

I <3 New York. Its neighborhoods and their stories are palimpsests. Where is the crossover, where is the crossdress, and where is the switch?

Thanks!

It is a new kind of honesty.

Those who can’t read between the lines want to so desperately.

A generation without pennies will not learn to subtract. Counting integers is honesty. Would that it sufficed to accumulate without ever deducting, deducing.

A new kind of honesty.

Multiverses of selves and multitudes of personas mean we can become exponents but division as a metaphor is so permanent, so painful. It hurts so bad it hurts our ability to render a truth about sharing. Division is sharing, is communion.

Humor is geometry, and satire is trigonometry. Ignorance is bliss, and knowledge is power. There is no deception if it is an interpretation. I think we could all use a little geometry these days.

Being good at math makes me an outdated stereotype, or a bygone archetype; someone who does not flinch at the truth. It’s so nice of you to say that. Thank you.

true:honest :: kind:nice

Multiples and magnitudes are by twos and tens, taking over patternless equations like a roll on a snare drum, tuned to absolute parity but bisected with soft barbs, an interruption to tone. Honestly. Why do I even count.

I am going to believe in my child’s capacity for agency. I will give him the love and support he needs. I will not laugh at him. I will be proud of him and go to all his concerts. I will provide solace for him. The guardrails I set up won’t be barbed with electrified wiring. I will not ignore my child like I was ignored as a child.

What I did not know, is that there are equally insidious patterns in positive support. My parenting covenant is not in discipline but in the expectation of achievement. I am expecting more of him than he is able to give.

My child is all but 7 and already we are told “there are concerns” about readiness for the second grade. I keep getting these calls from school, now text messages, which make it somehow more offensive. Like can’t they pay us the courtesy of saying it to our faces when we pick him up, obediently and on time, every day? My parents never picked us up on time, often not at all. Even they had unplanned house visits from social workers.

I am crippled by my fear of a child who will not grow up, who will not advance, who will not succeed, who will not impress anyone but his mom. I watch videos of other children mastering choreography they mime from tacit consumption of television. Ooh look at that kid do the Formation choreo and they’re only 3! I feel disappointed in my own child’s inability to do that. I watch videos of adults with autism so proud of themselves for getting jobs, drawing animals, making their families laugh. I feel despairing that my child will not entertain anyone with innate skills but will become entertainment as a disabled adult.

My child—beautiful, sweet, kind, humorous—is not going to get straight As like me. His teachers will not be impressed with how he takes care of himself. The world will not look to him for answers.

I fall apart with every text message.

New phone. Who problem is this?

—

I hope when the world burns down, survivors will tell the residue that we loved each other and did our best.

One will occasionally hear in a yoga class or meditation, an instruction to cross your fingers with the non-dominant thumb on top. It can feel like the greatest shift in energy to perform this minuscule adjustment. On a bicycle, you glide with a preference of a certain leg at the top of your pedal. When you change that leg, the quality of the stop changes completely. Touching a numb lip at the dentist’s office. Phantom limbs. Wiping with the wrong hand. These feel like a self-determined transformation, and anyway, I was feeling satisfied with myself, having achieved a kind of ambidexterity, so I wrote about it a couple weeks ago. Though I largely meant it as a metaphor, I did in fact rescue my left arm from isolation on the drum kit. And once it feels completely natural in drumming, I will move on to writing.

In this state of self-satisfaction, I attended the performance of Lucy Liyou’s Mister Cobra at Performance Space New York and fell apart realizing how naive it was of me to assume masterful transformation through the subtle act of switching thumbs, when Lucy had trained both of her index fingers to pull the trigger of a figurative gun in a transition of literal gender.

I was first introduced to Lucy Liyou’s music by Joshua at Tone Glow, four years ago over lunch when we were discussing Philadelphia’s music scene, and Lucy was about to graduate from U Penn. It feels important to mention this because for some reason, people keep asking me when I first became aware of her work, which I sometimes interpret to question whether I have bona fides for transgressive art.

Her presence at the piano—an instrument she has indeed mastered—is made indelible with voice and other extensions, namely in electronic sound, field recordings. The heart does not break, but rather tears, as in rips, and tears, as in sheds, inside the dialogic, diagnostic, diaristic voices inside atmospheres of sounds one could otherwise only characterize as: gorgeous. The change is perceptible when listening, but impossible to ignore when witnessed in theatrical presentation like this.

Mister Cobra is gorgeous, too, but grotesque. It is not the most dangerous work I’ve seen performed. Perhaps not even in this year, merely three months in. However…it brings out the mother in me; the mothering me. “Oh no…I hope she’s ok,” I think, when she broadcasts awkward exchanges with trade(?) a childhood evil(?). And yet. Who am I to speak bravery when I am twiddling my stupid thumbs, and Lucy, brave Lucy, transmogrifies in excessive eruptions, gay jokes, self humiliation, treacly pop mannerisms, covered in prop blood like Stephen King’s Carrie, and prop trash like Oscar the Grouch, committing a sort of stage-suicide.

Aaaaaand action.

Here I am, twiddling my thumbs, and Lucy braves Lucy.

—

We live in an age where a person will misconstrue their lack of wrongdoing as heroism, as courage. People rationalize their petulance, their indignant judgement, with the salvo, “I would never.” They do not think about the fact that this usually means they could never. They will likely complain like they had control because they don’t. Their indignation, and my indignation at them, is all an act of utter cowardice. But in witnessing degradation as art, I determine, every time, to become a little more brave in my indignation.

Let us believe in the indignation of those who have done more than move their lips, move one finger. Let us believe in the indignation of those who choke us when they sing, and commit to the bravery we advertise when we talk about transformation.

Follow Lucy Liyou

In the dream—and this is kind of hard to follow, even for me—I was psyching myself out to call them to hang out or arrange to gig together, and decided I’d start the conversation with a text message that said:

I dreamt about you last night lol isn’t that hilarious?

In the dream, I ruminate and develop dream narratives to share with Leslie. Maybe in the dream, I tell them we are in Taiwan. No. That would be too on the nose. Maybe we were in the desert. Ugh no. Too romantic. Do I simply replace someone else I dreamt about and say it was them? That one time I dreamt Maia and I were on a mission to deliver a giant blue gift box on a boardwalk at water level, a riverside deck really, looking out at a night time cityscape that seemed impossibly deep and impossibly wide. Maybe. That one hits the right confluence of sincerity, dreaminess, urgency, and possibility.

The dream pushes us into the same place physically, and I tried to remember the lie I told to get them there, but now I am so preoccupied with the story I told I can’t hold their attention. I keep developing the lie as they disappear.

—

I’d just had the privilege of crashing a birthday dinner for the artist Sky Hopinka, whose poetry recited but an hour earlier took my breath away. The fact that it was his birthday on this day of programming I attended, was a surprise. His friends joined dinner and surprised him, in turn, with a restaurant-wide singalong of the happy birthday song. He turned bright red with bashful humor. It seems inappropriate to use such a figure of speech to describe his reaction in particular, but also so oddly ironic as to make it impossible for me to pass up the opportunity. I hope he can forgive me, and us, for subjecting him to so much attention in that restaurant.

At the end of the meal, James collected the bill on behalf of the museum hosting the artist. As a friend and his dinner neighbor, I glanced at the bill with him before we looked at each other with the unmistakable shock of people who thought the luxury of dining out like this must cost more. “I can’t believe how cheap this dinner was!” he quietly exclaimed. We know someone else is paying for it, but parsimony is inherent for us. And hey look at that—Black Indigenous and Person of Color (which I feel syntactically and orthographically benefit from being “Black, Indigenous and Other People of Color” or BIOPOC but what do I know. I just said Sky Hopinka turned bright red when we sang him happy birthday.)

—

The man who founded the Roland company and invented the Roland 808 keyboard—Kakehashi Ikutaro—wrote an autobiography telling the incredible story behind his relationship to the synthesizer, which begins as a clock and radio repairman. In his early days during and after the war, clock repair was an important source of income for his family, where otherwise education-supported mobility into higher middle class was not an option. The road from a clock to a synthesizer is tantalizing enough a prompt for the imagination, that the reader’s inference in filling the long journey with stories of rhythm and analog mechanical engineering, is likely accurate. I will spare you the summary, therefore. The story that I found the most fascinating and unforgettable, is when he explains how he arrived at the details of sound effects he decided to insert into the 808. Namely, the clapping effect. He says that in Japanese work songs, farmers would use clapping to hold rhythms, and that this sound effect would make the keyboard most legible to the Japanese market. The road from rural Japanese work songs to the “Cha Cha Slide” is even more tantalizing than the clock becoming a drum machine. The parity of technological innovation and other achievements of mostly financial success, overlooks one tiny fact: these keyboards were used ironically by electonic music pioneers. They weren’t designed for DJ culture, but for pianists who couldn’t afford real pianos. That the keyboard supersedes the piano in fifty years is quite extraordinary.

My mother’s insistence on having a piano in the home as a piece of art, as a piece of furniture and a glorious instrument symbolizing our newfound class security, and my ongoing search for the elusive Roland 808 on Craigslist, register equally to each other, but these artifacts can all be found as refuse and detritus elsewhere and always.

—

I want to do something extravagant for my birthday while I can. A storewide rendition of Happy Birthday would not embarrass me. A high price tag for dinner with intimate and occasional friends would not shock me. Neither the grand piano nor the 808 would impress me. My mother will send me a Hallmark card and I will cherish it before I hide it before I throw it away. Detritus representing lucre, for another day.

—

On my way out the door the other morning, my child came out of the bedroom naked from the waist down, shouting at me from the top of the stairs at me at the foot, to wait. As he rushed down the stairs I giggled at the sight of his acorn bounding off his legs. Boing boing boing.

“I need to put real pants on!” he shouted.

Okay but I really need to get going. You can put your pants on yourself.

“I know, but I want you to watch me,” he said. He sits on the couch, where he left his underwear and pants the night before, and I don’t know why this is our bedtime ritual but I don’t attempt to change it. He puts on his underwear and then his pants, and looks at me proudly—not a “look at me ma!” pride but a more salutory “mission accomplished” seriousness.

We don’t wash his clothes after every wear. I don’t imagine most families do. What’s the average cadence for washing clothes that aren’t totally soiled? We are saving some more of that water, I say to myself.

—

Every time I attend a children’s event, I find a lost and found table covered in water bottles. I think about the altars in our homes, the ones we keep replenished with water and oranges for the ancestors who speak to us through their thirst for our devotionals, and elsewhere, churchgoers that keep candles lit in prayer. The arrangement of cups and their varying heights of wax and water tell the dead we are here.

We keep telling ourselves we are saving water. It is the water that is saving us.

Training at the drum set where I have lost the athleticism of martial rudiments learned as a high school drum corps nut, my left hand pronounces my handicap at drumming altogether one summer day. My grip strength only meets me where my weakest finger snaps back the stick. I press further into my inability to naturally operate every finger of this left hand in the way my right hand flows freely, an arrogant dominant hand. My breath contracts, my heart accelerates in a vacuum, a shrinking hamster wheel. Why can’t I control my left hand the way I control my right? Recognize the feeling without trying to change it, I tell myself. The left hand finally does what it wants. I am now the proud drummer of two hands.

Wish you were ear.

The only reason anyone is surprised by what we do, and often do well, is because “anyone” has been looking in the wrong direction this whole time. Anyone could not find what they did not seek. It had to be offered, like humans inviting in vampires.

—

I tore through Keith McNally’s memoir I Regret Almost Everything. It frames regret so beautifully, taking the embarrassment away from admission of guilt, but not boasting of his failure like a petulant modernist either. He regrets divorces, he regrets business deals, he regrets calling out James Corden on Instagram. But not to apologize to those he hurt, necessarily. This regret is less apologetic and more matter-of-fact. As if the way it happened was always going to be the problem and not the decision to go through with these acts. We must be more decisive, and then the way it comes together will become a matter of fact. In other words, he’s better suited for Reddit.

Something about this method of regret feels very bisexual, and not just because he begins his autobiography with a gay romance.

Assessing regret with the intellectualism of a buddhist is bisexual in the same way Pringles are the Earl Grey tea of potato chips. Excuse me. I’m told Pringles can’t technically be qualified as “chips” because they’re made of processed and extruded potatoes, like bologne is not pork. But you could say Mortadella is the Earl Grey tea of ham, the left hand is the tea drinker of caffeine purists, and Asian buddhists are the bisexuals of religion but White buddhists are “questioning.”

Let your recessive hand accept its receptive nature. Hang a curtain with your fingertips and reach for the ceiling on your way there. Our eyes adjust to light designed for romance more quickly than the light designed for productivity, because we want to be told what to look for without seeking. It has to be offered. My hand lays prone, waiting to be discovered. This is the invitation.

Now listen, I wasn’t squirming so much because I was offended. I might have been squirming a little because I wanted his take to be more novel. But I was really squirming because I’d had the same exact thought in this alternative way that I think might make more of the nonsensical insult that Californians are anything less than extraordinary. And that thought is:

Everyone in Los Angeles today somehow is also from New York now, and everyone’s angst about the dual identity is what’s making LA insufferable.

Friends, please don’t come for me. As I explain later, I was raised in LA and left. I feel extremely extremely “a way” about moving back for fear I’m bringing back the worst of this NY bullshit with me. Anyway, I wrote the following in my journal after making a trip to Joshua Tree with my family during the winter holiday, where I was disappointed in myself for falling into the same trap as every other hipster on earth—thinking we were the only ones who had the brilliant idea of going to a magical vortex in the earth to find ourselves because we’re overdoing it as city folk. It’s relevant to this question about LA v NY dichotomies.

1-12-26

Californians went to New York as if a rumspringa and came back with the worst it had to give them, infesting Los Angeles like cane toads in Australia. I include myself in this lot even if I’m petulantly resisting archetype by living in neither. Living in south philly, whatever that means.

The difference between “interesting” and “horrible” is the difference between a bookstore and a gift shop that carries books.

Joshua Tree. I thought it was a good idea to take family there (bookstore), but once in town, I realized everyone else who has “taste in music” was also there (gift shop).

It hurts me how LA has changed. I think of Robert Irwin’s [EDITORIAL ADDITION: I know he’s come up twice in a week now but I swear I namedrop other artists not just Irwin] missives on California—everyone got LA wrong when they assigned it the features of Hollywood at the exclusion of Boyle Heights, of Silver Lake. He wrote that in the 80s. A generation of artful tastemakers have made even those landmarks the central thesis of LA vapity. He was asked if he’d studied Zen Buddhism because of his whole approach to boredom. I loved his answer, which was basically: Studied? Of course not. I know as much about it as every other person who finds a crack in a bowl interesting.

I feel trapped in the east coast out of fealty to Los Angeles. My presence there would be no different from the white expat in Asia.

We bring our motives and our cultures, with a capital(ist) C. Whatever the direction of our travel as Americans. We can’t help it. Nothing is spared our insufferable learnings: not just the chintz on porcelain but the cupcake fetishism of labor rights, the service industry as penury for the influence of gatekeepers growing to an art form glorified by (illegible) and o, that holy rest we are entitled to. Exploding poppies, gallons of plant extracts, the pandemonium of ceremonial prayer bowls. Things meant to be served in minute portions as a reward for frankly annoying work in family, community and neighborhood, now emptied from plastic bladders into our mouths but not before they’re poured secretly into clay pots mass purchased through the back kitchen which always includes a servant’s entrance. Inclusion. People who used to DJ at car shows are all uber drivers now.

This loss of California Integrity is the Integatron©. Milk-shaped non-milk. The problem isn’t what’s inherent to Los Angeles. The problem is the narcotic effect of New York validation everyone brought back with them. Caesar’s thumb = the cane toad.

You can’t get bad Mexican food in New York anymore, but it will keep proving itself, and we still don’t want you here. You can wait in line for coffee served by an art handler. We’re going to get diet coke at the gas station. We have everything we need.

—

In the IG post, and to be clear I haven’t listened to the podcast itself because I don’t listen to podcasts which I realize makes me an even more insufferable asshole in the vein of “I don’t own a television” which I also would partake in if I didn’t have a kid, which I also would have participated in as a movement if I had a different set of mental illnesses—so I don’t have all of the context of Brian’s diatribe, but in that IG post, comedian Jenny Yang comments: “i grew up here. yr hanging out with the wrong ppl.” I plus one’ed her comment. I love wonderful LA and it is literally only self-appointed New Yorkers who don’t. I love all of my Los Angeles—the people, the ick, girls in pristine Alo outfits who don’t realize they now look like they’re from Connecticut, the second hand smoke of fun times at thinly veiled orgies on the east side, the absurdity of LA’s diet culture on the west side, and the radicalism of all the fat positive agendered youth everywhere else—and I hope we learn to accept our New York superego for all it is, too. Or to quote the youth pastor from the Korean American megachurch in Buena Park (just outside of LA) whose charisma would have convinced all of us to migrate into the depths of Orange County: love the sinner, not the sin.

Iiiiii (that’s “me” with emphasis) on the other hand, need to read books because I am a pathological snob, and snobs are liars. A person who might veritably have all the knowledge of the world, who is an embodiment of Alexandrian museyon, would never dare to rub it in your face. That person would qualify as an inquisitor; a person with curiosity, not a defensive possessiveness of the one or two things they’re obsessed with. Snobs are afraid to admit that what they crave makes them painfully un-whole. And what little truth is left has to be shared with such obnoxious fervor you can’t address the lies anymore.

I am that person. I talked about the whispers yesterday. That seems endemic to pedantry. Today I am going to talk about its counterpart: the shouts. The shouts include my willful endorsements of John Le Carré spy fiction despite his sometimes profoundly problematic depictions of the subaltern. My shouts also include the opposite: disavowals of people like Lauren Berlant and Thom Yorke (LOL), purely because some people, once upon a time, forced their lecture upon me like a revelation, only to tell me these were the philosophers who instructed them to accuse me of feeling too much.

I’ll have you know John Le Carré does a better job explaining the US invasion of Panama than any documentary or history has, and who cares what a hermit has to say about love. (I will soon share an essay that got canned before press, though, where I let Berlant make a brief appearance, but otherwise don’t bother coming for me. I’m out of touch with them.)

Anyway all that to say, here’s some stuff from the bedside table I remember:

1. The Sellout, Paul Beatty. I got this a few years ago and LOVED how it brought me in from Page One, but then set it down somewhere halfway through and physically lost the copy. Recently re-discovered it while cleaning my office and ripped through it anew. The phrase “LGBTDL” alone deserves a Mark Twain award. Speaking of…Beatty’s anecdotal parody of Huckleberry Finn a third of the way into the book has me wondering if this was riffed from a conversation he’d had with Percival Everett about JAMES (also an incredible book I can’t recommend enough).

2. Television People, Danzy Senna. Feel obliged to mention her because I read it after James, written by her partner (I think, still?). I like almost everything by Senna and I wanted to like this more, but it was good.

3. How to Tell When We Will Die, Johanna Hedva. WOWWWWW go get it and read it. Not just because of art and family and trauma and disability justice but the writing is a pure exposition in poetic narration with both a finesse and a selvedge I haven’t yet read in contemporary memoir.

4. Daydreamers, Alvin Lu. Alvin’s an incredibly talented friend and I can’t wait to dig into this meta-fiction really soon. Support your talented friends!

5. Hurricane Envy, Sara Jaffe. This was a point-of-sale book at Brickbat, a store where nothing has disappointed me, and this was really great; bite-sized. Reminded me of Sophie Calle.

6. Emerging, Maria Popova. Kind of a meh book for me, except for the first chapter. Wow.

7. Kraken, China Mieville. I mentioned this one in my last post. Loved it. Makes me want to dive back into sci-fi.

8. Klara and the Sun, Kazuo Ishiguro. Hated it but also: can’t explain why, but also: who cares, but also: is anyone else worried about Kazuo Ishiguro?

9. Bright Young Women, Jessica Knoll. I kept confusing this with The Girls by Emma Cline. Was that by design?

10. City of Quartz, Mike Davis. This was like drinking Pepsi after reading the Mexican full cane Coca-Cola full of rum that was Blood Orchid, by Charles Bowden.

11. Psychopolitics, Byun-chul Han. Popular philosophy feels fad-ish, but I am into it. He compares “liking” posts to marking beads on a rosary and I love a good metaphor.

12. Who Paid the Piper, Frances Stonor Saunders. Another book I picked up years ago and read voraciously that I keep referring to and needing to re-read. I don’t care if its substantiations are questionable. The history of the CIA in the arts is too fascinating not to get into. Also visit: Soundtrack to a Coup D’Etat.

    1. SUB-PLOT: John Le Carre: I read Night Manager and Tailor of Panama for unserious fun, but really am glad he wrote as much about espionage as he did. His writing is a civic service.

13. Homie, Danez Smith. Uhhhhhhhghgggghhhh I absolutely adore this collection of poems. Ashamed I got to Homie so late but better late than never.
    Hope is hard, and I have it.

14. City of Coughing and Dead Radiators, Martín Espada. I resurrected this oldie for research purposes and remembered why he’s so important. I could hear simultaneously, almost literally, Roberto Bedoya yelling about the fall of democracy to a group of arts administrators which is a very appropriate backdrop.

15. I am remiss not to cite any comic books but that is pretty much only because the books I am hoping will fuck me up, have yet to be cracked open. That list includes Michael De Forge and Lee Lai among others.

16. FOOD BOOKS—I’ve never been much for cookbooks but something switched on inside me in the past year and I now own three whopping Nü Cookbooks (i.e. beyond Joy of Cooking and COOKING by Patterson) and a food writing collection.

    1. Taste Makers, Mayukh Sen. I got to interview Sen about his books (the more important title in his repertoire is Love Queenie, a biography of Merle Oberon), and it’s bittersweet how he got into and out of food writing, but this is a beautiful collection of biographies of immigrant women who essentially put the words and morsels in our mouth to be in touch with the diaspora.

    2. Salad for President, Julia Sherman. I was ready to hate this but it’s so good. Starts out extremely strong with an introduction by Robert Irwin (?!?!?!?!?!), which prompted me to re-read Seeing is Forgetting by Lawrence Weschler (about Irwin and the Light and Sound movement).

    3. Naturally Vegan, Julius Fiedler. Amazing book of vegan cuisine that naturally exists in the international lexicon. Mung bean jelly with chili oil! Bread with tomato sauce! Skordalia!

    4. Pakistan: Recipes From Home, Maryam Jillani. Recommended strongly by my friend Zainab, and filled with so much care for a culture that represents so many but is looked at as so much less in this country.

I’m actually surprised to find out it was only last June that I last posted an article. It feels like much longer ago. And so, pardon the self-important preamble, but I think it may be helpful to the many people who started following me during my last spate of “Love Letters” when I was writing as an emerging and born-again lesbian with a husband.

And so, pardon me if this isn’t the sapphic and polyamorous battle cry I should be publishing, and instead a boring attempt to simply get back into writing, one leg through one underwear hole at a time.

Underwear hole. Isn’t that hilarious?

I was sitting in my gym sauna, which is never hot enough and not nude enough for my taste. Fifteen years ago this gym sauna would have been a coven of women-shaped people in nothing but cheap, overwashed towels. What happened to us? Whatever the psychological effect is called, named after a closeted scientist no doubt, I experienced that thing where because it is forbidden I wanted the thing this forbidden behavior was probably designed to circumvent. Because I was in this sauna in my full attire, in keeping with the rest of the steamers, I got horny.

A woman in a perfectly coordinated coral red yoga suit was outside of the sauna covered in sweat, placing a food order over her phone and said:

And can you add an order of those calzone thingamabobs?

The word thingamabob sent me over the edge. I know. The word Thingamabob.

2

I’m reading a lot right now, trying to stay away from my phone and the news. It’s not working. I just read the phone at 2am instead of 11pm now. I want to recommend all of the books I read, not because they’re all good (they really aren’t), but because I want to brag to all of you that I read so many books, and somewhere in the brag I want to enforce that reading books is always a good thing. If you worry the author or the premise of the book is problematic, simply steal the book or look for it passively in FREE piles at the library like I do. That’s how I found Kraken by China Mieville, which isn’t a problem book at all—and in fact I do recommend it especially for fans of highly thought through worldbuilding sci-fi. What made the transaction of picking up the book so challenging is that I’d felt the whisper of a Me Too allegation in my long term memory and couldn’t ignore it. And simultaneously, I knew it was a disservice to Mieville if the accusation was not credible or did not meet the threshold of a crime in my own evaluation. [And yes, this happens not infrequently, because I don’t love excommunication in general and remember when we castigated the gays and the bis and the dykes for shit we think is “fierce” and “radical” today.] This is all to say, I accept the terms by which I must consume books today, and am still able to tell you, “yes, Kraken is an excellent book. Go read it.”

3

In high school, I was elated to be received for an interview at Pomona College where I’d hoped to be accepted into the undergraduate literature program. In the interview, I was asked who my favorite author was. I was dumbstruck, unable to answer the question, for how could one possibly? The interviewer showed mercy after an interminable and cross-eyed pause. “Well, you can name more than one if you’re having trouble saying just one author. Or why don’t you just tell me of any good books you remember.”

Toni Morrison.

I blurted that out because I’d read everything I could get my hands on after my senior year teacher, Mrs. Clifford, assigned us Beloved. This should have been an shoe-in. I could possibly talk about Morrison for an hour. I’d just finished Sula after finishing Song of Solomon after finishing The Bluest Eye. The interviewer’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes! Toni Morrison! Please say more!”

But the strangest fucking thing happened. The very same fucking whisper (pardon my fucking French but I will regret this till the end of my days), the same fucking whisper that interrupted all of my enthusiasm and all of my earnestness and all of my sincerity through high school, college and graduate school…all of the Me inside of me that was choked back until I gave birth to a child and swore not to bequeath the whisper…this fucking whisper said to me: do not give this interview the idea that anything impresses you that much. Do not let people know such a vaunted figure, an author lionized by your beloved English teacher, a woman in the pantheon of academic letters, means anything to you personally. Do not hype Toni Morrison.

I said to the interviewer, “I mean, she’s great, but everyone knows that, I guess. Is that the answer I’m supposed to give you?”

I will never live that down and in my life I hope I only ever join the chorus of enthusiasm for Toni Morrison who deserves a status in the canon per religious sainthood. Not a metaphor. And for all of the writers who loved me despite my childish mockery of love.

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