This from the bus on my way back to the city. Greyhound has hooked in to the global limewire. After a weekend of telescopic nostalgia for youth spent amidst childhood friends, I am marveling over the voraciousness of life, the multitude of ways of existing. About to crash back into that city of small-walled living, eternal happy hours and jobs that sound more like the names of exotic encyclopedias than any sort of way to make bank.
The weekend was lovely. All women were in top form. The bachelorette hooplah delivered both exhibitions of taste and tawdry. I forget what it is to live in a place where there is enough room in a house for two refrigerators worth of fine cheeses and imported beers. The Cape was cold and rainy. The beach neglected to make an appearance and yet, of course, it was a weekend of great spirit. I return, the rouge naked-ring fingered city sprite, unwashed, unkept and maritally unspoken for. (Though certainly not with out the trademarks of love. There is a French man smoking cigarettes in my bed.) My fish-bowl romanticism and my curls are still intact. After the 2 karat wattage of diamond flashbulbs, I realize that I have installed a different gem in my beside lamp. One around which the flies gather.
There is a bit of an alien feeling in there too. That lonely old courage teacher.
The below bits of good news arrive just on time, as I sit here in transit, wondering, in a larger sense, what it is I am returning to. Just when New York and I are about to quit one another, when I find myself reaching into my back pocket in order to thumb the billfolds of habit and tradition – a thin wallet in my case to be sure – this city reminds me of some part of its face. The sense that here if you fight hard enough to get seats close to the ring, you can watch the players in the flesh duking it out over a new kind of happy ending.
Suzanne Pettypiece’s article for Poets & Writers, Lit Crawl: Postcard From New York City.Gigantic’s tale starts at the bottom of page one and continues for most of page two.
At 8 PM, right on schedule, the thumping dance music softened and the lights dimmed. A disco ball hanging just overhead splattered the audience and walls with red dots. Author Tao Lin—whose new press, Muumuu House, hosted its own event, Cash-Money-Obama Millionaires—stood up from where he was sitting on the floor, just beside the towering DJ booth, and gave us our first sign that we were about to be served from a nontraditional literary menu.