A Quirky Bookworm

Writing a novel, it’s what you do when unemployed. In fact, fun-employment land had its perks. While eating bacon donuts, browsing the titles at Powell’s Books, and breathing in the crisp (and very clean) Portland air, I declared, “ wow, fun-employment isn’t so terrible.”

A few weeks later, I returned home to New York City. Gone were gatherings around a bonfire, hills filled with rustic pine trees and the left coast laid-back attitude. Rather, than getting depressed over my lack of employment and many rejection emails from companies around the city, I created my Bohemian utopia.

I lovingly branded this era as the “great bohemian retreat.” Predictably, I wrote stories, lots of stories. Frequenting coffee shops from the East Village to Upper West Side, I sipped the stimulation of a strong coffee. I also read lots of books. Indulging in the eloquent and often humorous words of favorite authors inspired my writing.

Then one day, I looked at my bank statement. “Oy, I really need a job,” said I. While I continued job hunting, I was depressed. “God, I miss working,” said I.

I stared at the Upper West Side from that most dramatic of views, Lincoln Center. The epicenter of operas, which ignite great pathos served as the perfect location for my melancholy moment. While feeling beyond sad, I couldn’t write or daydream without feeling sad.

“What’s one place, which always makes me feel better?” I asked myself. I walked toward the Time Warner Center (it’s a mall, even though New Yorkers would never call it a mall). Going to the mall always cheered me up.

As I stared at the most cinematic city views from the second floor, I received the call, which would change my life. I was re-hired at my old ad firm. The sadness melted like a snowman in spring.

I really wish life were a Broadway musical, since I could’ve broken into the happiest song possible. Rather than feeling like a New York reject, I was happily returning to work.

On Monday, I picked up a $.75 coffee from the deli. I made my way to the subway and opened up a good book. After transferring trains at Times Square, I arrived at Grand Central Station. In the midst of typical Monday morning chaos, I smiled. That train ride led me to a new life and most importantly, I had officially left fun-employment land.

Although, it had difficult moments, fun-employment land had its charms. I spent quality time in Palm Springs with my father, marveled at Portland’s quirks, and found adventures in New York. Looking back at the bohemian era, I can smile and proclaim, “I got a three month holiday, which I probably won’t get again.” Goodbye to the great bohemian retreat. Hello, bohemian life with a job.

Gay-mer

“My future husband is just hiding under a rock. I can feel it.” Said I. Strolling the East Village provided me with a plethora of attractive men. Gawking was delightful, until awkward eye contact was made. This was followed by the even more awkward head turn (to avoid contact) maneuver (from the random guy).

“Whoops, I guess that one wasn’t interested. I must’ve had a booger in my nose or something. Why would any man not want some wonderful eye sex,” I said with optimism spewing from my tongue.

Typically, I stroll with a tote bag (man purse) full of books. Since, I live so far, Uptown, I kill boredom with the words of David Sedaris, Maya Angelou, & Gertrude Stein.While parading around Tompskins Square Park, I found a most inviting park bench to feast upon.

Yet, I couldn’t concentrate on any book. Behold, the Tinder dating app. “No, no, no, I shall not be distracted with men and dating. Hell, I’m not getting any younger here. Damn it, I am caving in,” said I.

Pulling out the phone app, I was met with the evil lord of rejection. There were so many gym bunnies and hipsters. Some guys were a hybrid, hipster + gym bunny (muscles, beards, and flannel, accompanied by a swig PBR beer). Holy shit, where are all the alternative guys? Where are the guys, who said fuck you to the gym, but revered Ezra Pound? Asked I.

In the midst of clones, I found a rebel. “A video game nerd and major dork in general?” I asked myself, while scrolling through the witty profile of an attractive guy (with glasses). I must like him. Surprise, he liked me back, and I finally got a match.

A family of folk singers magically appeared. They played a little jig with their traveling banjos in celebration. As the folk music intensified, I messaged my gay-mer. With fingers crossed, we connected. Quickly, we made plans for a date.

Preparing myself for a voyage across the East River to Astoria, I thought about interesting topics to bring up on the date.” It was my first date with a gay-mer.

“I did have a Nintendo back in the 80’s, been to an arcade and even danced, danced, danced to the dance, dance, revolution. However, I was never particularly good at video games. That’s it, I’ll suggest that he teach me the ropes, “ I thought to myself.

Eventually, I arrived in Astoria. It was chilly evening. Steinway Street was bustling with shoppers in pea coats and fancy wool hats. Through a darkened side street, I found the charming little restaurant for the date.

I walked into the grilled cheese and beer specialty restaurant. It was an intimate place with exposed brick walls, long tables, and a very arty crowd.

“Dinner for one,” asked the friendly host. “Two please,” I replied. He walked me over to the communal table. I ordered a beer. My date arrived, dressed in a pea coat, black beanie and decorative glasses.

He was cute. My glasses were in the primary stages of fogging up. “Was this the animal lust, Cosmopolitan magazine always talked about?” I wondered to myself. “Quick, quick, think of video came terms. He arrived at the table. We hugged. I felt at ease.

“I’m unemployed, 31 and live in a walk-up,” I told him. He responded, “I work two jobs and have several roommates. We laughed and drank beer, noshed on delicious grilled cheeses and had wonderful eye contact. After dismissing the men of New York, I found my ideal geek. He understood my geek-dom and I relished in his quirks.

After four hours of gabbing, two geeks strolled into the Queens night. The pubs were bustling. 24-hour markets were alive with neon. Green cabs raced through Broadway. The sounds of typewriters shattered the evening quiet.

We were cold. Our teeth became musical instruments, as we shivered the night away. Walking toward the subway, I didn’t want to say, goodbye. Along the above ground, Broadway train station, cold winds awakened our spirits. More good conversation followed.

The train arrived. He hopped off on the last stop in Queens. I returned to Manhattan. In my own geeky universe, I was head nerd. However, I needed someone to help me rule the kingdom. Luckily, I received a text from him. He wanted another date. This was a brave step for two boys with highly decorative glasses.

Dog In A Sweater

People, I’m always around people. Sounds, there are so many exotic sounds. Like most Americans, I wake up to an alarm clock. Atypically, this alarm clock is a honking car horn in the morning.

When I wake up, I stroll over to my window, half asleep. I glance down at busy Seventh Avenue (Harlem side), where I plan my wardrobe according to the fashion outside. The grey skies of New York, intensify.

“I feel so alone out here,” declare I. With millions of people around me, a feeling of utter isolation developed. In the tradition of over dramatic gay men, I took initiative.

“Oy, why must I be so alone? With so many single gay men, I stand all alone in this chilly apartment,” said I, throwing myself onto the floor. It was a Tony award worthy performance. Tears fell from my cheeks, “there’s only one thing, which could cure my deep sense of isolation,” I said, staring up at my shabby white ceiling.

“Howdy, small coffee, enough room for cream,” said I. I could’ve seen my shrink, but a $2.00 coffee would work perfectly. My favorite coffee shop was bustling on that bitterly cold winter’s day. There was only one table available, but it came with a catch.

I locked eyes with the most adorable puppy. Reluctantly, I sat next to the puppy. “Shit, this dog better not cause me to spill coffee all over my lap top,” said I. With a faithful glance, I stared into her owner’s eyes.

He was boyishly handsome. Dressed in hip, but understated attire, he was very friendly and approachable. We greeted each other. The dog then licked my face.

“Gross, gross, germs, germs, cooties, cooties,” said I, internally. “I’m so sorry, “ he said. His charm was contagious. Rather than expressing disgruntled angst, I smiled and embraced the puppy.

“Is she a lab?” I asked. “She’s actually a mix pit bull and black lab,” he said. The puppy wouldn’t stop staring at me. She sat right next to me. I opened up my laptop and proceeded to work.

Then the puppy laid her head on my arm. “Don’t get dog hair all over me, “ I thought to myself. “Sorry, about that she’s just super friendly,” he said. I smiled and said, “It’s okay, I love adorable puppy. I just can’t stand crying babies.” We both laughed.

I stared down at the super affectionate puppy. Her loyalty grew into an endearing quality. My feeling of isolation and loneliness dissipated for a moment.

“It must be great having such a cute puppy. I’ve been in New York for years and it’s incredibly lonely at times,” I told him. He shook his head in agreement, “yeah, I get super lonely. That’s why I bought a dog.”

“Wow, this guy is cute, friendly and charming. He gets lonely too. I’m glad I’m not the only one,” I said to myself. He and the puppy eventually left. I really wanted to ask him out on a date, but didn’t.

After my coffee house day, I strolled around the East Village. Surprisingly, puppy love helped me feel a little less lonely for a few hours, afterwards. I stared at the dogs dressed in festive holiday sweaters, roaming around Avenue A.

Oh yes, one day that’ll be Augustan & I (my future pup) wandering the East Village (in our most delightful sweaters). We’ll also have a coffee dates. He’ll enjoy New York tap water and I’ll relish in my gourmet cappuccino. It’ll be quite a life.

King Of The North

Bagpipes, kilts, and punk rock, this is Scotland. Craving a fried Mars bar, anyone? Too bad, this northern story doesn’t take place in the United Kingdom. It centers round the Northeastern United States, New York City to be exact.

On a winter’s day, the sky resembled the distinct grey of Scotland. Journeying along the Upper West Side, I listened to my favorite Scottish band, Garbage. Cloudy days were romanticized for me. I enjoyed the fog, buttoning up a smart pea coat, and relishing in heartwarming whisky.

However, I was feeling down, very down. I had returned to New York City, unemployed. Moping around Broadway, snow fell from the sky. It mirrored frosted corn flakes. I was mesmerized, but jaded. “How am I going to make it without employment?” I asked myself.

Feeling increasingly blue, my hands froze. Surprisingly, I found relief. “Next station is Columbus Circle,” announced the train conductor. Sitting on the near empty subway car, I contemplated life. I relished in the warmth of a train, and observing quirky characters. Regardless, morale remained low.

The snow let up, I strolled the Bowery. In search of CBGB’s ghosts, I ventured into an island of counter culture. Tompskins Square Park was typically filled with homeless punks, arty old people enjoying rent control and a few yuppies lost in the madness.

Sitting on a park bench, I huffed and puffed. Anxiety was kicking in. Then an elderly gentleman sat next to me, with his crumpled up newspaper. “Holy shit, it’s Sean Connery,” I thought to myself. He opened up the newspaper and I played it cool.

He stared at me. I glanced quickly at him. “You looked depressed,” he said. My ears were deceived. “Why does Sean Connery sound like Vinny from Queens?” I asked myself.

Maybe this wasn’t Sean Connery, but he certainly was brilliant at reading obvious body language. “Why so glum? Seasonal depression? He asked. I shook my head, no and replied, “I’m unemployed. It’s been tough to get a career started.

Staring at me, sternly, he replied, “Have you heard of GOYA?” Oh god, yes, I know it means, get off yours ass.” I replied. “Exactly, shit happens to everyone. We’re all struggling here. Take a look around at the neighborhood today. It’s a ghost town. Go out and enjoy it, buddy,” he said, while giving me a pat on the back.

Quickly, he left the quaint park bench. He returned to his rent-controlled apartment, which existed only in my head. The snow fell from the sky, again. Disregarding disappointment, I enjoyed the moment.

The East Village was eerily quiet. It was wonderful. I read a book and drank coffee. My mood was elated, no bagpipes needed. With all this talk of Scotland, I could use a fried Mars bar right now. Cheers to grey skies, bagpipes and Sean Connery look alikes.

That Bearded Dude

Saturday mornings, I typically frequent my favorite Upper West Side diner. Sitting with a cup of coffee, I often wondered if I would ever find romance. Grindr, Tinder, & Okcupid, I was on every dating site. Yet, I couldn’t even get a handshake from perspective dates.

Something peculiar happened when I left for a holiday in Portland. I met a guy, at a gay bar. I only happened to travel 2,454 miles to find him. On my last night in Portland, we sat across from each other at a wine bar, which could easily fit in (New York’s) West Village.

It was utterly romantic and terribly cliché. “Hey do you wanna go to Voodoo donuts,” he asked. Secretly, I did want to go. Rather than playing it cool, I shook my head with great enthusiasm.

Noshing on maple-bacon donuts, I glared into the pavement. It was gritty and grungy, the great 90’s alternative rock bands would approve. While eating our hearty donuts, we decided to take the plunge. I experienced some fear, since it had been a while. He grabbed my hand and led me to a dark den with glowing lights.

I know what you’re thinking this isn’t a romance novel, is it? Correct, we didn’t end up some seedy hotel room, but in a video game arcade. It was the boozy, 21 and over arcade, naturally. We competed with each other on various video games.

As expected, I really sucked at shooting ducks and driving racecars. Continually, he beat me in every game. I hated loosing. In my defense, I hadn’t played a video game, since the Clinton administration.

Sensing my frustration with continual loses, he grabbed and kissed me. In the midst of pinball machines and Japanese pop music, I fell for a guy in the most unexpected of places.

We took a walk alongside gritty Burnside, holding hands. Then we came to an obvious, but shocking fact. “What are we going to do now? It’s your last night. I live in Portland. You live in New York, but I’ve never felt this way about a guy before,” asked my beloved, Oregonian.

Frustrated, I had fallen off the puffy cloud of fantasy. In the echoing sounds of street musicians and wind speeds, I grew dumbfounded. “That’s right, we just happened to have a whole continent, separating us,” I said, with relative sarcasm.

It was a terribly emotional moment. “Why couldn’t I’ve met this guy in New York? I wish he would just move in with me.” The awkwardness grew. Rather than dwell on specifics, we reveled our last night together.

Toward the end of the evening, I walked him to the Max (the Portland streetcar). It arrived, too quickly. Giving him one last kiss, I bid him, farewell. It was truly the end of a spectacular holiday.

The next day, I was riding in a cab to Portland International Airport. I received a text, “You’re complicated, but I adore you” he wrote. Giggling, I wrote back, “It takes a complicated guy to know a complicated guy. I adore you too.” He sent a smile-y face.

Taking in a deep breath, I stared at his picture. “If this is actually true romance, I’ll be seeing you again soon,” I declared with confidence. I arrived at the airport, hoped on a plane and left my heart in Portland.

Dress Your Bear In Flannel

The birds chirped. Leaves pranced merrily along the pavement. Echoing winds accentuated a charming portrait of the town hamlet.

“Wait, town hamlet? This is the East Village. How is it so eerily quiet and peaceful on Tuesday afternoon?” asked I. Strolling up Avenue A, I avoided jamming to music and savored in the lack of background noise.

My inner Walt Whitman, Ezra Pound & James Joyce, longed to write exquisite poetry. Artistically, I pulled out my journal. Taking in a deep breath, I longed to scribble down beautiful words, which described my great time of need.

Instead, a monster jumped out of the bushes and slaughtered my attention span. “Oh shit, I was going to write the next “Leaves of Grass,” but I think I’ll go on Facebook, instead. Everyone on Facebook land is just dying to see (more) marvelous photos of a traditional Northeast fall,” said I.

“I’ll write the next Leaves of Grass right after this next status update,” said I. Instead of amusing the world with witty banter and funky photos, I messaged one of my best friends.

Rather than talking of beautiful scenery, I broke down through Facebook messenger. “I’m still unemployed and can’t find a job,” wrote I, with tears, which mirrored a monsoon season.

“You should go spend December in California. It’s going to be slow here, in regards to finding work,” she wrote back. As I stared across the East River with Queens & Brooklyn glistening in the sun, emotion ran rampant. “I’ll consider it,” I wrote.

Instantly, I daydreamed of taking the dream trip to Portland along with visiting my dad in California. “I could drink organic coffee, grow a beard, jam to my favorite 90’s alternative band, hike in lovely cardigans and it’s only a two hour flight from my hometown,” said I.

As soon as I daydreamed of California and Portland, the city dazzled me again. Pretty window displays, high fashion, and frosty weather enticed the senses. I didn’t want to miss out on the holiday season.

“Fuck it,” said I. That very evening, I booked my ticket to the left coast. I lost the fear of missing out on New York-ness (which I have experienced countless times before) and was headed to old familiar, California and the new flannel, loving frontier, Portland.

My bohemian retreat commenced, a few days later. I stuffed my favorite cardigans, sweaters and pea coats into a carry-on, ready to be paraded around Portland.

Taking another gander at my apartment, I declared, “See you on January 1st, New York. When I comeback, I’ll have a journal filled with new stories,” said I, confidentially. Channeling Ernest Hemingway, I set off for a new literary adventure. Waving good-bye to the Manhattan skyline, I was ready to re-conquer the West Coast.

A Lonely Heartbeat

“I think we’re alone now (the Tiffany version, obviously)” is my favorite song to perform at Karaoke. With my vocal cords, I could empty out any room. Literally, it’s that sweet and magical.

As an only child (thanks mother & father), I cherish my alone time. Living in Manhattan, people are always around me. Hence, I’m never quite alone. In fact, I don’t remember having a quiet moment, in years.

When temperature took a frosty dip, I reveled in emptier sidewalks. On a usually chilly Friday night, I took my favorite evening stroll. Commencing at Astor Place, I took a splendid walk though the East Village. Crossing Houston and then Delancy, New York wonders delighted me. Coffee shops, hip window displays, and exotic restaurants seduced my heart.

“Darling, I know you want Texas BBQ, Indian culinary delights, and a key lime pie from Veniero’s, but you’re unemployed,” said the accountant, who resided in the left side of my brain.

I experienced a great deal of self-control. After another magnificent and very frugal date night with myself, I took the 3 train to Manhattan’s North Pole, Harlem.

The train grew progressively empty. By the time, it reached 96th Street, (literally) everyone had exited the subway car. I was left alone without a single, living, breathing soul experiencing the subway’s charm. “This is awkward. I never had a whole subway car to myself,” declared I.

With a bit of quirk and imagination, I brainstormed all the creative shit I could get away with, alone. “Tap dancing, a one-man act play, performance art, and even yelling, fuck, super duper loud. This is what I can do with my own private performance space,” said I.

Yet, my brain was gassy. Hello, brain farts. Instead of coming up with lavish performance ideas, I reveled in the obvious. Finally, I have alone time. The most riveting fact was avoiding to these following individuals:

–  break dancers

-Preachers, who will destroy your ear drum with the wrath of hell.

-men who open their legs so wide, they take up two seats

-crying babies and kids, yelling for no fucking reason

The subway reached Harlem. Miraculously, I was still the only passenger in the subway car. “Dear, gods of public transportation, I could live without cameo appearances, just let me enjoy this alone time, which never happens,” prayed I, staring into the clouds above.

Three stops later, I exited. Tears of joy flowed down my rosy cheeks. “ Shit, this was the equivalent of riding first class on a plane. I better not get to used to it,” thought, I. Marveling at my stroke of luck, I celebrated by drinking a Dunkin Donuts coffee (this is called Coffee & Cardigans for a reason).

Finally, I achieved having alone time in the city, outside of my apartment. I felt Barbara Streisand, winning an Oscar for Funny Girl. Note to my non-New York friends, never enter an empty subway car; it’ll only destroy all sense of smell. After another spectacular subway story, I leave you with that song, “I think we’re alone now” in honor of my exciting night out.

The Mighty, Mighty Conqueror

“Christmas, Christmas time is here,” sang Alvin, Simon and Theodore (the Chipmunks). Indeed, New York City’s temperature dipped into wintertime campiness by mid November. Twinkling lights dominated Columbus Circle. Shops capitalized in the pre-holiday cheer with lavish window displays. New Yorkers defrosted with cozy cups of hot chocolate.

In the midst of cheer and campy Christmas music, there was a cameo appearance by one aggressive, Scrooge. “Hey, that’s my cab. I got here first, said I.” On an unseasonably cold November evening, I battled for a cab. Like the great William the Conqueror and his Norman Conquest, I planned to win the battle.

As I shivered on the corner of Fourteenth and Avenue A, I stared at my nemesis, (who also held on to the cab door.). “Holy shit,” said I, internally. He was incredibly handsome, all decked out in a tuxedo. I thought to myself, “wow, this guy really makes me look like a laid-back surfer. He’s really dolled up.”

We both held on to the cab door. “Are you going uptown too?” I asked. He shook his head, yes. “Let’s share a cab,” I suggested. He agreed and we took the voyage, uptown.

Secretly, I hopped this would turn into my holiday cuddle buddy. With liquid courage, I took one brave step in conquering the world for gays, everywhere. “Where are you off to?” I asked. He answered a friend’s wedding at the Palace Hotel. He looked distracted by his phone.

While we heading up First Avenue, I asked the most riveting question. “ Are you gay or straight?” asked I. Without blinking an eye, he answered, “straight.” My face went blank, “So much for cuddling with the guy in the well tailored tux,” declared I.

After arriving at the opulent Palace Hotel, my former conquest leaped out of the cab and gave me money for his portion of the ride. I was slightly disappointed, but “shit, at least I wasn’t rejected for obvious reasons. No regrets,” said I.

I arrived at my cozy apartment in Harlem. With one phone call, I delighted in that single thirty-something tradition of ordering Chinese food and enjoying an indie film, alone. The icy winds blew through the city, while Wonton soup warmed my heart.

I might have been single, but I was okay with that. This the cheerful season to wear my cute sweaters, while blasting Christmas music, twenty-four/seven. Let the lights twinkle and leave some cookies for Santa. The campy holidays are finally here, with or without romance.

 

Hello, Yellow Brick Road

In my early twenties, I was young, broke, and living in Astoria, Queens. From the edge of Astoria Park, I glared across the East River at Manhattan.

“One day, I will have conquer you, “ said I. Astoria was the place I longed to escape. I had a romanticized image of living in the alluring city. Manhattan was hip, glamorous, and very cultured. Therefore, I made it my life’s mission to call Manhattan, home.

Years later, I finally moved to Manhattan. On an icy March morning, I settled into an elevator building in the east twenties, which overlooked Queens. My existence in the city had every charming component, imaginable.

Then, I hoped on a hot air balloon ride, which eventually burst over Central Park (the hot balloon, a metaphor for unemployment). I fell face forward. Like any tough, resilient New Yorker, I dusted myself off and paraded on Fifth Avenue.

With turbulent times came feelings of isolation. As an intense grey engulfed my Uptown bubble, I longed for a temporary exodus. I hopped on the M60 bus from my current life in Harlem to the good ol’ days in Astoria.

Off I went across the Triboro Bridge. The Bronx’s red brick project buildings, Manhattan’s skyline, and the calming waters of the East River dominated my eyes. While on the bus, I thought of my old neighbor, Tony.

I really hoped to see him on this trip to the old neighborhood. When we first met, he was enjoying laughs with our neighbors on the stoop. He was a blue collar, native New Yorker with the accent to prove it. With a wicked sense of humor, he could charm the most jaded of folks.

The night we met, I had a date with this random guy, a few blocks away. “Can I walk you to the corner?” he asked. I shook my head, yes. Sensing some insecurity on my part, he uttered the following, “you look beautiful.” With a surprise stare, I thought to myself, “wow, this is one open minded straight guy.”

In the midst of a quiet block of brick and candy colored homes, he drew me close. Intense winds blew from the East River. With one quick swoop, he kissed me.

“I am gay,” he said. In a bit of shock, I just smiled in awe. “You’re gorgeous, have fun on your date, tonight,” he said. Walking away into Queen’s darkened, but charming sidewalks, he left.

The date went well, but nothing romantic came from it. Instead, Tony and I formed a strong bond. I missed him terribly, when I left Queens. Then, the bus finally arrived in Astoria.

The change of scenery was a very warm welcome. The charming borough felt like home again. Immediately, I walked toward my old apartment building. The row houses and brick apartment buildings retained their cozy charm.

From the distance, I saw a blue baseball cap. “Oh, please tell me that’s Tony,” I whispered to myself. It wasn’t. Disappointingly, I had to face the awful pangs of truth.

“Tony is really gone,” I declared. He had died almost two years ago. Naively, I wanted to believe he was still watering his mother’s rose gardens and handing me new coupons, he had just clipped. His death seemed more real, but there was closure.

Holding back emotion, I could hear Tony’s witty banter. “Just enjoy your life, buddy,” he would tell me. Remembering his favorite neighborhood spot, I walked over to glorious Astoria Park.

The peace and quiet of my old neighborhood was a refreshing change from Manhattan’s frenetic pace. It still retained the quaintness, which was further characterized by cozy fall skies.

Finally, I reached Astoria Park. The leaves colored the green grounds with leave of yellow, pink, and rogue. From the vantage point, I once declared my future move to Manhattan, I really had returned.

Although, my life across the East River turned into a parallel universe, full of uncertainty, I felt a great deal of peace. I sat on a bench and turned my uncertainty into a sense of adventure. With great confidence, I walked to the subway and returned to Manhattan.

Descending up into East Village madness, I felt part of a very busy anthill. Albeit, a very hip and fashionable anthill, indeed. I longed for a bit of peace and quite, once again. While walking to my favorite coffee shop, I was reminded of Astoria and especially, Tony.

Even though, that era had ended, it provided me with endless happy memories. In fact, when I couldn’t find enough campy Broadway musicals to sing, I would just think of my old home borough. Instantly, it lifted my spirits. Queens, I never thought I’d say this, but “I think I fancy you.”

Duck, Duck, Goose

It’s another adventure in fun-employment land. This edition is brought to you by those institutions, television shows and cafes, which distract the soul. Your contribution is greatly appreciated. Now on to today’s story.

Feeling like New York gave me a swift kick in the tuckus (ass), I wandered around Nolita. High fashion, cupcakes shops, and pricey walk-ups were quite lovely to look at, even on a budget.

While feeling quite blue and ready to break into an operatic performance, I ditched the stage of Lincoln Center for an anti-depressant. Naturally, this anti-depressant came in the form of a bookshop.

“Hello, Ernest Hemingway, Dorothy Parker, James Joyce, Jack Kerouac and yes, even J.D. Salinger, “said I. Intoxicated by the sweet bookshop scent, I browsed the titles. Taking a step back, I admired the perfectly organized books and shed a tear.

Somebody cue Simon & Garfunkel’s “hazy shade of winter,” please. Inspiration flowed through my blood stream. Armed with my laptop, I dashed to my favorite East Village coffee shop. After finding a cozy table, I made a major life decision. “Oh yes, I will join the National Write a novel in 30 days contest,” said I.

Opening up my laptop, I took a gulp of coffee. For months, I had daydreamed the idea of this particular novel. Even with a sizable amount of time, daydreaming, that first blank page was terrifying. Rather, than overly intellectualizing my dilemma, a voice spoke to me. It was my novel’s protagonist.

“Have you heard of GOYA? Asked the voice. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, “no.” His intensity grew. It means “Get off your ass, if you want to start writing a novel, go ahead and do it. Don’t worry about writer’s block, I shall lead the way,” he said.

Rather than pressuring myself to write the next Less than Zero or Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, I simply let my protagonist guide me through an expedition. Like going on a proper field trip, he took me on an adventure, Indiana Jones would envy. Soon, I wrote my first few pages of the novel.

Departing the coffee shop, I was liberated with power of the written word. Soon, my protagonist and I became best friends. He spoke to me in the most random of places. The whole city became a personalized creative space.

“Would I finish this novel by the end of November?” Asked I. My character, responded with a proper, “who knows, who cares” answer. In the meantime, I reveled in a novel writing adventure, which beats a trek up the Himalayas, any day.

 

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