The Very Merry Otter

On a sweltering June afternoon, a teenage otter wandered around Times Square. He hailed from California’s sprawling suburbs. Armed with a Kodak disposable camera, he endured the extreme humidity and excitedly anticipated a life altering experience.

At the Palace theatre, he saw a vision. It was a Broadway show. “Aida” was the show, which popped his musical theatre cherry. Although, not the most amazing show; it was a trailblazing experience. Blossoming into a Broadway aficionado, he saved his pennies for the thrills of lavish musical numbers.

Eventually, our perky otter traded the Inland Empire’s sprawling mountain ranges for New York’s islands. After years in Queens & Manhattan, our heroic otter was a bit jaded.

He vividly daydreamed of a beautiful log cabin, surrounded by pine trees with a flowing stream of water. Alongside natural beauty, the cabin’s interior had a wood-burning fireplace, extensive book library & shabby furniture with scotch tape, masking it’s deteriorating beauty.

Even in the midst of wanderlust, our otter had graduated to the “hey, I am a New Yorker (from California). I can fucking complain, if I want to” phase of life. Rather than buying a one-way ticket to Oregon, he braved the chaotic plateau.

He was diagnosed with extreme jadedness. Nothing could stimulate his sense of wonder, anymore. Unexpectedly, he grew weary. On an unseasonably cold, April day, he received a text from (his friend, almost a sister), Natalia. “I want to make you smile, let’s go to the theatre.”

Merrily our otter was all dolled up. Coincidentally, the Broadway show brought him back to the theatre, where his love of musical theatre was born, the Palace.

Jadedness departed his soul, upon arrival. He enjoyed watching the parade of old people, all dolled up and excited about Broadway. The smell and old world appearance were as thrilling as his fist visit to the theatre.

As the curtain rose, he finally cracked a smile. There were lavish dance numbers, campy songs and impressive sets. Once again, our otter found his happy place in life.

Eventually, he returned to his jaded self. However, he was reminded that musical theatre saves souls. It lifts one from depression, even for a brief exhilarating moment.

He came to appreciate his New York surroundings, again. The forest and log cabin were more ideal. However, where would he find musical theatre in the woods? Otter thanked the Broadway gods for his smorgasbord of theatrical options.

Bear In A Cardigan

In the midst of rugged mountains, track homes, and vast freeways hides a surprising counter culture. In Riverside, CA, weird rules. Odd balls gravitate to the suburban sprawl like guacamole to a tortilla chip.

Growing up in Riverside, the counter culture frequented Back 2 the Grind, a coffee shop. It had comfy couches, art, and a dizzying array of books. Back 2 the Grind served as the perfect life alternative to my Catholic school conformity.

It’s where gay kids would hang out. They sipped lattes, listen to bands play, and form wanderlust of a world beyond rugged hills and orange groves. Conveniently, it was located next to a gay bar.

On any given night, disco lights would shine from the bar’s window onto the sidewalk. The Thompson Twins’ campy classic, “Lies” would seduce the gay eardrums. For a teenager (like yours truly), it was mesmerizing. A room full of sweaty, dancing gay guys, it was almost surreal, especially steaming from a conservative upbringing.

Curiosity blinded my senses. I declared, one day, I’d like to visit a gay bar. There were the obvious allures of sex and friendship, but also experiencing a life altering liberation.

After experiencing my first gay bar, it was exciting. Then, I quickly grew out of loud, sweaty bars. I found more liberation in myself rather than an institution.

Living in New York, I preferred cozy dives, where the bartenders knew my favorite drinks and life biography. I also couldn’t stay up super late, anymore. Taking the subway at 3 A.M. seemed as appealing as being chased by ferocious bulls in Pamplona.

Mirroring my Riverside upbringing, I preferred the warmth of a New York coffee house. I adored reading my books and writing on any given Saturday night. One night, I took a time machine ride back to my youth, thanks to a night out in Hell’s Kitchen (New York’s big gayborhood).

Thanks to a few whiskies, I was lured into one of those loud bars with a sizable dance floor. While the room was spinning, loud pop music threatened my eardrums. Oy, I think I am too old for this. Indeed, I was. My bladder agreed with me. I spent most of the night, peeing, which gave me practice in social skills. There was always a bathroom line.

When I wasn’t in line, I tried dancing with friends. Since, I am a wallflower, dancing didn’t come as easy. Then, I spotted a guy. Our eyes locked. He was dressed in a preppy manner, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes. Instantly, he grabbed and kissed me.

I was shocked, but secretly enjoyed it. Does this make me a male cougar? He seems a few years younger, I noted to myself. Instead, I giggled and declared, “why yes, I still have it going on.” He brought out the tiger in me, but it was only a kiss.

Fearing a burst of misery on the late night subway, I took a cab home. Happily, I noted my night out as a life experience.

The next day, I sipped on coffee, listened to an indie band, and enjoyed tacos with my neighbor. I realized that I am still a mellow, Riverside boy. Although, getting kissed by that cute guy will remain a most wonderful memory.

Squeak Says Mouse

I live in a fifth floor-walk-up apartment. Lovingly, I call my apartment, the penthouse (with breath taking views of the projects and delis). Thanks to cheap rent and abundant space (for New York), I’ve remained in my shabby, but charming old studio apartment.

On one my voyages upstairs, I huffed and puffed. “I miss living in an elevator building” are the words, I proclaim, everyday. On a particularly cold January evening, I rushed up to the penthouse, bracing myself for Wonton soup to sooth and warm the soul.

Quickly, I met the face of fear. My eyes widen with terror. It was the grey creature of death and destruction. It squeaked. “Shit, that’s a mouse,” it was tiny. Rather, than disregarding mighty mouse, I took a calmer route.

With an earth-shattering scream, the mouse grew fearful. He fell a down a flight of stairs. Bolting toward my apartment, I arrived and locked the door. Anxiety raced through me.
Then, I thought about that poor injured mouse, falling down all the flights of stairs.

Poor guy, but it didn’t take away from his wrath of evilness. My heart grew worrisome for home, oddly. Afterwards, I took in deep breaths and listened to show tunes. While being entranced by the sounds of Phantom of the Opera, Evita and Fiddler on the Roof, I soon drifted into a mouse free land.

Months later, I forgot about Mr. Mouse. He was a distant memory. On a spring morning with sparkling blue skies and delicious coffee, I received a nervous text from my friend, Anna. “We have a mouse in our apartment,” she texted.

Being the strapping gay lad, I texted back, “I’ll be over to help you find it.” As I strolled past coffee shops and brownstone blocks, terror returned. “Shit, a mouse. I hate mice. The only mouse, I adore is named Mickey and he lives in Disneyland.”

Hesitatingly, I arrived into the den of anxiety, my friend’s apartment. My favorite neighbors, Anna and Sigourney’s faces spelled terror. Mousetraps lined the floor of the apartment. Furniture was scattered. Only one piece of furniture remained in tact, the couch.

Armed with broomsticks, Anna bravely moved the couch. We had a feeling the mouse was under it. While the couch moved, a sign of terror appeared. “Oh, my god, it’s a mouse tail, yelled Sigourney. Like any rugged and manly man, I took a quick gulp, bolted toward the bathroom and locked myself in.

“Anthony, grow a pair of balls,” said, Anna. I didn’t want to leave the bathroom. It was comfortable and safe. Eventually, I came out of the bathroom and quickly grabbed a broomstick. What looked like a tail, was actually fallen fabric from the couch. After moving the couch and re-arranging the furniture several times, the mouse still didn’t appear.

It was a grueling afternoon of screaming and anxiety. Rather than dialing up my very reliable therapist, I found my Zen place. If you guessed a coffee shop, then congratulations, you’re a fucking genius.

Anna and I sipped on lattes. We forgot about the mouse, which was never captured. Our lattes were a badge of honor for surviving a deeply traumatizing scenario.

Mice are a reality of New York, sort of like shit weather and high rents. Personally having two mouse encounters of a close kind has made me braver.

Fuck it, if I see one mouse, I am going to scream and have a heart attack. Oh and if this does happen, I hope some hunky fire fighter revives me. Cheers to you, Mickey Mouse, Jerry (of Tom & Jerry fame), and (who can forget) Mighty Mouse.

Melancholy on Mars

The penguins marched on a perfectly iced road. Glaciers drifted along the murky seas. Hills of powdered snow soothed the bleeding heart. Wait, why is there a deli in the middle of Antarctica? “Oh, it’s not Antarctica, but New York in the winter.”

Like any good New York winter, it obviously snowed. The sound of shovels hitting concrete was surprisingly nostalgic. Salt dusted the sidewalk. Twinkling lights adorned the tiny shops of East Ninth Street with its funky vintage clothing and knick-knack empires.

Naturally, I viewed the serene falling snow from the comfort of a warm coffee shop. Although, I had many New York winters under my belt, there was a phenomenon, which didn’t yet contaminate my happiness. While drifting between coffee shop and bus stop, I fantasized about my hometown.

Across the Rocky Mountains, orange-hued plains, and tan desert sands is Riverside, California. It’s a historic suburb, sixty-five miles east of Los Angeles. Unlike most sleepy suburbs with bland homes, chain stores, and homogenous faces, Riverside was weird, in the tradition of Portland or Austin.

There was a surprising counter culture, which frequented the cozy coffee shops of Downtown Riverside. Gay friendly churches, a sizable live music scene, quirky antique shops, mom and pop restaurants, street lined with Sycamore trees, unexpected graffiti art gave and a multi-cultural population gave the leafy Suburb, an unexpected edge.

Of course, there were country clubs, a fabulous mall, old Victorian homes and mini vans, which reminded us, “Oh, yes, it’s not quite Brooklyn.” Alongside rolling hills was my childhood home.

My father still lived in the same house. I missed him, terribly. Since it was just the two of us, we reveled in our time together. We always ate dinner together on an old wooden table. It was a marvel, which symbolized wonderful memories and scrumptious meals.

The downfall of Riverside was it distance, over two thousand miles from New York City. Back in Manhattan, the temperatures dipped below zero. I daydreamed of my house, the smell of an old fireplace, and family.

Bravely, I took my evening walk. While the cold winds penetrated through my pea coat, I felt aloof from the world.

The sidewalks were crowded. In typical New York fashion, everyone was in a rush, but it didn’t deter me from aloofness. In a sense, I was viewing life from my own private planet. For the first time in years, I was homesick.

In the grand tradition of being homesick, I moped around. I was hopeful that a walk around the East Village, it didn’t. However, the loneliness stuck like a snow bank to a frozen sidewalk.

Steam rolled off Second Avenue. Sirens shattered eardrums. I played peek-a-boo with the Chrysler Building. On a typical Saturday afternoon, I headed to the Odessa. It was a distinctly old school Polish diner.

I thoroughly enjoyed the elderly New York population, which frequented the grease spoon. There was an older lady, who always sat opposite me. She was as a tough as nails, native New Yorker. We often had small talk whenever, I’d visit. We’d complain about everything. Therefore, we bonded.

One afternoon, I just sat silent. Staring out the window at a buzzing Avenue A, I tried to enjoy my surroundings. After finishing lunch, I paid my bill and said, bye to my dinner friend.

“You don’t have to eat lunch alone. Next time, come sit at my table, we’ll eat together,” she said, while cracking her coconut shell. I smiled, “I would love that, thanks. See you next week,” I replied.

I left the diner feeling a little less alone. Still feeling homesick, I went to the Strand bookshop. Retail therapy proved quite effective. Walking crosstown toward the Seventh Avenue subway line (with my yellow Strand shopping bag), a strange feeling sent electricity through my brain

“Oh, I feel at home,” said I, giving a stunned facial expression. “That’s right, New York has been home for years. Even though, it’s loud, crowded, claustrophobic, dirty, critter ridden and infested by juice bars, the city will always be my home. Being a brave penguin, I marched on.

Afterwards, I eventually traveled to Riverside. Thanks to Google maps, I felt at home without leaving the East. The Only thing missing was a hug from my dad and an amazing burrito, cha, cha, cha.

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.

T.V. Dinners In Bed

“I’m schvitzing. I’m schvitzing,” I declared, upon arrival at my favorite East Village coffee shop. The heat turned the quaint coffee shop into a tropical paradise, close to the equator. It wasn’t pea coat friendly, obviously.

Rather than ordering a tropical drink and wearing a decorative Hawaiian shirt, I sat outside. In the midst of a chilly New York evening, I sipped on coffee and observed East Village humanity walk by.

Sipping on black coffee on a Sunday night was a treat, but pangs of hunger soon ravaged my creative juices. “I really want Chinese food,” said I. Oy, I’m on a budget. “Don’t think about sit restaurants, rather you fantasize about a hearty T.V. dinner, since it’s on the budget, “ I told my famished brain.

Walking crosstown, I passed my favorite Chinese restaurant on Sixth Avenue. Across the street was the rival restaurant, which was tastier. I had only been going to the rival for a few months.

Faced with a classic, first world dilemma, I made a bold decision. “Dinner for one,” I said. The waiter walked me over to an inviting table by the window. “Don’t sit me by the window,” said I.

He sat me closer to the back of the restaurant. That’s right I went to the rival restaurant. I didn’t want anyone from my typical Chinese haunt to see me. I ordered a wonton soup, pepper steak and brown rice. Sitting alone, I savored in the warm and comforting tastes of China.

I dipped my chopsticks into that last morsel of rice. Staring into the sea of couples, I felt completely alone. This is where I break into a fantastic dance sequence and sing about how lonely New York is. In a perfect world, the restaurant would have morphed into a Broadway stage.

Instead, I contemplated resurrecting my imaginary friend from the dead. He & I hadn’t spent quality time together, since the early 90’s. A week after a lonely Sunday dinner, I flew to Riverside, CA for Thanksgiving.

While New York was more barren then a drive through the Arizona desert, Riverside provided me with something I was missing. “I have a date, wow,” said I. Thanks to modern technology, the Scruff app to be exact (the one where guys with beards meet other guys with beard), I was no longer a lonely urbanite.

I sat in a restaurant, which screamed authentic Indian food. Bollywood played on the television. Curries, roasted chicken, Nan bread hypnotized the soul. In the midst of Indian kitsch and culture, my date arrived.

“Wow, this fella looks like a young John Wayne. If John Wayne looked like a modern day hipster with a trendy haircut,” said I. Charming him with stories of the old world (a.k.a. New York), he glanced into my eyes.

“Would you like to be my house husband? I have the job offer in Bakersfield and we can live together. I can bring home the bacon,” he said.

I was sickened by the thought. Then I thought about my life in New York. Being alone had its disadvantages. However, I had my urban family and didn’t answer to anyone, but myself.

Soon, Mr. John Wayne and I parted ways. I told him, I wasn’t interested via text. He called me “ a straightforward guy” and thanked me for not leading him on. We stayed in touch as friends.

I returned to New York on chilly winter’s evening. Dreading the loneliness of that old studio apartment, I grew scared. Finally, I stepped into my shabby residence. It was lonely, but I was still the king of the tiny principality (a.k.a, my studio on Seventh Avenue)

An hour after arriving from my flight, I had a spontaneous dinner with my gal pals. In the midst of the East Village, we laughed and shared stories. I was thankful for an urban family to laugh my way through the gloomy moments. Now, excuse me as I find another date off Scruff.

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.

Super Geek: The Musical

Forget cowboys, bandwagons, & gold mining, my expedition out west was a bohemian affair. While taking in the atypical winter weather, I wrote short stories in California, sipped on gourmet coffee, and explored Portland’s quirky side.

Reality hit, while in my childhood home in Riverside (CA). “Shit, I have to go back to New York. I ‘m so unemployed in New York. This deserves a major “oy vey.” Said I.

Packing up my suitcase for the land of uncertainty was scary. Then I boarded my connecting flight to Dallas. As I jammed to campy Christmas music, I began thinking happy thoughts. “Think show tunes, Chinese food, strolls around the East Village, snow falling from the sky, gracefully & of course, trips to the Strand Bookstore for fantastically used books,” said I, internally.

My smile grew. The happy thoughts were working. Then Darth Vader and his storm troopers attacked through the airplane intercom, of course. “Ladies & gentleman, we’re going to have to deplane this flight,” said the pilot. The passengers were shocked and disappointed. As we deplaned, I was stressed.

“No East Village, lavish Broadway dance routines or Chinese food for me, I’m going to miss my connection to LaGuardia airport,” I proclaimed. As I stood in line to rearrange my flight, I grew gleeful.

“Maybe, I could stay in extra day in California with dad?” I asked myself. The airline fairies were on my side. I was able to take a connecting flight to Dallas in the morning, which meant an extra day out west. The great bohemian expedition was revived.

My father picked up again from the airport, and I took part in intellectual activity. Walt Whitman, Gertrude Stein & Maya Angelou would be proud, if they were really into pop culture.

I watched television shows from Portlandia to the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Saving intellectual stimulation for New York, I indulged in pop culture. I don’t own a television, which made the experience a real treat.

The next morning my airline fairies carried the mighty flight to Dallas. Those girls had some real muscle power. I was generally upbeat on the flight. When the plane landed, I prepared myself for a delightful stroll through DFW.

It didn’t compare to the East Village or the Upper West Side when it came to scenery. However, it was still fantastic for people watching. Anxiously, I waited for my flight to New York to board. From the corner of my eye, I saw the bohemian dream.

He wore a beanie, which covered his strawberry blond hair. With a distinctive nose, pretty green eyes, & a smart sense of style, I found my token airport eye candy. “Holy moly, “ I thought to myself.

Finally, I was boarding my flight home to New York. Drifting away to the sounds of Bjork, I received a surprise. “Am I in the right row? I can never tell with these exit rows,” asked a male voice. Glaring up, I was in awe. It was my bohemian dream in the flesh and he was sitting next to me.

He smiled. I smiled. Naturally, I made conversation with him right away. “You’re an actor. I can tell these things,” said I, trying to boast of my worldliness. With a giggle, he asked, “how did you know? I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “I read people really well.”

The conversation progressed. I learned he was in Amarillo (TX) visiting his folks. He lived in Astoria, had a side job & was struggling to find a new apartment. I thanked the airline fairies, Darth Vader & storm troopers for not allowing me to leave the day before.

Our flight landed. I mustard the courage to ask the following question, “Can I get your number?” Surprise, I got the digits. I walked him to baggage claim. Thanks to fate, I met an amazing guy.

Happily, I hoped into a cab, bound for Manhattan. The next day, it snowed. “I wonder if Mr. Bohemian dream would like to build a snowman with me?

“Wait for it, wait for it,” said I, after sending the text. I didn’t receive a response. In fact, I didn’t receive a response for days.

In a Broadway theatre (the great white way, which exists in my brain), I sang the following song, “rejected again, oy, rejected again. It’s New York and rejection is always around the corner like a deli. So, shit, I’m still super geek at the end of the day. I’ll find my fellow nerdy cape crusader.”

Back to the real world, I looked on the bright side. I spent quality time with my gal pals. While eating delicious diner food and enjoying laughs, I forgot about my bohemian dream. Instead, I took my rejection and made it into art (and you’re currently reading it).

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