rip bike

today when i got home from work, my bicycle was gone.

it was like being in a dream. when i had left, sleepily, around 8am, it had been there: chained around the thin tree outside my building, a kryptonite u lock holding it all together. it was the same place i had always kept it. neighbors warned me. bikers in the neighborhood told me i should get a better chain. naively, my thought always was: who would fuck with a giant pink bicycle?

sigh. apparently, there is some dipshit, soul less dickless jerk who would steal a giant pink bicycle. a heavy, rusted, lovely pink cruiser.

i did all the things i could. i called the cops. i called 311. i stared hopelessly out the window at the very spot it had been. i posted a desperate plea on craigslist. i twittered. i facebooked. i called a friend who is a former bike messenger/deep lover of bikes. i cried.

it's been seven months since i last had to talk to a cop; this brings us to a total of three lost property/robbery reports in the last 13 months. this is the feeling that sucks the most: to have to be reminded that i'm just a citizen in the world, susceptible to theft, guns, muggings, and, although i have thus been spared--worse.

when i first got the bike last summer, i wrote a comic about it. here it is in its rough draft state. (you can click on the panels to view them larger in a new window. annoying but true.)











some things i learned today:

while the precinct might not pick up the phone, there may be a nice detective in the detective squad who will

it is illegal to chain your bikes to any sign posts or trees. garbage collectors have the right to clip it and chuck it if it's in their way

get renter's insurance. it will cover the loss of a bike

when you are very, very, very sad and angry, you can listen to loud music, and when the singer screams, you do not sing along. you scream along

i've been screaming along with kathleen hanna to le tigre's on guard while composing this off the cuff post.

rip my giant pink schwinn. i loved you so much.

and balls to the fucker who took you. may they have urinary tract infections, herpes, traffic accidents, hernias, and no sex for the rest of their lives.

loving +dreading+ loving the dyke march

My freshman year at NYU, I walked into my social criticism class and casually tossed my new issue of Ms magazine on the table. The cover--which I can only find now in this little jpeg--showed two girls (young, with short dyed hair, ball chain necklaces, and heavy eyeliner) on the cusp of making out. Later, my friend Molly gaped at my audacity of having it on public display throughout our class. "That is the hottest picture ever," she said. "Everyone was staring at it."

I was so tickled pink to be young and queer in New York then. This cover hung on my wall in my freshman dorm, my first apartment, and so many apartments to come.

This weekend, as every last weekend in June goes, is Pride--Friday will be the Trans Day of Action; Saturday is the Dyke March; Sunday is the Gay Pride Parade. And throughout the whole weekend there will been tons of revelry, rainbows, parties and bars. It's my 8th Pride here in New York, and as I've felt for the last year or two, I have some mixed feelings about.

Part of my mixed feelings could be generational, as Mark Harris illustrated in an article on the generation gap among gay men (although the context for the piece was the 40th anniversary of Stonewall, there lacked any perspective of lesbians/trans/queer generational gaps, even though I'm sure there were dykes and trannies who were part of that revolution). And, yes, it was definitely a shock, seeing those opening scenes of Milk, where gay bars are raided and there we are, being put into police wagons--for someone who's been freely hanging out in gay bars since the moment I moved to New York, it's a chilling perspective to think that not so long ago, this wasn't as free a right.

Otherwise: pride rings and rainbows seem kitsch to me, but to my older queer friends, they are a total symbol of identifying as gay (and being able to find other gays in the world). I came out in high school when I was 17, frustrated and isolated in suburban Pennsylvania, but not without the internet. Through the internet I found mailing lists, older out lesbians to talk to (at the time I came out as bi, for me serving as a gateway to identifying as a dyke), gay books, colleges that I could apply to that had LGBT centers and communities. While I was still super eager to meet other queers, I think I was at least founded in the idea that they were out there, and that I wasn't alone.

Honestly, though, my mixed feelings about Pride come from how I thought, at the tender age of 18, that the queer community existed in bars, and only bars. My first Dyke March when I was 19, I was drinking heavily and rather depressed. The friends I had gathered my freshman year had either left the city for the summer, or were involved in other things the day of the Dyke March--they were working, or with their girlfriends, or at a bar. I remember, not knowing what to do, that I filled a water bottle with vodka and orange juice, donned a ridiculous bikini top shirt (it was pride, after all), and went to the march, walking along 5th Avenue with a slight buzz on, smiling at everyone around me, but inside, totally lonely. I eventually met up with some people I knew, and our night devolved into intoxication and debauchery. The next day, when we went to the West Village for the Pride parade, warm Smirnoff Ices wrapped in brown paper bags, I threw up in the gutter and missed the whole parade, dry heaving in the bathroom of the NYU library.

This, I knew in my heart of hearts, was not what it meant to be gay.

Every June, from then on, I would grow anxious at the approach of Pride. There was this superficial pressure--it's Pride! Be gay! You're gay? You should be here!--to be with your friends, to get drunk, to sleep around, to have a ball. For anyone who wasn't struggling with a drinking problem (as I now can see that I totally was), maybe this was just a joyful weekend of queer-ing it up. For me, though, I always flailed and exploded under the pressure to have SO MUCH FUN, so much so that I began to dread Pride.

I don't drink any more, but I still get anxious around Pride. My first sober pride, I still felt that insane pressure to have fun, have fun, have fun!!, and ended up instead having a slight panic attack while at dinner with a gaggle of friends post Dyke March. (To admit, navigating the queer bar scene in sobriety is not without its intervals hilarious: such as when I recognized a girl at the Dyke March, and tried to explain this to my friend Emily, saying, 'I don't remember her name, but the last time I saw her she was in a bunny suit carrying a toy gun?' Emily, laughing, steered me away).

Last year on the day of the Dyke March, I stayed in, drew comics, and decided that was queer enough of a day for me. There was still a pang, though, when I knew I had missed it--part of me wanted to be there.

It's hard to articulate what I want to get out of Pride this year. Do I think visibility is important, that there is power in numbers, that there can be a physical concept of community when trannies and allies or dykes or gays or queers in any way take over 5th Avenue? Of course. I still grin when Le Tigre's track Dyke March 2001 comes on, with its mix of beats and dykes at the March ("Nine years, for nine years we've had four lanes...").

What it comes down to, I think, is letting go of that 19 year old girl wandering aimlessly through the Dyke March with a screwdriver in a Poland Springs bottle. And while I wouldn't quite call that Ms magazine cover the hottest picture ever today (I might have to give those accolades to the artwork of Sarah Larnach), I'm still here, living in New York, young and queer. And, hey, if nothing else: it'll be good to see those drag queens dressed up singing God Is A Dyke.

only in new york

Last Friday evening, after declining dinner invitations to take a much needed walk around downtown before finally settling on heading home, I stood on the F train platform at 2nd Ave. A couple next to me--the woman carrying a potted orchid--looked at my tattoo, then smiled. I smiled back. My tattoo has invited a variety of conversations with strangers--are you a writer? did you know i learned to type on one of those? is that a royal?--but this one takes the cake.

The woman approached me and said that, while random, she noticed my tattoo, and they had an old typewriter in their apartment they'd been meaning to get rid of. Would I like to have it?

Here I shrugged. Sure.

They lived in DUMBO, and after figuring that we were all headed home anyway, that I could come back with them to their loft, retrieve the typewriter, and be on my merry way. On the train we discussed the merits of random acts of kindness as it relates to karma, and whether or not this gesture would garner her any favors from the universe (I voted that it would).

The typewriter belonged to their landlord, who had refurbished it and given it to his wife for her birthday, except she never used it. When the couple found it in their apartment, the landlord said they could do whatever they wanted with it. The woman, an artist, was happy that it was now going to a good home.

It's a total beauty--an Olympia, with a kind of industrial green colored case, made in Germany. It's in great shape, including an ink ribbon that, with a little love, worked like a charm. The keys and gears move along with such ease. From the looks of it, I'm guessing it was made sometime before WWII. Even better--the keys include all European accents, including a pound sign, and a tilda.



It's such a treat to type on a manual typewriter. I love them because they're a good compromise between writing by hand (which can become tiresome) and writing on my laptop (which makes my eyes weary). Plus, is there any better sound than the that of the clicks, dings, and taps of typing on a typewriter? Certainly not. Here's to a summer of this sound floating out from the window above my desk, mixing with the urban din of life in Brooklyn.

the hardest/the truest

"This will sound cheesy, but every single one of these stories, as I was writing it, was the hardest story I’d ever written. Every single one felt like a failure, felt lifeless, felt fraudulent at advanced stages. And in typically perverse fashion, every single one also felt the truest."

--Nam Le on the stories in his first collection, The Boat

word count: 5,684

shelling

When the sun finally came out this weekend, I went with my father, who was visiting, to the new edition of Brooklyn Flea under the Brooklyn Bridge. Afterward, we passed a small farmers market, where I treated myself to fresh strawberries, asparagus, and shelling peas.



There is a late afternoon time of day, in every house or apartment I have ever lived in, where I best like the way the sun floods the place. It was soaking the kitchen floor today as I sat at the counter and shelled the peas, listening to the Dark Was the Night compilation, the apartment empty except for me and the Professor.

I never take time to slow down like this, not in the city, and especially not during the week. And I never work with my hands. I ate the peas with butter and basmati rice. Maybe I was inspired by the delicious local summer food menu I had in Red Hook last night, but regardless, it was a treat.



Professor enjoyed chasing the peas I dropped, too.

I'm working on a fiction piece that's not going at all the way I thought it would (what's new). I've thought about it, and figured that fictional short stories can be harder than fictional novels because you have less time to spend with the characters, to flesh them out and give them weight to tell the story. Also, this is one of maybe two short stories I've tried to write that hasn't been based in my direct experiences. So much harder. At least, I tell myself, I'm writing.

word count: 704

cat

This is Professor. He's my first cat.

Honestly: part of my motivation to adopt a cat now in my life is my thinking that if I had a cat, I would stay home more, and if I stayed home more, I would write more.

Yes to the staying home part. But while at home, whole chunks of time pass as I just watch him eat, tickle him with a wand of colored strings, brush his fur, or just lie on the couch with him purring in my ear.

He's a rescue cat from Bushwick: a family found him on their deck and took him, only to later find out he had FeLV and can't live with other cats. He lived temporarily in a bass drum in a music studio while people emailed around, looking for a home for him.

He fits in nicely here. And I am able to get some writing done--even if it includes Professor sitting in my lap, paws on my wrist as my fingers jump across the keys. He doesn't seem to mind the motion. Maybe, just maybe, he knows what I'm up to.

Word count: 721

art studio

this is artwork by my friend suzanne goldenberg. she takes thread and magazines and boxes and paper and glitter and things and makes things which are incredible.

i rode my bike to her open studio today, which was part of Bushwick Open Studios & Art Festival. her studio was the most wonderful little box of space, with a leafy window, and a loft that held a piano-shaped board desk and wooden chair. i climbed up and thought, i could write here. i would like a studio.

there's a huge block party going on outside my apartment tonight. it is six months until mfa applications are due. i am trying very hard to write.

word count: 2,214