cuba mia

sparklers on a cake. hell yea.












2am, booze, dancing, loud music, 3 year old...
















salsa <3

boca & soldaderos

for jon:

que tal

and the carnage begins...









for bev:


for chris:


one of these will be in my backyard someday:

sighs

we went to colonia today, which is a little town on the coast of uruguay. because it's winter here, and it's the middle of the week, there were very few people around. wendy and i got drunk on wine and wandered the empty streets. the streets were cobbley. the trees were varied. the sky was a lovely blue. the houses were simple and pretty, and occasionally we could hear the people living inside them. but not often. after a few hours, wendy got a fanta and i got a beer from a bodega. i scaled a wall, wendy took pictures from below, and we sat by the ocean and talked as she rehydrated and i slowly got more drunk. it was the best i've felt in a long time. i wrote, and we listened to the ocean and... nothing else. it's truly amazing the amount of noise we live in, letting it seep into our brains and confuse our thoughts. this day of quiet was so soothing. i bought a few souvenirs for the first time since we got here, and one that i got for myself was a tile sign of one of colonia's streets: "la calle de suspiros." i'll remember how lovely it felt to be able to hear my own suspiros.

chau

after much screaming, cursing, being cursed at, and running, we have arrived in buenos aires. we were on planes all day, and i can never sleep on planes, which means that from friday until now i've slept a total of 3 hours. i am sleep deprived. wendy is limping. sta has pinkeye. our apartment is lime green.

but we are in buenos aires. far far far far far away from new york. and we won't be back until we've fattened ourselves up on wine and grass fed beef and rabbit, and risked life and limb on scooters, and danced the tango! i'll email soon so you all don't miss me too much.

hasta luego, homies. don't cry for me.


p.s. happy fathers day

straight up shit

[6:36pm update] still at work. and i've officially outsuited a suit. *sob*

wow i have so much work to do, i'm definitely staying late today. so i guess i might as well blog.

this morning a guy on the train said he liked my style. he said i was like a mix of pharrell and jackie o.




i think it might have been the pearls, grandma jcrew bag, and the beat up sneakers. or maybe the fact that i forgot a belt this morning and my jeanz be saggin. or maybe bc i was nodding my head to nasty nas. speaking of which, i happened to be listening to represent from his album illmatic, and he says: "this goes out to everybody in new york that's living the real fucking life." looking past the fact that it should be "who's" and not "that's", i think i qualify for this shout out. i used to live in bedstuy. i carry a blade. okok so it's a very small box cutter, but still, i could fuck you up! anyways. i'm totally living hthe real fucking life. who knew i'd turn out to be such a motherfuckin G?

i think i'm turning red as i write this so i should stop. in other news, mufasa is dead. as a doornail. except he was a marigold, and not a doornail. BUT next to him, a new flower sprang up. i'm going to name him simba. strange what a self-fulfilling prophesy that turned out to be. i'm also getting a dog in 2 weeks. i wanted to name him Lennie Small, but... i guess i should rethink it.


is that his ass or his face? you can't tell. maybe i'll just name him assface.

wow i should get back to work.

bubble bubble

Sometimes, I feel myself become more absent minded then usual, or maybe just careless, and then I sense this mess building around me, over my head and under my feet. Whenever I think about it, or kind of give it a sidelong glance, I feel a vague sense of panic, and my heart sinks a little, knowing that there's this mess that I'm going to need to figure out soon, but I just don't really feel like facing yet. The past week has been like that. And I'm not entirely sure yet how far I'll let this mess go on. But I should probably get on top of this soon. Otherwise things may get out of hand... assuming, of course, with no basis in any form of reason or logic, that they haven't already.


For now though, I guess I'll just get a dog.

one penny, two cents

On the train, I noticed a homeless woman struggling to get off at her stop while hauling an enormous suitcase. She was rail-thin, and looked over 60 years old. I offered to help, but she refused. "It's too heavy for you, sweetie." I felt embarrassed. The homeless in this city confound my sense of empathy. My heart hurts for them, but at the same time, I find myself feeling too little for them. Their lives and experiences, and what it has done to them, are beyond my imagination. I lack feeling because they are such a mystery that I don't know where to begin, or how to respond. What must it be like to be so strong, and yet so weak? They, of all people, must know how utterly vulnerable and helpless they are, even as they brave the underbelly of New York in daylight and in darkness. I wonder what shame feels like to them, how it must taste as they swallow it before every plea. I wonder how they define hope, qualify success. I wonder how their lives must feel. Hungry, hopeless, lost, these words, bereft of meaning after being stamped on so many pamphlets and posters, do little to help my understanding. Statistics about homelessness, self-righteous indignation at their growing numbers, educated explanations about how homelessness happens and persists, are just as useless to me. Hundreds of faces turn away from the sick, the mentally ill, the abused, the broken, the hungry as they literally stand there dying in plain sight. What is it like to view the callous, heartless side of humanity every day, and what does it do to their own humanity? What must it feel like to see that they have no significance, no identity in the eyes of all those living in "right-side up" world, the world of shelter, compensated labor, security, and hope? Do they start to believe it themselves? I don't mean this as a call to arms, and it's not a rant of indignation or even the cry of a bleeding heart. It's just that the more I think about it, the more I cannot know these people, or how their lives must feel. And somehow my incapacity to understand makes me question my understanding of all people, strangers and friends, and even my own self. What does a man become when the world strips him of his humanity? What does the thing look like, extracted from its skin? I need to know. I need to know what is worth this fight. I need to know if the human soul exists.

umma sohn

i told my mom about yesterday morning's episode, and she didn't have much of a reaction. hours later, as i was about to sleep, she called again to say she felt terribly sad to picture me that way alone. and that it hurt her to be so far and unable to help me. i don't like to worry my mom. i do my best to avoid it, since she has enough to worry about for herself. but somehow, just for last night, it felt nice to know she did.

due to a sick passenger in the train ahead of us...

i blacked out on the subway today, and had to be pulled out at grand central by cops and mta workers. even though it was really frightening and painful at the time, i still couldn't help but feel special when the emts turned on the siren for me. and when they rolled me around in a wheelchair. the story would be cooler to me if it wasn't so fucking awful. i had to sit on the dirty floor in grand central with cops and emts standing around, while random strangers gathered to stare at me shaking and sweating and crying. and now i'm afraid to ride the subway. the day turned out alright though, i guess. i called a friend, and he was at the hospital within 20 minutes, no questions asked. it was nice to know i'm not as alone as i've been feeling lately. there were some funny moments at the hospital too. the guy ahead of me in triage was complaining of dizziness, nausea, headache, and lack of coordination. "i keep falling down everywhere." the emt and the nurse told him he was drunk. he very clearly was. and in the bed next to mine was a big fat lady who was complaining bc she was at the hospital a week earlier and they gave her medication, but she's still got a cough. the doctor told her she has asthma and a chest cold, and it would take a little while for her to get better, and then walked away. she spent the rest of the time cursing and making scary faces at the doctors and nurses. once she even got up, saying she was "bout to fuck him up." now i see why emergency room duty is so reviled. or at least that's what those doctor shows say.

i've been sick and out of the office since thursday. poor mufasa... he's probably in even worse shape than me.

so tired. need sleep.

the wait is over

pictures of mufasa, as promised.


posing thoughtfully:


pondering over his lovely view:


why hello there, handsome:


g.i. joe and darth tater, his best bud and spud:


mr. popular:




and there you have it. mufasa!!!!!!!!!!