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Thu | July 27, 2006

l'eau de new york

At the Opium reading in Tompkins Square Park, there were maybe fifty-some people and forty-some foldup chairs. The host, John Kukoda, whom I thought might be Asian, turned out to be a white guy who said he was pleased that there were people there. Sometimes I don't really believe something until it happens either. Shya did a poor imitation of Tao and I thought of Julia Roberts saying 'You can't be Jell-o.' And now I am thinking plagarism. Can you plagarize a personality?

As a tie-breaker to the four player death match they had a sack race and Todd competed against his girlfriend whose last name is Koch but it's pronounced 'coke'. Todd pulled ahead of her at the end to win. I thought it said something about him and their relationship. At the end he will take the spoils. If I were a guy racing against my gf I would probably have let her win. All it really says is that I'm a loser. One day I will write all but the last ten pages of a novel and someone will write the last ten pages and claim credit for the while thing and I will let them.

Somewhere between one of the judges being from the New Yorker and Todd coming over to say hello only to leave in the same beat I had the feeling that I have often, that I am very close to things, that I am there, and yet not there, yet miles away from them. They might as well be somewhere else entirely because I am not going to talk to them anyway. I get the same dissatisfaction from watching television. All these people you can watch but you can't talk to.

As New York loads up with more and more great people, it just gets further and further from me. I was glad that we at least said hello. I think the intense alienation I feel probably has something to do with why I have never written for the magazine.

Afterwards Ari and I didn't go to the bar where they were hanging out, I didn't even try to remember the name or ask about it. Not that I knew how. I would have if I could have. We got bubble teas at Saints Alp and toast and yams.

On the northwest corner of 32nd and 6th a cab ran through a puddle and splashed me with dirty street water. I saw it coming, too, but did nothing. I thought about moving to the side, but that would have required shoving Ari aside, or whoever was next to me. I am sure they would have understood. But at the same time, I thought just maybe the taxi won't drive through that puddle. He had space to move over. He didn't. And so I was soaked, and it smelled like beer. That is what I settled on, as I sat on the train home.

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