Summer, like always, went by real damn quick. I somehow did everything and nothing. Read on for book recs, city-bound date ideas, and delirium from the heat.
There is nothing that electrifies me more than catching up with an old high school friend. Of course, we would never debase ourselves to petty gossip — we merely had to swap information over Aperol Spritzes. We might as well have pulled out the yearbook and gone person by person sharing the information we had collected over the years. I’m not even ashamed. Who else can I talk about my brush with a high school stalker?
My boyfriend stays up late, while I’m on the retirement plan (5 p.m. dinner and early to bed). He likes to leave little breadcrumbs about what he got up to the night before. Stacked record sleeves and closed curtains mean he danced. Crusty orange rinds and peach pits mean he snacked. A love letter on a postcard means he stayed up later than he wished he had. I like seeing his night in little mementos the next morning. I play detective with a cup of coffee and know that our home is loved and well used.
A neighbor passed around homegrown marijuana plants to everyone on the block. Our money plant is dying (trying not to read into that), so we replaced her with the leafy gift. Supposedly we’ll have “bud by fall.” I’d still prefer the cash.
Having a dog in the city is kind of like a never-ending laundry cycle. Every hour, you hear a ding and have to put the wet clothes into the dryer, fold the dry clothes, hang the things that need hanging. Danny, my 10-year-old American Bulldog, needs constant tending. Walks, treats, pats, rubs, meals, kisses. I swear I spent the summer leashing and unleashing him. I picked up one thousand poops and wiped five bajillion paws.
I felt very connected to my block this summer. Our street has four or five low-income and halfway houses, so it’s always active. Lots of folding chairs and sidewalk chitchat. Danny is very popular. I know all the dogs, all their owners. I know what side of the street is shaded and when. Danny loves hot chicks, and hot chicks love him, so I’m well acquainted with all the babes in the East Village too. And I definitely would’ve missed the weed plant giveaway if not for our one hundred walks.
Danny has his own bed, though it mostly serves as a plushy sculpture that decorates the corner of the bedroom.
I’ve devised some really winning friend dates that might sound fun to you too. On Saturday, outside drinks at Threes Brewing in Gowanus and then popping across the street to the Douglass and DeGraw Pool. It’s kind of like if the Soho House pool was in jail. It’s free, but they won’t let you in without a lock, and there are absolutely no phones allowed. If you like being dommed, this is the place for you. They make you shower and yell garbled threats over the loudspeaker system. Then on Friday night, dinner on Orchard Street at Bar Valentina and then heading to the Slipper Room for an 8:30 burlesque show ($30 door entry). On Wednesdays, salsa dancing in Washington Square Park. After each song, you change partners, which is a nice rule for containing intimacy with strangers.
I spent a lot of time on St. Marks because I love to people-watch. The steps of Search & Destroy showcase the best youngster fashion in the city. I’ve started taking portraits of people on the stoop every time I walk by, which I think I’ll turn into a series.
I went to Coney Island’s Mermaid Parade. A Yankees game. Late-night burlesque shows at the Slipper Room. I attended a wedding at Gigino Trattoria. Sex worker Sunday mass at Judson Church. A couple of Al-Anon meetings. An erotic reading at the Salmagundi Club. A friend’s movie premiere at the Roxy Cinema.
I had drinks at the Condé Nast building. A 5 p.m. burger at Raoul’s. Dim sum at Jing Fong. I took an Amtrak up to Hudson to float under waterfalls. I attended a photography class at Gowanus Darkroom. I watched the women’s Euro final at a soccer club on the Bowery. I accompanied my best friend on her wedding dress appointments. I had a photoshoot at Trash & Vaudeville. I was hit by a taxi on the way to JFK. I helped train kids on probation at my boyfriend’s free boxing academy in the South Bronx. I spent a week in a crumbling villa in Tuscany writing, smoking, and swimming in rivers.
I worked on pieces for Vogue, Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, GQ, The Guardian, and TIME. I interviewed a trans woman accused of raping her college girlfriend. An adult creator who founded her own sex-worker-owned-and-operated porn site. A 78-year-old headmistress of a cross-dressing finishing school. I shot Richard Cabut’s book launch at Flux Lumina and
’s 40th birthday-funeral in Chinatown.
I slept in and stayed up late. I doom-scrolled. We danced to our new Lou Reed album, Coney Island Baby. We grieved Jay’s ex-partner. Her birthday was yesterday. She would have been 38.
I ran into a social media pickle: can you unfollow someone on their wedding day? Many of the people I follow are mostly dormant until they post an engagement or wedding photo. Of course, you don’t think about unfollowing someone until they post—and you remember they exist. Usually it’s that I realize I don’t actually know this person, that we haven’t spoken in a decade (even then it was probably twice, drunk), or worse, that I dated them. I always hated when dates wanted to connect on Instagram—it’s like I could foresee this future predicament. Anyway, here we are: it’s your wedding and I’d really like to unfollow you.
I read some books. My favorites:
FOR HORNY WORLD-BUILDING
All Fours by Miranda July
FOR A GOOD MEMOIR
The Friday Afternoon Club by Griffin Dunne
FOR HAUNTING PROSE
Walking Through Clear Water in a Pool Painted Black by Cookie Mueller
FOR MAKING SENSE OF GRIEF
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
FOR A CULT FEMINIST CLASSIC
I Like Dick by Chris Kraus
FOR INTELLECTUAL SHIT TALK
Happiness and Love by Zoe Dubno
This summer I resurrected a novel I'd all but completed over twenty years ago.
“The summer i became a dog mom 🥰”