My Piece of 5 Pointz
On the day that the 5 Pointz graffiti building in Long Island City was getting whitewashed, Mic and her boyfriend’s daughter Maya headed over to watch history get erased. Once there, they discovered that a bunch of scraps of destroyed graffiti were there for the taking, and they took. Then they made me these earrings, which immediately became perhaps my most prized possession, behind my dog and my red velour pajama pants.
It Would Be Called Okay, Cupid.
I was looking for Miguel the European when I stepped over the threshold of the bar Local 61 last night, turning from side to side with my whole body, the way very bundled up people must. In a mostly empty bar, you determine pretty quickly whether you’re the first one there, which I was. I headed for a bar stool.
Then I heard someone call my name, and turned my body again. “Sarah?” the voice said. “Yeah?” my own voice said. “Josh,” he said, and reached out his hand while I scoured my terrible memory for the key to how I might be expected to know this person. As I shook his hand, I ran out of split seconds; Josh began to comprehend my lack of comprehension. For another split second, it was awful. But as I searched his expectant face, his tepid eagerness sparked another idea in me.
How To Spend One Minute in Chelsea
S. Jam Fitzgerald and I used the last afternoon of his unemployment to mosey on over to the Zwirner Gallery in Chelsea to see the Yayoi Kusama exhibit. Let me preface this by saying that I know so little about Yayoi Kusama that I just cut and pasted her name from the gallery’s website without processing it at all. Here I am pasting Yayoi Kusama’s name a third time, and if I closed my eyes and you asked me what artist’s work I saw today, I’d tell you, “Kama-something?”
The Scooter To the Boat to the Best Meal in the Dominican Republic
We’d rented one moped for the two of us, and I clung to both S. Jam Fitzgerald and the seat itself as he navigated the puddly dirt road. My thighs would be sore the next day from holding tight to the machine, but what did I care. We’d made it away from the resorts lining the sea, away from the restaurant proprietors shoving menus in front of us, away from manicured lawns that made me think of Hilton Head. We were now passing resorts in various states of abandoned half-construction, relics of a time when consensus held that there was no limit to the first world’s appetite for the Caribbean vacation. Those soon ceded to empty shoreline, bumpy and perfect, and we slowed to ask a man sitting under a tree if we were on the right path to La Boca Grill. Keep left, he told us.
You’re from New York? OMG So Are We What Are the Chances (Hint: They’re Pretty Good)
Yesterday we touched down in Cabarete in the Dominican Republic for a few days of celebration during the block of time between S. Jam Fitzgerald’s old job and his new (and frankly, incredibly awesome) one.
As much as I love flying to far flung places just to hang out with the couple from New York City that my boyfriend met in the water this morning, which is how our Tex-Mex lunch went down today, I’m beginning to take it on as my hard-fought destiny to find a food establishment here that wasn’t erected for blond, pasty tourists.
You could spend a month in Cabarete and have no idea what Dominican food looks like.