It's snowing and I feel that first blush of excitement
As I do every winter when the white stuff starts to come down,
But it's overshadowed by my hangover and I miss
That perfect silence, the muffled static hiss of flakes hitting the blanket already laid down,
Out in the country,
Where sirens don't scream through the falling ice,
And echoes do not exist.

Oh, yeah...

Also, new column up on McSweeney's!

http://mcsweeneys.net/links/pornwriter/column5.html

It Had to Happen: or, I hate Tourists

Ok, I'm sure this is trite in the way that, say, people in LA bitching about constant sun is trite. ...Do they do that?... Well anyway, the point is: I just HAVE to complain about the tourists. Ok? I just do. I have to vent.

I work in midtown, on 57th between 5th and 6th avenues, on the same block as Bergdorf Goodman, which I usually enjoy because everyone around is super classy and the window displays at Bergdorf's are beautiful, and it's near the park, and FAO Schwarz is just a block away, and generally it's pretty sweet. There are always a fairly high percentage of tourists tooling around 5th Avenue, but generally they stay in small clusters that are navigable, except around Rockefeller Center, which I only have to deal with once a week or so. They're annoying, but they're dealable.

But THIS time of year... I mean, I know the Christmas store displays are fantastic (Bergdorf's are off the hook this year--the men's side of the street has set pieces and models from The Fantastic Mr. Fox, and the women's side has an Alice in Wonderland theme), and I know that FAO is a great place to shop for kids, and I know that lots of people have time off around now so they're just roaming around, looking at things, and I know that the giant Swarovski crystal snowflake is hanging RIGHT over my intersection at 5th, and I KNOW it's so exciting to be in New York... But...

Ever hear that phrase, "When in Rome..."? Well, in New York, the Romans are busy people dressed in black who have places to be at specific times and they are usually late to begin with because the holiday traffic and backups on public transportation are horrendous, so when in this Rome, do as the goddamn Romans do, and MOVE YOUR ASS. Holy crap! How is it difficult to figure out that when the thousands of people around you on the sidewalk are grumbling, swearing, and moving past you at high speeds, that YOU are in fact the problem? When you stop in the middle of a busy thoroughfare to stare up at the sky or try to find the kid you are for some reason allowing to walk unaided through a crowd of pickpockets, swindlers, hobos, and businessmen who don't give a crap if they step on a toddler, and everyone around you has to stop in the middle of their commute to avoid running into you, and they call you names, why would you look surprised? New York does not slow down for Christmas--it allows you to look at all its pretty stuff and enjoy an entirely made up feeling of brotherly love if you want to, but you need to do it quickly, or find a place that's not the middle of the goddamn sidewalk in front of Tiffany's to take your leisurely stroll, or you are going to make a lot of enemies and probably get accosted by every single homeless-people-donation-collection racket in the biz at least five times.

I swear to god, people, I don't like to be so mean to tourists. They ARE easy targets, but then again, there's a good portion of the city what wouldn't run at all if it weren't for them, and there is something to be said for the feeling of superiority one gets when realizing that thousands, millions of people flock to YOUR city just to see the sites every year. But for Christ's sake, you're TOURISTS. You don't live here. You do not own the sidewalk. You are in the way. At least TRY to fit in, or if not that, to not get in the way any more than possible. We who live here have to deal with all kinds of bullshit from our fellow New Yorkers every day, and we are grumpy enough without running full-on into the back of your light blue NorthFace parka when you slow down to take a picture of, like, a pigeon or something, because we glanced down to check how late we were to work after the train spent ten minutes sitting in the tunnels while we were smooshed in between the smelly guy and the gum-chewing woman with the really bad music blaring from her iPod and didn't see your ignobly wide ass coming to an abrupt halt in front of us. When you get called a prick by a little redheaded girl who just face-planted into your stupid, stupid parka, don't you DARE say, "people here are so rude."

Entering Old Ladyhood: or, kids on the subway

Well, it's finally happened. After years of bottling up my annoyance, I've finally let off the steam by screaming at a group of high school students on the subway. Those of you who know me well will not be at all surprised by this. Kids are annoying. And for some reason, kids in groups on the subway are about fifty thousand times more annoying than normal kids. I think it's because generally when there's a group of them together (especially on a morning train during the school year, like today), they're on a school-related trip of some kind. Freed from the enclosures and strictures of the school environment, they feel as if they've been let loose upon the city and they get all hyper and full of themselves and feel the need to:
-talk very fast,
-pack as many of themselves into as small a space as possible,
-scream to each other from opposite sides of this small space as if it were a football field,
-laugh hysterically at small jokes, say things like "snap," high five each other, and go "Oooooooohhhhh" when "snap" isn't good enough, all in unison,
-make fun of each other really loudly,
-try to flirt in really stupid and transparent ways, also really loudly,
-generally do everything at about thirty decibels more than it needs to be done at.

I hate them.

Well today when I got to the train platform, I could see a group of them--probably middle schoolers--about twenty strong standing where I usually stand, with a few chaperone-y people hovering around. I assiduously avoided this area of the platform while waiting for the train.

When a 5 finally came along, about ten minutes late, I was already annoyed because I was going to be late for work and because it was raining and I was soaked, and because it was morning, and so on and so forth. And then, just as the train was bearing down upon me, ANOTHER group of students showed up in the station and positioned themselves right behind me.

I couldn't run, I couldn't move to a different car. There was no time and I was running late. So I just shoved into the car as fast as possible to try to distance myself from the mob of shrieking, "snap"ing, obnoxious children. Instead of escaping them, however, I ended up merely plowed into by their solid-group formation moving into the train car at maximum velocity. Pushed forward by the group, I reached out to grab onto an overhead bar to stop the flow and brace myself because the train was so full there was literally nowhere else to go. I couldn't move in any farther--everyone had already moved in as far as they could. I had to stand my ground.

But the young bastards behind me didn't care or notice and continued to push into the car. I strained against them, pushing back with my shoulders while holding my arm as straight as possible to avoid being pushed forward onto the people sitting down in front of me. They kept pushing, kept pushing, kept pushing, all laughing maniacally, shrieking, yelling, completely ignoring the fact that they were almost knocking people down. The strain on my arm became so great that I was actually afraid it would break; it was getting painful. My one hand had been hurting all morning anyway and now the strain being put on it that it was white-hot with pain. They were soooo loud. They were CRUSHING me. I could feel the anger and annoyance of years of dealing with stupid kids on the train welling up, like in those cartoons where the person's face gets redder, like a thermometer, before finally...

I burst. I whirled around on them and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Oh MY GOD, STOP IT!!!"

Immediately the pressure building from behind me eased up. A young lady behind me looked at me with big eyes and said, "I'm sorry," then looked away. The group went silent.

I turned around, seething, and stared at my reflection in the window. I looked crazy. But the kids were quiet. I could stand up.

At the next stop, the lady who had been sitting in front of me got off the train and I sat down to examine the kids. They were still in their tight group, standing closer together than necessary now that the train was a little less packed. And they were all standing as far away from me as they could get without moving to a new spot in the car.

They stayed that way for the rest of the trip.

I have successfully entered Grumpy Old Ladyhood. It feels ok. I'm gonna go ahead and start shopping for creepy old houses with gigantic porches and yards with the potential for spooky overgrowth.

Foot guy

There is a man who rides the 5 train in the mornings who I simply cannot figure out. He is almost always in the second car from the front, sitting on one of the long blue benches in the spot nearest the center doors. His age, ethnicity, and motivation are beyond me. He appears to maybe be white, but he is pretty tan-ish, and there is something in the way he looks around that implies that he is not American by birth (this may sound silly, but the longer I'm in New York the more I find I can actually pick out the foreign people from a crowd by their mannerisms and bearing). He wears a diamond earring on the right side, and he has shoulder-length, sparse, wispy, but very well kept, straight white hair. Light eyes that move around constantly. He seems to be interested in everything going on around him; it's difficult to get a good look at the guy, actually, because he's so alert that every time a head moves in his direction he notices and turns to look. I've found myself looking him square in the eye many times. But it's difficult not to want to look at him, because here's the thing: he is always barefoot. I don't know why. Nothing about him suggests extreme poverty or homelessness--he is always clean, his feet in exceptionally good shape, not particularly dirty or gross. He wears nice enough jeans, rolled up to just below the knee, and everything jutting out from below the cuff is bare.
He is always in the same place when I get on the train, and I have never seen him get up from his seat. He usually has a black drawstring bag under his seat, and I've tried to sneak a few peeks at it to see if there are shoes in it, if maybe he just likes to be ON the subway barefoot, but puts on shoes before he disembarks? From what I've seen it doesn't seem lumpy enough to contain shoes, but then, every time I try to look at the bag, he notices me and looks up and I feel awkward and look away. Someday I'd like to go over to him and ask him why he never wears shoes, but a crowed train early in the morning just never seems the right time or place...

Silkworm Snail

It must be true that we survive our deaths.

We are mollusks, really,
Trailing our preemptive ectoplasm everywhere.
It has to be that way.

Because I realize that I'm leaving traces here and there.
I can tug at the tendrils behind me
(Not ribbon-graceful in the wind
but sticky and viscous, complicated patterns branching out from the strands,
into patterns I didn't know I'd traced).
All over every spot that meant something.

If I cast a thought back to one of these exigencies,
To some heart I've grasped at or body I've finger-tip-traced or place I've lost my breath to,
The slime tightens, tugs at me from behind.
And there I am, stuck to that other end of the trail,
glued to that lump in the road and my throat.

And vice versa, when he or she looks my direction from miles away,
or the moon lights up that bend in the road--
You know, there above Wounded Knee where they set up the Hotchkisses--
I hiccup, turn just a bit,
Feel my irises expand and my tear ducts swell,
Gather my mucus to me, tremble to shed some more on this moment,
And wonder if this will ever become a silken strand,
A web with a design I didn't plan? Or just that perfect coil,
The golden ratio's baby?

When I've expired,
I will have to revisit these moments, places, thoughts.
I'm stamped on them, and where can a lost spirit go but where it finds its puddles?
It must be that way, for there they are, my steps in slime.

Pitfalls of Porn Writing; or, my first stalker fan

Well. I had a great holiday weekend. I took two days completely off from all writing- and work-related things, then spent two days working on several projects. I felt good. Somewhere in there I got friend requests and messages from TWO, count 'em TWO, fans of my column, who found me on Facebook! Yippie! Fans! Who sought ME out based only on my pen name! Awesome.

Until, today, I got this (I'm x-ing out his name). Please don't feel obligated to read the whole thing. Really, just glancing through its ridiculous length to pick up a few key words should do the trick:

"XXXXX sent you a message.

--------------------
Subject: hey

So you added me as a friend. I wasn’t sure if you would but I’m glad you did. Obviously we aren’t friends but maybe we can be some version of friends if you are interested. Why, you ask (I’m assuming you are asking that, so if you aren’t then hmmm lol, I’m going to go with it anyway) ? It’s a legitimate question I guess, and so I will attempt to answer it to get things moving a bit. With that said, this email will probably either be the beginning of our “friendship” or the end of it, so it’s probably good to get that out of the way up front. Also, it is good to note that I am feeling somewhat “serious” in tone right now, so it will probably seem that I am that way, although you should also realize that behind almost everything I say or write there is always an awareness of my own absurdity or the absurdity of the context or situation or basically of existence generally, and that I am always “playing around” or “joking” or better yet, laughing at myself, and want to communicate my recognition of that. For example when you look at my quotes around the words “friendship” and “serious” a couple of sentences back my intention in using them was to invite you to know that I am not taking myself or the situation very seriously even when it’s hard to imagine that I am not (this becomes important to say since we are communicating in writing and since you have no prior experience of me to use as a reference point). Anyway, enough of this for the moment, I think, you might be very tired of reading already and I need to get to the point. But I find that difficult because to me there never really is only one – point that is. But, I will stop, and go on.

First, I will say that while I was looking at your profile after you added me I noticed a comment that one of your friends left in response to your posting about you having a fan (which I’m pretty sure was me ). He was kidding around and responded “Call the Police”, but of course a joke is not the same thing as saying something without meaning, so I will address this quickly. I am only interested in reciprocal relationships, no matter what the degree of role playing involved (I say this because as we both know to some degree all relationships contain role playing but I am also not averse to actual role playing, although I am not stuck on it either lol). Anyway, in other words I am not “The Fan” from that bad movie with Wesley Snipes in it that I don’t remember very well. I am not going to be involved in your life unless invited so there is not much too worry about along the lines of what I think your friend was “joking” about. If at any time, even let’s say if we were married or something along these lines (I use this word “married” to make a point only because I am not particularly interested in the idea of marrying) and you were to say “XXXX, I no longer want to be involved with you – in any way” I would probably say “OK”. Well, maybe I am exaggerating, I might have many other things to say, in fact, I know I would because I am not dead of spirit, however my point here, my one point here, is that I have no interest in forcing myself on anyone because it is just too much trouble for me. I am a simple man and cannot be bothered. “I am a reasonable man get off my case”, to quote RADIOHEAD.

Second, and probably more to the heart of the matter here, is that I am fascinated by you due to what seems to be your fascination with pornography. Now, that was a very dangerous sentence for me to type because you might have now taken it to mean that I am only fascinated by this aspect of you and no others. Or that I have only the capability to be fascinated by pornography and nothing else. You might have taken this to be the one point, the definition of me or of my “relationship” (notice the quotes) with you, when in fact it is only one of the points of either of those things. Labels leave out more than they include (my analyst said that to me the other day and I was like “yes, that is very simple and easy and sums up quite nicely what had seemed like an overarching component of my personality or experience but that seemed impossible for me to articulate - and she said it one little sentence. She’s Cuban) In other words, I will say this to add to my explanation…Your art work is amazing. And I generally admire your style of social living because it is quite foreign to me from what I can gather by the very very little I know about you . It is foreign to me in the social aspect, however not in the creative. On the creative side we are neighbors. Hmm, where have I wound up here? I have to re read. Hold on.

OK. So, yes. I will leave the particulars about the fascination, or better yet the intrigue and curiosity and interest I have in both you and pornography for now. You are also very pretty. Have a nice day. It's nasty out."



...oh, good. He's fascinated with me. And pornography. And mentions marriage.

Why can't I just have a few nice folks who like my column send me fan mail? Is that so much to ask? I'm gonna. I dunno. Go shiver in the corner or something.

After a long weekend, with more coming.

I feel relaxed. Maybe not exactly caught up, but ready to at least walk a little faster to maybe think about starting to catch up.

...Yeah. I think I can do that.

And smile a lot, for a while, and not pay attention to my dwindling bank account or the future staring at me. But to just, you know, enjoy myself. And, who knows, maybe do some kissing. And definitely, definitely, be with my friends.

I am ignoring my responsibilities this week because I can't really handle the idea of them, much less tackling them. Far from feeling ineffectual, I've been writing more of what I want to write. It's liberating. But I know I'll regret it later.
But.
I am also at the end of my rope with this gallery. Suddenly it's like the epicenter of f-ing midtown. I have had a bowl of ramen here (awesomely delicious Korean ramen from the place across the street) for an hour and a half and I'm about halfway through it, and I've been trying to watch a 3-minute video on YouTube for about the same amount of time. I've gotten 30 seconds in. Because every time I put the phone down some moron walks in and stares at me so I can't be stuffing my mouth with noodles. And when that person passes, the phone rings again, and when I put it down it rings again, and when I put THAT down, the same moron is back at the desk asking some inane question, and then when the moron walks away again, another moron comes in, and then someone from the back office comes walking past and because I can hear them before I can see them, anytime someone from the back office approaches I have to assume it's a Big Boss, which means, again, that I can't be stuffing my face with noodles. It's like a three-ring goddamn circus in here.
I should be happy because the busy-ness means that we're selling art, which means that my job is secure and that the Big Bosses are in better moods than usual (seriously, yesterday TKR offered me cookies [which I refused because I hate her; when I said no thanks, she looked taken aback--haha, take THAT you scum!] and today Mr. Levai told me he was 'excellent' when I asked how he was doing). But the truth is, I don't give a CRAP about the gallery's sales, and I have a horrendous splitting headache that won't go away. I like it when it's really, really quiet and nobody is buying anything, because then I can eat my lunch in less than two hours and get some work done, if I want.
Hm.
But I was going somewhere with this.
Writing....
Hm.
Oh well, it's gone.
/rant

Skinny Puppy: or, my anger management issues

I want to be there in the thick of it, protecting, holding fast against what might hurt her. I want to be bashing in skulls. I'm always like that. At concerts I jump into mosh pits and get beaten down unless I'm held back by someone bigger, wiser, less prone to starting fights. There's this thing in me, some kind of tribal being with no regard for personal safety or the convention of nonviolence. Sometimes people deserve to be kicked in the face. And I can kick pretty high. I kicked someone in the head once, after ample warning, and he was still shocked.
And yet, there are always cops around, watching. Or crowds with their disapproving glares. Or reasonable folks standing nearby, talking me back from ripping off my shirt and plunging in--reminding me I am not really the Incredible Hulk. I am Lynsey. I am small and weak.
I remind them that I've got the crazy in me. My temper flares are like sunspots. They can cause all kinds of problems.
But, yes, I can hurt too. And I do, when I watch the melee going on around me, when I stand on the sidelines and watch and tremble with this fury that seems born into me. Instead I smash things, non-living things, and when I was young I learned to imagine that alarm clocks and mirrors had feelings, like all of my toys. Not so I could talk to them or feel like I had companions, but so that when I broke them, I would feel more triumphant. "Just punch your pillow," said friends when I told them my rage had gotten me in trouble again, when I broke the sliding glass door. "But pillows never seem like they feel it," I'd answer. "They bounce right back."
I wanted to jump into the fray last night, pound my fists into you and watch you reel back. Rip off these damn chains and unleash the fury of my purple pants. Dance like the devil was in me.
But I remembered, thank god, that no one was holding me back this time. That guy with the meathead might really pummel me. I held myself back.
Or, maybe I'm just old and lazy.