At St. Mark’s bookshop the other night, after skimming through “the sex issue” of Time Out: New York, I picked up the “American Autumn” issue of Ad Busters. I was so moved by it, the beautiful images, the elegant words, and its overall extremist/fanatical take on the world. Then one piece more than any other stood out and shot through me so intensely: a visual essay in tribute to the great John Berger.
With the many warm little clusters of people huddling together around tall buildings, the “cities” that dot our landscape like a misshapen constellation, it’s sometimes hard to understand why absolutely none of them are interesting or relevant. None of them, that is, except New York City.
Once I had a beard, and longer hair. I wore whatever I wanted. My actions were derived from conscious choices. Spare time was abundant and used to nourish my mind, my body, and my soul. I moved often, sometimes on a whim, but mainly to find a better job. No one told me where to go. No one held my hand. There was no plan. There was no paperwork. There was just me: my mind, my dreams, my life, and my choices. I loved it.
Among the many lessons I was taught by those wing women so long ago, the one I learned that day at the store I consider the most important. I realized not only did I want to be around people who lived their lives in exclamation points but I also wanted to live my own life the same way. Months later that lesson would play a key role, arguably, in helping me to find someone who, thankfully, was generous enough to relieve my virginity.
I thought I could love you on the Fourth of July. Admittedly, I didn’t really know you yet but I wanted to see if you were a good fit, wanted to see if I could just be with you forever without wanting to kill myself.
In “The Anthony Weiner Weiner Collection,” on display through July 21st, we are asked to follow New York artist Anthony Weiner through an uncut, sexually-charged, erotic journey into his self—and loins. It’s a myriad of raw self-portraits, drawing from Weiner’s throbbing ego and drawers. But, once we’ve felt his work, like a high-profile tryst splashed on the cover of tabloid rags, there is no satisfaction.
The city erupted. People spilled into the streets. Like a pack of migrating wildebeests, the drunken hockey faithful formed a collective whole and pushed towards the TD Garden.
For men, the goal is to look like you’re a 45 year old corporate executive on the weekend. Wear collared shirts at all times, either polo or button up (sleeves rolled up, of course, and never unbutton more than the first button). Wear khakis—rarely jeans, never cargo pants.
Of course, I came here 20 years ago, when I was 21 and it was amazing — cheap and filled with freaks. Now it’s freakishly expensive and all those young ‘uns? They work for Google (or Apple or Yahoo or Genetech; there is an endless parade of corporate buses barreling up and down Guerrero headed to or from the Peninsula on a daily basis).
Perhaps the most popular argument against Black Graduation is that white students could never have a “White Graduation.” Some find this comparison inappropriate, contending that many blacks are first-generation college students, which makes their accomplishment more meaningful to them and their loved ones.