A lot of folks have reached-out to me asking me how I'm doing, especially since I'm not on social media and amid these stupid rumors that I'm dying.
Selfie. October 2018.
In a few days I jet across the ocean for my third visit to Europe. I'll finally be visiting two cities I've had in my top 3 for as long as I can remember: Amsterdam and Paris.
Landing in Amsterdam early Friday morning I'll spend a few days enjoying the city. Then I will be taking a train to Belgium for a quick visit. Then it's off to Paris for a few days.
I hope you come with my on my Instagram + Insta Stories.
Through the course of five years
it was zero balance,
or months unpaid,
or ten day shut-of notice,
but on nights of full power
there was music,
Sean's electric smile,
raw love and
drops of it
shot-up inside me—
but on the rare
days of the dark
there was the man with the
unearthly voice as
deep as the pits of Hell
his shocking rage,
his bloodied knuckles—
and what was I to do but
glide between the two,
until the storm came and
everything was cut-off.
The other night I took at table of one of my top five favorite Brooklyn spots...Rose Water in Park Slope (where I met Cynthia Nixon earlier this summer) with my date. We were seated next to a table of two ladies seemingly having a great evening. They were colorful, drunk on wine, and immediately very chatty with us. Pat (birthday girl!) and Sherry (pink!).
They were there to celebrate Pat’s 85th birthday (can I still be this fabulous a able bodied when I’m 85? Shit, I’ll take 45 in T-minus 7 years). And Sherry, the animated storyteller and center of the universe, told me she had the same thing that “Johnny McCain” had but she’s had it for five years now and to “never let anyone tell you when it’s your time. Make your own damn time!” An intravenous drip or electrical shock machine was afixed under her wrap that came up from a backpack that had a high tech device in it that I had never seen anything like before. It looked like she was carrying a spaceship in her backpack.
Pat reminded me of my auntie Geraldine, my mom’s eldest sister. Same eyes. Same mannerisms. Geraldine was married to Frank, the same name as my date, whom they were both fascinated by the fact that he is from Cameroon. Pat, a world traveler, said she wanted to know more about Cameroon and politely asked Frank about it while Sherry was telling me about Iran in the 1980s and how she had only been to eight countries, “OMG me too!” I said.
“Pat, tell them about your husband!” Sherry said cheerfully, tossing back another sip (big sip, like a Montgomery Maxton sip) of wine.
The story started out so romantic, but the end of the story was anything but cheerful. Pat had met her husband during the Second War of the World and after traveling that very world they settled in Brooklyn. But her husband met a grim fate in 1988 when he was killed onboard Pan Am Flight 103 when it was bombed by terrorist over Lockerbie, Scotland. God rest his soul.
The jarring end to the story barely put a dint in the atmosphere. “Get the pork! It’s the best!” Sherry shouted at me for probably the sixth time as the waiter idled tableside waiting for me to order some twenty minutes after arriving. I ordered my old so-and-so, the chicken dish.
The waiter surprised them with a small birthday cake and candle and I snapped a few photos. Hugs and kisses were given upon their exit and the dynamic duo strolled out into the Park Slope night and seemingly into another great story.
Pat (left), Sherry (upper right), and yours truly with Frank. Rose Water in Park Slope. 9.7.18.
31 August 2018
Thanks for the love, Lance!