Thursday, May 26, 2016


I asked him if he would care to exchange photos. His letter to me was generic, but I could feel the holiday weekend fast approaching. I had solid plans with my best friend solitude; so I found myself exchanging concise, uninspired emails with Robert. We swapped photos and I found his to fall squarely into my demographic: bald, with a red beard. Excited, I shot a photo of myself back to him which he responded with brief prose, “you look good”. It was strange in that he didn't know me, perhaps me meant in relation to the age I had posted on my profile, or perhaps he meant simply, “good enough”. Solitude persisted so I hit the reply button again. I asked, where do you reside? He said, “I reside in Manhattan”. I told him I lived in Brooklyn, he responded, “never been”. Did his cellular plan charge by the word? Perhaps he wasn’t a morning person, or had never learned to type. I noticed myself making excuses for him, before I’d even met him. Still, the red beard intrigued me, with such great facial hair there had to be substance. I needed to know more. So I turned to the web with promising results, I’d matched his picture to his name. Now we were getting somewhere. Beers and burgers on the water, an evening walk down a secluded path. I clicked on a link and there was my Robert, a US Army veteran. He had almost no friends on Facedbook, he had started a GoFundMe in his own name that had later been removed. Robert said he suffered PTSD, he had reached out for others to help get his life back on track. He qualified as 100% disabled, no wonder he had been reticent to share the details of his life. Perhaps he was wheelchair bound. I’d had a dream the night before; an epic love scene with a man in a wheelchair.

Had that dream been a prophecy? I reached out to Robert again, telling him my passions, asking him about his, the memory of my dream-state wheelchair make-out session filling me with anticipation about what his answers might be.

His response was expedient. “Do you like oral, “ he queried - my prince hadn't bothered to answer any of my questions, or even bothered with adding a question mark. My wheelchair dream had, in fact been a prophecy, a sure-bet indicator that I would once again seek out damage, sit in his lap, and attempt to save him just in time for the next holiday weekend.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

The three times I didn't speak to Michael Cera

The first time I saw you was in front of the laundromat. It's not everyday you see an A list actor on the corner of what and what - I walked by again on my way back from the store, and I'm embarrassed to say I mentioned it on the social networking site, and everybody fanned out and got really jelly. People dig you, Man. I said you looked cool, like you kinda wanted to engage with strangers (that day, you did); God, this is embarrassing, but necessary to tell the story. Anyway - my assessment of you being *accessible* prompted one of my friends to send me the link to that piece you wrote that appeared in New York Magazine, "My Man Jeremy". I thought it was a great success - not an easy story to construct, and it conveyed such a great atmosphere of boredom, loneliness, and rejection, but maybe that's my life, lol. Anyway, I really dug it.

Cut to a couple weeks later, I'm downstairs at the grocery store and you actually inadvertently cut me off at the register. There's like no one there, so it's pretty funny. But once again, you prove yourself a kind human being and slide your half dozen eggs forward on the conveyer belt to make room for my chopped turkey meat. When I got upstairs, I thought, shit, I shoulda said something, I should have told you I loved your freakin' story. And I swore to myself, next time- next time I see Michael Cera - I'm gonna say something.

And that was today. I'm embarrassed to say, I was ordering some friend chicken wings at the Chinese restaurant and I look out towards the street and what do you know; it's that gifted author, Michael Cera, groceries in tow, I run out to say something, but he's halfway down the next block, high-taling it home.