PAUL SHAFFER IS A SMALL MAN

Bustelo coffee kicks your ass. A trip to the YMCA. Member status and my own locker! “This place is totally cruisey.” Cara heads off to a running seminar at The Sheep Meadow in Central Park. I walk up Columbus Ave looking for lunch. Go this way and that. Paul Shaffer walks by me with two kids on 72nd Ave. He’s short. Buy an incomplete edition of the Sunday New York Times. “I was on this street last night.” Slice of pizza. A nice sassy, Jewish kid behind the counter at the Cingular store helps me with my ringtones. Shot of wheatgrass. The café where John Lennon and Yoko Ono used to hang out has a little memorial of him in their window. Another crappy cup of coffee at Starbucks. A walk to The Sheep Meadow. British accents everywhere. “I’ve seen this image of people spread out on the lawn in Central Park in a hundred photos.” Shakespeare’s statue. 5th Avenue. Italian accents everywhere. The Frick museum is closing soon and cherub faces on the limestone frieze on the North end are melting. The pond and the model boats. An Asian man with a little speedboat is doing tricks. A walk through the Rambles. I don’t see a single condom or wrapper. “How many buttfuckings have happened in this place?” Totally cruisey. Dozens of rowboats in the Lake. Brilliant chartreuse milfoil. Strawberry Fields. The Dakota Building. John Lennon was shot here. Agent Pendergrast has a place in the top floor somewhere. Cara and I head back to the apartment to change. It’s getting blustery. Head back downtown to the Lower East Side. A woman sitting opposite us on the train moves abruptly after a large Black guy sits across from her, legs sprawled. “I think he was exposing himself.” Buy a complete version of Sunday New York Times. Katz’s deli for the best pastrami sandwich ever. The steak fries suck. Some band is in the back taking promo shots. An art show in the Lower East Side. Smoking in the gallery. The Scene. Finally see Cara’s friend Sean in his amazing outfit. Three layers of eyeliner and fishnet leggings. The art on the second floor. A Polar bear head mounted on pre-fab body with speckle coating. Someone has run their finger along its surface like icing on a cake; this is the best part. Half dozen stuffed crows with illuminated eyes. Some glass panels. A video of an explosion. Silver orbs on the floor attached to devices on the walls. Meet the artist from Norway. Leave early. Step outside. Psychic TV show later this week. Sean cuts Genesis P. Orridge's hair. “There’s different kinds of art. Some art can be an investigation that opens the doors to an entirely useful and practical application to understanding culture. I’m not sure what that show was saying.” Run into old friend Nora from Seattle while going into Health food store for wheatgrass shots to fend off smoke-filled gallery. I probably know more people here than I thought. Walk down Houston for a million blocks. Get best coffee yet at Internet café. While waiting for the restroom I read some woman replying to her Craigslist posting. “I can Purrr…” Nothing hot about it. Dunkin’ Donut donut. “I got my first taste of porn in a dumpster next to a Levitz warehouse in San Leandro.” Porn is just like video games. “I’ve forgone real sex for porn at times.” Trader Joes. I miss living around the corner from Trader Joes. Walk seven blocks to subway. Some crazy woman is yelling at the far end of platform so we head in her direction. “Sexual Harassment! Sexual Harassment! Sexual Harassment! Someone call the police!” It’s like a hit song. Kids on bikes tell her to shut up. I make a small movie of it. Ride home and read NYT real estate issue. This is gonna be good.