Truth in Advertising Page 0,56
letter from Lady Gaga appealing for money (always an awkward subject between friends) for the children of Darfur. “Dear Caring Friend,” Lady Gaga writes (and I can picture her writing it, too, longhand, no doubt). I read the first paragraph of the letter and am acutely aware of how the writing style engenders in me not empathy and sadness—as this subject most certainly should—but annoyance and laughter. Which then leads to sarcasm and mild anger. Which then leads to guilt and shame. Which then leads me to the refrigerator for a cold Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, which makes me remember the phrase nancy boy, a phrase my father reserved for men who drank beer that wasn’t Miller. I’m an uncaring nancy boy who drinks fay beer and my father is laughing at me and bizarre Lady Gaga no longer wants to be my friend.
I briefly consider masturbating but decide I don’t have the energy, so I shower instead.
I bought this apartment five years ago. In fact, the bathroom is one of the reasons I bought it. The toilet is in its own room. Like they do in Europe. How great is that? I often say this to people upon showing them my toilet and they rarely react with the kind of excitement I hope for, the kind of excitement that I, myself, felt upon seeing it for the first time. The Realtor actually apologized for it. It’s a small box with a window high up. In a separate room next door is the actual bathroom, sink and old tub with a wraparound curtain. It’s got great charm and character, but it’s a pain in the ass to actually shower in because the space is small and the curtain often clings to your body.
The apartment itself is a small one-bedroom, sixth-floor walk-up, top floor in the back. It’s Connecticut quiet, except for the pipes in the winter. Uneven, wide plank floors, exposed brick wall on one side, old, drafty windows, a small working fireplace. Things break a lot but we have a great super on the ground floor—Ahmed—who is very fond of me, as I let him stay on my couch for two weeks last year when his wife briefly kicked him out. He was a dentist in Yemen.
It’s sparse, clean, perhaps a bit monastic. I could pack and be out of here in half a day. Ian helped me buy some things, most of them at the Chelsea Flea Market on weekends, including a large, old leather chair that I don’t really like and never sit in. There’s a farm table that I do like and I use when I give my frequent lavish dinner parties (I’ve had two in five years). For the most part the walls are bare, which I like. Above the mantel, however, is something I’m quite fond of. It’s an advertising poster from 1934 for a Swiss department store. It’s a giant white button, 35" by 50", with the letters PKZ under it (the store’s name). I can’t say why I like it exactly.
I have plans to redo the kitchen, pages torn out from magazines as guides, notes and bad drawings about how I’ll do it. But I haven’t even started the process. These things take time.
I almost didn’t buy the apartment. I panicked at the closing. I was putting down almost everything I had in the bank and began to have second thoughts. I realized I was happy renting. I liked the idea of impermanence. But I signed the many documents with a fake smile on my face. I convinced myself that it was the right thing to do. That it would make me happy. That it was a smart financial move. It’s amazing how you can talk yourself into almost anything.
Now, I sit on the couch, my iPod on shuffle, and half watch TV with the sound off because I can’t stand the commercials. Currently the iPod has chosen “Worried About You” by The Rolling Stones, which is making a Pizza Hut commercial much better. I look at the pile of mail. Along with the catalogs from Crate & Barrel and L.L.Bean are two pieces addressed to Amy. One is a 1.9 percent introductory offer from Citibank and one is a yoga clothing catalog featuring remarkably fit women with lovely bums. I still get junk mail for her once in a while. We lived together here for nine months, during the engagement.
For a while after canceling the wedding, I tried to avoid the