alexrapine

I am always late to therapy. I’ve been seeing this dude, at the same day and time, for over 3.5 years. Though there’ve been many transformative moments there’ve also been long periods of me wanting to break it off. What’s the old bit? “Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come.” He or we always manage to win me or us back. Sometimes I wonder if he feels the same. Does my therapist hate me or is he just at work? It’s 12:12pm and I’ve already decided to skip brushing my teeth to give myself a fighting chance at a 12:30 arrival. However I can’t take the train without putting on my shoes so I curse while tying them as fast as I can opting not to wear my boots because I wore them yesterday and read somewhere you should rest leather shoes for a day between wears and that feels important enough to be a relevant factor with T-minus 17 till appointment. The clock on my microwave is set 10 minutes fast but I’ve long since adjusted to this; it’s likely doing more harm than good. Outside my apartment door, which I have to lock manually, are two bags of recycling waiting to go down to the bin. I may as well have brushed my teeth at this point. I toss them quickly and head out the door checking my phone. I have just over 12 minutes so it is still technically possible for me to make it on time so long as the train is waiting for me at the platform. As I approach the entrance to the F train, which is about 30 paces from my front door, a woman with a stroller is about to start descending the stairs by bumping it down step by step. Surely the teeth and the shoes could have taken their time as it will be this stroller that earns me a tardy. The door to the bodega swings open and a man in a dirty hoodie with a tattoo above his right eye merges between us. He squirreled around her in what I thought was an attempt to pass but instead went “wait wait, I would have helped you.” I realized he was scowling back at me and said it at me not her. The mother said “Xièxiè” over and over again as the man held his look of disapproval toward me, seemingly not needing to watch where he stepped.

Dear friends, I regret to inform you all but I have been befallen by some misfortunate. I have lost access to my iCloud account and thereby the photos stored there-within. I’ve been informed by Apple’s app store that my 50GB subscription fee autopay of $2.99 monthly has over-drafted my account and thereby put me in negative (as there is a $35 charge to Wells Fargo in such instances of insufficient funds), so, while I was looking forward to sharing an end of summer wrap up carousel, of 10 images, I will regrettably not be able to do at this time. Should I regain access I will update the following templates with their appropriate and corresponding images, but for the meanwhile please use your imagination. Once again I apologize for the inconvenience and/or disappointment. On behalf of the management, Tutto passa.

As I sit in McNally Jackson, listening to Gary Indiana read from his memoirs, I find myself getting distracted. There’s a book on the self nearest me under the category “Design” titled Chair Anatomy. I don’t think of the anatomy of the chair I am currently sitting on, instead, I think about the shelves. They are all full except for “Illustration & Street Art’’ and “Tattoo Design” which share the top shelf yet do not fill it. There is one book under Tattoo Design and two under Illustration & Street Art; which are technically two distinct topics that therefore share a half of a half. There is a book at the center, Flip The Script, I can’t tell which department to place in. Below them, a full shelf for both “Advertising” and “Branding.” From the floor up, two and a half full shelves of “Design,” and half a shelf of “Product Design,” all the books of which are individually shrink wrapped. What is it about Product Design that cannot be browsed in store while the writings about Design, Illustration, Street Art, and Tattoos are free for perusal at one’s leisure? I know there will be a question and answer period at the end of this reading but the only question I seriously would like answered is whether Gary Indiana has been to Gary, Indiana, which is a famously not great midwestern town and birthplace of rapper Freddie Gibbs. I am worried if I ask this outloud to a room full of people that like reading enough to make the trip to see someone do it in person they will think I’m trying to be cute but in earnest I am curious because Indiana in not Gary’s last name by birth so surely he has been to the land of his chosen namesake? If only to have a look around to see how best to appraise the humor of his moniker or in what taste it be received as. This information was absent from his Wikipedia page, the entirety of which I have now read while sitting here. I abstained about asking for clarification. i was gifted this memoir a while ago perhaps the answer is in it.

Narrator (David Attenborough): As the sun dips below the distant end of Canal Street, casting a golden hue over Dimes Square, a timeless spectacle unfolds before our very eyes. Here, amidst the outdoor dining tables, two formidable titans of the urban jungle engage in a dance of dominance and determination. [Two Creative Directors, their expensive sunglass frames reinforcing status and taste, lock eyes, each refusing to yield an inch in their silent battle for supremacy.] DA: Meet these rulers of their domain, both undisputed kings of the advertising/fashion/media industries. In this intricate tapestry of hierarchy and survival, dominance is not merely asserted, but fiercely contested, as we witness in this riveting encounter. [One of the Creative Leads finishes the last sip of a green juice we can see by the label is from Pier 59. The other Content Creator is noticeably critical as they tighten the pull cord on their Salomons] DA: A symphony of clinking glasses and flicking lighters echoes across the intersection, punctuating the tense silence as these magnificent beasts engage in a primal dialogue. Each article of clothing, each brand name, laden with significance, as they size each other up, gauging steeze and limitedness of their editions. [The two Creatives circle each other, their powerful strides betraying the intensity of their confrontation. With every step, they display a breathtaking vibe of innovation and design, a testament to their prowess as apex Content Editors.] DA: With a dynamic yet considered gait, they circle each other, a mesmerizing display of raw market acuity and branding agility. Their movements are a testament to years of pitching and deckmaking, finely honed instincts guiding their every curated piece in this timeless ritual of status signaling. [As tension increases, one of them makes a bold move, lunging forward with a collaboration merch bag they got from an influencer dinner, their pair of gold necklaces fluttering with carnal satisfaction. The other mentions aloud who it was they had lunch with yesterday and where.] (1/3)

It’s 2012 and it’s almost 2am. You are at The Uptown in San Francisco’s Mission district; more specifically at the intersection of 17th and Capp. You are trying to garner the bartenders attention to close out because you have only but 20 minutes to make it two block to Crackistan, the nickname given to the liquor store on the west side of Mission between 17th and 18th. The bars push out earlier to avoid any chance of serving past 2am. Why? Why more strictly than anywhere else? You don’t know the answer to that but you have always wondered. You all rush. You, 10 of you, sprint around the corner and narrowly make it through the door at 1:58. Why can the liquor store lock you in for whatever amount of time it takes to get a line of 20 served and exited but the bar has to be empty by 1:45? No one knows why but it is so. You wait in line drunkenly and purchase a pint of Jameson which you will swear off in 6 months as you did Old Grandad Bonded proof the year before. You go to an after-hours somewhere. Always it’s somewhere; just somewhere not exactly a place. Tomorrow you will be 1 hour late to a New Years Day family dinner in the East Bay at 5 (6) pm that you suggested. You will sit on the bridge in traffic for 1 whole hour and puke as soon as you get there. You will announce to them you plan to move to New York in two months. They will ask what your plan is but you won’t have one. They will seem entertained by the spontaneity of this and perhaps remark it is brave but you won’t understand why. Not just because you are hungover but because you have much more life to live before that almost makes sense. This photo has nothing to do with this you just needed to pick one.

I met Ezra at Casetta for a vermouth and then another and he brought a new recording of his podcast but he said it wasn’t finished so I told him I wouldn’t listen to it incomplete. He was evaluating the makeup of the writers and their groups and overlaps and which came first and later and I told him I hate this and called them all new to the Square. Besides, I had to go to Casino to see Mr. Lewis the bar man who I had a wager with whether Joyce or Ford would win in arm wrestling and he suggested chess but I said chess is a not a thinking man's game. His eyes should be up on the world in front of him. I needed the money and he knows nothing of gambling let alone wrestling. When we got there Scott and his lovely wife were already 3 Espresso Martinis in, which must mean his brand partnership with a hard seltzer brand had been a success. I bore this weight of fancy for the length I could and left for Fong's to less costly seas and found myself half underwater with the bartender there, Robert Henry. The drinks were fine and the beer was cold mostly and the spirits were Mexican from Oaxaca and they would do me well before a later rendezvous in the basement of Le Dive where there was dancing and there was drink and there would be women or at least a Lady named Ashley would be there who was in town from London and is to marry my associate, Duke, or at least that’s what he called himself. I went past it into Clandestino and met a lady who described her work as Online Marketing which was a euphemism for Only Fans and I brought her with me to dance with the others and they were friendly to her but gratingly so. A tall man named Matthew took our photo and the girl joked “if you post that my boyfriend will see it.” We fell, later, into an Uber to my apartment and I added a stop and told the man to continue to her place and make sure she gets inside the building and if so I would tip him $20. I scaled the floors up and made myself a vermouth and tonic and resolved to write in the morning all of the things I had thought but I knew I would forget since I had not recorded anything in my notes app.

I know not where nor when I came into possession of these sunglasses much like I know not where many others of mine have gone. Pairs have departed from my ownership, in nouns such as rental car, theater, couch, bar counter, and/or purse, in such high quantity as to make seem my claim ownership a tenuous one at best. I may have purchased these on eBay as I did a pair of nautically intended Ray Bans some years ago; which I placed in a friend’s purse out past sundown not aware it would be their final resting place. In Palm Springs, I was hastened from my rental vehicle by the valet of the office I was returning to who, I hope, found my black Retrosuperfuture wayfarers in the glasses compartment above the rear view mirror and went on to share my tan line decidedly from ear to temple. I had found a pair of Ray Ban wayfarers once in the folds of a couch on the balcony level of The Great Star Theater in San Francisco’s Chinatown at an ungodly hour at the finish of an ungodly evening of ungodly activities. Where they wound up I know not but surely they passed on without registering proper rites or repentances. A pair of bold, acetate Versace frames, you would recognize as having graced the bold face of Biggie Smalls, I half gifted half lent to a friend for their trip to Italy where of course she deposited them in some AirBnB or cab or hotel or beach towel. They had come to me from that federation of former kingdoms so their energy potential to return to tomato Europe makes about as much sense as would imagining Italy’s pre-Colombian cuisine to the modern day touring gastronomer. As a child visiting the East Coast for the first time, since my father’s work moved us to California, I heard legend of a place where cool popular sunglass styles, that would make me the envy of my tweenage classmates, could be had for prices a 14 year old’s budget could handle. This place was Canal Street, yet not an address nor DBA, simply a name and a promise. Disembarking a red double decker … (continued on SubStack) I have gotten tired of editing these down to the 2,200 character limit so if you would like to keep reading follow the link in my bio to find it on SubStack. Thank you.

“The Fires of Lust: Sex in The Middle Ages, by Katherine Harvey, is a funny title for a book,” he thought while standing in The Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore. Is it new? Is that why it's on the front table? He picked it up and before even opening it thought “is it weird if the salesclerk sees me immediately pick up a book about sex? Too late now. ‘Medieval medicine suggested it is possible to die from having too much, or too little, sex… The Church taught that virginity was the ideal state.’ Yup I remember that.” He opened to somewhere in the middle and read the chapter title “Men with Men. Of course it fucking does, he thinks. “Just like therapy, reading a book about sex is sure to make you gay. Well it’s only a coincidence.” Or is it? 1 in 228? Those are long odds but more likely than winning the lottery. Could this be a sign? A message from a higher power? “No yeah, you walked in with your male friend to browse and fate or the three older ladies running this bookshop or God or chance put that book where you’d see it then compelled you to open to page 128.” He didn’t perhaps think this so much as feel it. The kind old gray haired librarian said to him “sorry we weren’t open yet when you came by earlier! We open at 1 but take lunch at 2.” How Parisian of you, he thought. “No worries! We went and smoked cigarettes to kill time.” “Oh. Do you think that was wise?” “For my health? No.” “I see. Well it has been one of those days.” “Yes.” “We’re getting Vancouver weather.” “San Francisco too. We used to live there,” he said, pointing to his male friend. We? Why did I say it like that? I didn’t mean we lived there TOGETHER together. “Do you get soggy feet there?” “Used to but it doesn't rain much there any more.” “Funny how fast that happened.” “Truly.” He allowed himself to be talked into buying a copy of A Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce. “You may not have to read it now but you will have to at some point in your life,” the gray haired book seller said. He had browsed and chatted far too long to politely leave empty handed. The men left. His friend turned to him and remarked “that was a pretty good little lesbian book store.”

11 years ago, I produced a WW2-era period piece short. For the opening shot, all male members of the crew dressed up as Naval cadets in the barracks of the USS Hornet, docked in Alameda, California, the same ship used in P.T. Anderson’s “The Master.” The 10 of us went to get 10 crewcuts with non-electric shears. The barber’s name was Joey, styled as “Joey The Barber,” and pronounced “bar-bah.” He was one of those guys who wore 1930s specs, a three-piece suit, a trilby, and drove a Studebaker, or aspired to do so. He was from Chicago, talked with an accent from a gangster flick, and had spent 5 years in prison on a racketeering charge. Allegedly, the owner of the shop he had worked at was running numbers for the mob. When the heat came down, he skipped out and left his employees to take the rap. Joey was injured in prison and became dependent on painkillers. After that first visit, I was an instant barbershop convert. I began going in monthly for trims, only to him, for the 5 years. Only once did I cheat and visit some new hipster spot. When I came skulking back to Joey to get it fixed, I felt such shame, yet he accepted me back tenderly. “A man should find a proper barber and spend $50 on their haircut.” As I’ve gotten older, I’ve expanded that mantra to include “you won’t always have enough hair to get a fun haircut so you better enjoy it now.” You never knew which version of Joey you were going to get. Is he going through opiate withdrawals? Is he a bit too chipper? The haircut was always on point, but one version wanted to shoot the shit and the other did not and might nick your ear. His coworkers didn’t seem to love him either. Ultimately, that short film never came out, even though it was great. A couple of months later, I heard on NPR that a man wanted for murder in Oregon was found hiding out, living and working on the USS Hornet. There were only three old guys living on the boat at the time, and I remember one being sick that week, so it was a 50/50 chance that he was the one showing us around the dark, empty boat all night. That would make a good slasher flick. Since moving to New York, I have a new barber and we’re going on 8 years. 😎 @liddlebits

In a cave-like Chinatown basement this Halloween, two 50 year old fathers sang the songs, of 15-20 ago yesteryear, to a ravenous crowd of costumed adults. We begged and shouted “2 more songs, 3 more songs, 5 more songs” not letting them say they were finished. What reason did they have to stop? The restaurant, whose basement we were in, is closed Mondays and it’s only 11:20. Surely their children are safe at home as evidenced by the fact neither of their wives can be seen in the crowd; unless they have particularly elaborate costumes that is. They dance and jerk with the energy of much younger men and play their music as well. Neither physically nor sonically, there is no awkwardness in their movements. They move around the decks in tandem like short order line cooks; as those who have not just practiced but slept on it many times. We shake and shout and leap to a time before they owned this bar, before they had children to think of and before they lost their hair. Its not a cover or a throwback nor a costume but one so accurate they lived it and need not put it on. They have played more than promised and cue up a post punk playlist to replace themselves. You could go out tonight but you havent got a stitch to wear. Why not wear your younger self?

No one looks forwards in the 6th arrondissement They glance sideways into shop windows They drift upwards to building facades They ogle at this Ferrari as speeds to a start but never ahead. Hands do not go in pockets here. They clutch iPhones and flip through racks of berets and scarfs like the pages of a book. They hold onto one another and fill the thin sidewalk; two bodies wide. They wave menus to rouse attention or create breeze. Hands are for champagne and nibbles of cheese. What if it was my hands that occupied these pockets? Availing them of their contents. I could be right in front of them and they would never know. These are @joshua.olley ‘s and he got them in Paris though probably not in the 6th. This one might be a poem: let me know.

If you ever find yourself flying out of Brandenburg Airport (BER), in Berlin, make sure to get there 3 hours early because they like to get to know each traveler personally, in the security line. The x-ray man gave me what amounted to a deep tissue massage. I thought he was gonna make me floss. I tipped him. Once they have examined each of the items in your luggage, with intrigue and a thoroughness I don’t even apply to my own hygiene, you will enter through the duty free where if it has just dawned on you how you’ve forgotten to buy a kilo of Toblerone you may avail yourself of their more than ample selection. Once you’ve stowed the chocolate and two cartons of Gauloises Red 400s (millimeters?), you will surely require the offerings of the store front to your immediate left. It sells one thing every traveler needs: baby clothes. Have you been in Germany so long you’ve in fact procreated? I know, we’ve all been there. I would say “you’re in luck” but what kind of airport would we be if we offered no resource for last minute infant sized onesies that say Bayern-Munich? Truly luck has nothing to do with it. We do not however expect you to be early for your flight at the gate because we have only 40 seats per terminal and no outlets. Also make sure to dress to impress as everyone here looks like a background actor or a mens warehouse model or as if an AI designed a human purely based on viral TikToks. I cleared my phone so I lost a lot of good sunglass selfies so I apologize if this isn’t my best work in that regard.