MICAH: I’ve started daily meditative prayer practice. ISAAC: Oh good grief. Really? MICAH: I know you have some daily practices of your own. ISAAC: Well, they are meditative, my practices, and you could argue that prayers are being voiced. MICAH: You could, yes. ISAAC: So what do you pray for in these practices? MICAH: You.
I spent the past weekend out of the city and in Marion, Massachusetts, where Marianna’s family has a house. I’d hoped, being so close to Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard, that I could at least have a maid to fire or a husband to resent as I vigorously hand-washed some organic grapes, but no such luck.
Marianna’s family was warm and welcoming, and their house beautiful. We swam in the harbor, and I remembered how fucking hard swimming is. Luckily there was a lifeguard on a nearby dock, and even though my glasses were ashore I could make out a blur of hair on his chest, and I was kept afloat by my buoyant lust.
In the mornings we had flaxseed pancakes and kale-kiwi smoothies, and in the evenings we had gin and tonics and cardigan weather. Each night after dinner we drove — Marianna, her cousin Viv, Viv’s husband Pablo, and I — to a place called Kool Kone, where we’d stand in the parking lot and put rainbow-jimmied soft-serve down our throats. On our second night there we watched a family of four and their dog all share fried cod, hot fudge sundaes, and onion rings, al fresco in their convertible.
We went sailing, a first for me. My nautical duties included switching sides whenever one side of the boat needed more weight (a hard pill to swallow, especially with all that Kool Kone in my mouth), waving to every boat that passed (mariners’ feelings are easily hurt), and taking gallons of saltwater to the face every thirty seconds (I swear we were in a white squall). I shrieked a ton until I realized someone might call the harbormaster and report a kidnapped girl.
We rode bikes into town. I rode a tandem bike with Pablo and it was as if I’d never ridden a bike before, so there was more shrieking. The back seat on a tandem bike comes with far more control than I was expecting (I was hoping for more of a sidecar situation), and I was causing the bike to swerve. “Relax your hips,” Pablo said to me, but he was just getting to know me and didn’t know how lost a cause that is.
On the bus ride back to New York the driver sang loudly to himself and the girl next to me burped up Arby’s. I was burping up Kool Kone, though, so I didn’t judge.
Heather and I realized on our way back from lunch that the woman walking in front of us was topless. (Yes, we checked, she was.) Just another day on 42nd Street.
The other night, bloated with wine, fried cheese, Joni Mitchell, and valerian root – a consumptive chain that left me sleepy, melancholic, and gassy – I lost my shit watching videos of soldiers coming home and surprising their families. Unbelievable, unadulterated displays of emotion. Loved this one especially:
I’ve been fortunate enough, in my humble opinion, to have seen two actors onstage communicating with the gods — Fiona Shaw in Medea and, tonight, Mark Rylance in Jerusalem.
Tonight at work we had an older woman in attendance who after complaining about her seat finally said she was sorry, that it was her birthday and that her boyfriend dumped her earlier in the day. We upgraded her seat and comped her a brownie from concessions.
I was just watching some porn that had English subtitles, already having a marvelous time, and then this happened:
Now, this was most likely was the work of an inept translator, for the line did not seem founded in the situation of the scene — a post-soccer-football game flare-up between the star player and the team’s lazy water boy — but what if he actually did say it? How classy and delightful! How Great Gatsby! I’m supposed to be raising my standards anyway, so now I would now like a bon vivant top. I’d update my OK Cupid profile if I wasn’t certain it would start recommending a bunch of ascot-wearing roof-farmers from Greenpoint to me.
and said, after two dates and a sleepover, that he was hoping we could just be friends. I felt my face drop, I couldn’t stop it. I also felt sweat drop, from anywhere on my body able to produce it, because he did not own an air conditioner. He’d said he thought it would make for a great story later in life, you know, let me tell you about the summer I was 22 and living in Manhattan without an air conditioner, and in that moment I still thought I was on a date so I just laughed and a little sweat went in my mouth, but now I’m putting it out there that that’s the worst story ever.
It all hurt, but when I got home I cut my hand on a wine glass and that hurt worse, so, perspective. Kisses don’t heal wounds, nor do they make summers subside. You need Band-Aids. And air conditioners.
ISAAC: (singing along to Dionne Warwick with a glass of wine) If you see me walkin’ down the street, and I start to cry, each time we meet, walk on by, walk on – THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST:(appearing in the doorway) Hehhhhh … ISAAC: (jumping) No. No.It’s been three nights since I watched your movie, please stop hanging around and scaring me! THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: What a lovely day for an exorcism. ISAAC: I disagree. Pick someone more fun to scare, I’m neurotic and alone in a dark apartment, I’m a fish in a barrel, I’m a wounded gazelle. THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: (shakes her head) ISAAC: I’ve got a downstairs neighbor I’d love to pass you onto. THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: (spins her head in a circle) ISAAC: OK. OK. This is happening. I don’t have holy water, but I have wine and the Burt Bacharach songbook. THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: (pees on the floor)
ISAAC: Ew, gross, come on, leave me alone! THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: (laughs demonically) ISAAC: I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I watched your movie. I try to think of happy things – The Golden Girls, Andrew Garfield, that sneezing baby panda — but you keep popping up, you keep photobombing my peace. THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: You’re going to die up here. ISAAC: Look, I’ll allow for the possibility, but I don’t find that outlook helpful. I believe that the man for me is out there, welding in British Columbia, and that when I meet him, my luck will change. THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: (projectile vomits green slime onto ISAAC’S face) ISAAC: That’s it. (flinging $9 shiraz at her) The power of Christ compels you! THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST:(writhing) Lick me! Lick me! ISAAC: No! THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: LICK ME! ISAAC: Um, if I’m going to go down on a woman for the very first time it’s not going to be in your Okefenokee situation down there. THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: Shove it up your ass, you faggot! ISAAC: All right, I apologize, that was a bit harsh. I know what it’s like to have your sexual self go unconsidered by others. THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: (masturbating with a crucifix, bleeding everywhere) ISAAC: My goodness, you are in heat. I hear you — it’s the summer nights. Are you in a dry spell, too? THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: (writhing, seizing) ISAAC: Oh, good grief, what a question! You’re technically a little girl still. And you’re only recently possessed, so I doubt you’ve found anyone to lick you. I mean, who’ve you asked, your mom and her priest and me? THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: (foaming at the mouth, bleeding everywhere, puking) ISAAC: Well, demonic possession or not, you should value yourself. That is what I’m trying to work on. Don’t ask every single person who crosses your path to lick you. Wait for someone special to do it. And don’t let anyone with aviator sunglasses and an unearned scowl do it. Promise me that. THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: Fuck him! ISAAC: That’s right, fuck him! THE GIRL FROM THE EXORCIST: No, fuck Jesus! ISAAC: Oh, I thought we’d found common ground. No.
I went to Baltimore this past weekend to visit my parents and meet their new dog and get sick as shit. Thankfully I had a day and a half to play with the dog and drink wine and eat crabs before the cold sweats moved in, and after that I was bed-bound, trembling and dreaming off and on about Cheers plotlines that I’m pretty sure never happened.
The new dog is so cute. He’s a mix of black lab and beagle, a mating you know was, like, Lars von Trier intense. His name is Jake, and my parents swear they did not name him after Jake Gyllenhaal, but I don’t know, I can sense my influence.
Last night I bought the ingredients to make miso soup at home, and I did. I won’t be graphic. But don’t let me make you anything ever. If I come to something of yours and I’ve brought something of mine, close the door in my face. If you come over and there’s a pot boiling and an adventurous look in my eye, hit me with an open palm.
Down along the Hudson, south of the George Washington Bridge, with good friends and a one-eyed dog and a sky proving its mettle without fireworks. Photo via James.
I could’ve started watching Deadwood or Breaking Bad like I’ve been meaning to but, no, I’ve started Ally McBeal on Netflix Instant. I can’t stop. I don’t even like it. Someone, please: ask me out on a date, show me some kindness.
On my first day back at work after my vacation, when the box office opened and the elevator at the end of the hall released the day’s first customer, I heard the click of a walker on the hard floor and an “ehh,” and a walker click, and an “ehh,” and a walker click, and another “ehh,” – an ancient respiratory system drawing near, wanting a left aisle seat — and in that moment I closed my eyes and thought of California.
Los Angeles, to be precise, where I’d been for a week – my first visit. Los Angeles, with its cool and its dry, its bursts of color, its hills and waters and fish tacos. Los Angeles, with its toothsome assistants in headsets and morning scruff — “Hi, Isaac. Emily’s on a call and will be a minute. Can I get you coffee, tea, sparkling water?” How about a modest life together? I wanted to ask, but I went with sparkling water.
I’ve always hated flying, and my hatred remains unaltered by this trip. I don’t know why the situation 39,000 feet above the middle of our country is so fraught; Nebraska’s airspace in particular reminded me of a few power addicts I’ve gone to bed with. I took the Xanax a work friend gave me, which did not lull me to sleep but did act as a secretary for my fears, only allowing in what was most pressing.
I’d hoped this trip would be a vacation from the career anxiety squatting in my every thought corner lately, but with “meetings” on the agenda that didn’t happen. I was so nervous before one of them that, when the assistant came out into the lobby to get me, this happened:
ASSISTANT: (extending a hand) Hi, Isaac, I’m Cindy’s – ISAAC: Hi Cindy! ASSISTANT: — I’m Cindy’s assistant. ISAAC: NOT CINDY. SORRY. ASSISTANT: It’s OK! ISAAC: (still limply holding her hand) Sorry, I’m not trying to pull away, I’m just trying to reach for my manpurse.
On our first night Dave and I stayed in a Koreatown hotel that, in the right light and the right stage of dementia, might’ve looked like the Standard in New York. On other nights we separated and I stayed with Bear and Addison in Beverly Hills and with Elissa in Silverlake.
Every day was 65 degrees and sunny with no humidity and a constant galvanizing breeze. This weather I’m told lasts mostly year-round, except for two pesky months when it’s 120 degrees and everything catches on fire. We drove around a lot, listening to Adele, Mumford & Sons (song of the trip: “The Cave”), Bon Iver, and Darren Criss, whenever I could sneak him onto a mix. I downloaded a slew of Katy Perry inanity for Dave, in exchange for the 35 minutes of Carole King Quality Time he’d promised me for when we drove along the Pacific Coast Highway.
We drove the Highway a little ways up to Malibu, and that small stretch was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. I’ll never forget the light on the cliffs and the houses. I didn’t take the above picture; I was too busy trying to cry with Carole and imagine my life as a tapestry of rich and royal hue, an everlasting vision of the ever-changing view, an attempt thwarted by Dave who, in defiance of Quality Time rules, kept trying to sing along. He claimed he needed to do something because I was making him uncomfortable.
Everywhere we went there were people to park the car. There were medical marijuana prescriptions for anxiety. There were young men in Ray Bans with Vasco de Gama moustaches. I had an In-N-Out burger and an Umami burger. I had an Urth coffee. I had wonderful dinners with friends old and new and handsome. I misread an address and walked for forty-five minutes along Sunset Boulevard, which is apparently not something people do in L.A. I encountered maybe two other people walking, total, and it would not be long until they were back in the state’s care.
I became obsessed with these omnipresent flowers:
We drove through Beverly Hills up into the mountains to look at the opulent, tacky homes, all being tended to by Mexican gardeners, and into Bel Air, where we were chased out by sniper guards. We went to Disneyland and I had my date with destiny on Splash Mountain – I was too chicken to ride it at Disney World as a child, and I’ve always regretted that, because I love a good log flume. It was my favorite ride of the day. We took a guided studio tour at the Warner Bros. lot, which was completely deserted for the weekend, so the whole place felt eery and off-limits, but I did get to see the Ellen studio and give Tom Hardy’s suit from Inception a good sniff.
We ended our trip at the Getty, which is what I imagine heaven looks like:
For the red-eye flight home we got drunk at LAX, and Dave fell right asleep on the plane, but I couldn’t — Nebraska and its jostling. I gathered the courage to lift my shade and look out the window, and in that moment the turbulence stopped. All was quiet. It was dark inside the cabin. I saw the earth twinkling up like a reverse night sky, and I saw a lightning storm happening many miles away, the clouds soundlessly lighting up with amber, a couple states over, even. Maybe.
Today I saw Bridesmaids for the third time (I might have a problem, but it just makes me so happy), and right after that I saw Beginners, the pretty special new Mike Mills movie starring the pretty special Ewan McGregor. It was lovely and sad and I recommend it.
