1. The Meek Shall Inherit - Little Shop of Horrors, Broadway Cast Recording
2. Falling Back - Gentlemen Reg
3. A Land of a Thousand Words - Scissor Sisters
4. Keep it Goin' Louder - Major Lazer
5. Loser - Beck
I’m at The Museum of Modern Art for a tour of the Latin American in Construction: Architecture 1955-1980 exhibition. The assistant curator of the exhibit is guiding us around the museum space, walking us through the collected pieces. But I am completely distracted.
I woke up at 5am but didn’t get out of bed until 6:30, I knew that I should work on my script and go to the gym but instead I checked my email, Facebook, Instagram and Tumblr. Would you like to see Tom Daley painted as a shark? "Yes, yes I would." I do and then I masturbate. At 7:15 – right before I get into the shower - I press shuffle on my iPad and The Meek Shall Inherit from the Broadway cast recording of Little Shop of Horrors begins to play. I am out of Cafe Bustelo so I buy a large cup of coffee from the bodega next door. I should have gotten a small. Work is as expected; last minute conferences that I am forced to prioritize, triple checking the smallest details, answering countless questions regarding my bosses availability and waffles. This week it is Banana waffles with a beef curry and maple syrup.
During the tour, I keep thinking "they're coming to get you." I’m not exactly sure who “they” is, but I know that being broke is literally going to make me a paranoid schizophrenic. I have this ominous feeling that someone is coming to take away my material possessions.
I am very conscious of my feet, because I am wearing the most expensive shoes I own, a pair of grey suede bluchers from Paul Smith. They cost the equivalent of half of a month of my rent. I purchased them years ago when I made a lot more money. I rarely wear them now, and as a result they are one of two pairs of shoes I own that are still in almost perfect condition. I only picked them because I wanted to wear something nice for MoMA. The tour lasts an hour and a half and then I breeze through Yoko Ono: One Woman Show, 1960-1971, stopping only to watch a video of houseflies crawling around her vagina and then I leave.
Soon, Zach and I are standing on the deck of a penthouse in a party at a hotel on the Westside Highway. We're trying to avoid the heterosexual douchebags inside. A "model" and the event photographer talk about the recently launched New York Men's Fashion Week. "It was just for gay guys," she says. The photographer agrees. Zach bites his tongue. After they go back inside we look into the windows of the neighboring apartment buildings. Including Hugh Jackman's 3-story $25M penthouse. From the deck, we see him walk out of his bathroom, naked and holding a towel in front of his crotch.
"All I hear is the excuses and not the solutions." Zach says to me when I respond negatively to moving my computer equipment to a friend's apartment so I can continue to rent my apartment on AirBnb. I am stubborn and defensive when people have suggestions on what choices I should make, however I cannot see how this suggestion does not just produce more problems.
We head back uptown and I leave him pensive and annoyed, swing by a restaurant near my apartment where Angie is hanging out with her actor friends. She's surprised that she was able to summon me with a text message. I consider getting a drink, but I'm pretty broke and already drunk so I hang out for a few minutes and then head home, eat a honey bun and doze off.
I wake up a few hours later in time to check my boss in for his flight from Los Angeles and then fall back asleep.
The next morning I catch the crosstown bus to help a couple with a birthday party. I met them in December when they hired me on Taskrabbit. It was by far the best gig I found on there. She clearly liked me too because she emailed me seven months later. We prepare food for a Maryland-style crab boil. I collect my $150.00 and head back across town.
"What's with the late coffee?" Julia, the woman who runs the neighborhood cafe asks when I stop by around 6. I quickly explain that I'm trying not to go home and just fall asleep. “I'm trying to be productive.” I go home and fall asleep immediately. I dream that I peel a layer of skin off of my right foot; I do it cautiously expecting pain that never comes. The new skin feels tight.
I wake up at 5 AM on top of my sheets. My Ipad is on and at 12%. Kimberly is nudging me through Words with Friends. Doug Loves Movies episodes have been playing on autopilot in the other room for almost 10 hours. I play "Undoes". 39 points. I run though the list of things I did not do yesterday and then go back to sleep. I wake up an hour later watch some Bojack Horseman until I doze off again. I wake up an hour later and go to the bathroom. Everything comes out an unnatural green. Thanks, Blue Velvet cake.
The next morning, I drop off my laundry and go back to the café. There is dried semen on my right hand. My left hand smells like lavender. The women behind me talking about bikini waxes. I stand up to leave. I get back to my apartment turn on some music and start to clean. I then sort through my reference material; moving images into different folders that is supposed to make my creativity flow easier. I upload some sketches into six Instagram posts, and check my phone for the next few hours as the "likes" roll in. All of the usual suspects, with a few randoms that clearly just follow hashtags.
Around 2, I go to Midtown Comics downtown just to buy the first 2 issues of We Are Robin. I come home and draw for a few hours. I have some progress but I feel like I'm just spinning my wheels. I end up back in bed reading the comics. I masturbate again and then doze off, wake up and repeat.
I eventually text Mickey and see what he and Wilfredo are doing. I'm ready to socialize. Have a night. They invite me over for drinks. I pick up some mixers. Go over to their apartment. We hang out chatting. Drinking. They bicker like the married couple that they are. Mickey and I flip through Entertainment Weekly. Talk about television shows on Hulu. The movie Trainwreck. The drama at Gawker.
We start watching Inside Amy Schumer at the same time that Wilfredo decides to go meet a boy. I immediately know my night with them is over. It's not even 10. I am waiting for Mickey to say he is going to do the same thing, he doesn’t directly tell me he is, but he cuts the night short and I leave.
A helicopter hovers near my building, police lights flash down the street. Is this the “they” you've been waiting for? “Eventually”, I tell myself. I can hear the helicopter from my bedroom window. I crack open a beer, bite into a honey bun and press play on iTunes... Loser by Beck…