Touring the Big A.

For the most part, I have joined the ranks of the Unhappy Waiters and Killers of Time. Oh God, are there so many of them in our land? Students who can't be happy until they've graduated, servicemen who can't be happy until they are discharged, single folks who can't be happy until they've found a mate, workers who can't be happy until they've retired, adolescents who aren't happy until they're grown, ill people who aren't happy until they're well, failures who aren't happy until they succeed, restless who can't wait until they get out of town, and in most cases, vice versa, people waiting, waiting for the world to begin.

Dan had really changed since our arrival in New York. He doesn't want to do anything. He lies on the couch and hardly gets up off of it only to get coffee and to shit or piss. The arrogance and hostility I feel emanating from John Bourne are becoming intolerable. Obviously, I am not welcome in their little love nest. As a courtesy to them and to retain my sanity, I would venture out into the Big Apple and go touring on my own.

To lighten my mood, I would visit the sights. The vast expanse of Central Park, the magnificence of the Empire State Building, the glitter of Broadway and 42nd Street, and the sidewalk cafes of Greenwich Village. And on Greenwich Village, I found it very dull in comparison to West Hollywood. As I sat in the Stonewall Bar, nursing my cervesa Corona, I looked around and everyone, the old queens and the young clones looked sad and bitter. Again, stateside queer joints give me the horrors.

And the cold! God, it is so very cold! It continues to snow. The five boroughs are blanketed in the stuff. With the remaining few dollars I have, I would pass the time at the movies. The regular movies since the city mayor wiped clean all the porno theaters in the city. It doesn't matter, the guys at the so-called porno shop I visited off of 42nd Street were butt ugly. The people here are so arrogant and unfriendly. Even the pigeons have a bad attitude.

Everything here is jumbo size. There is a three-story McDonald's Restaurant with Internet computers at each table, a Virgin Megastore that takes up a city block, hotels that stretch up into the stratosphere, subway tunnels that the stairwells seem to lead straight down to Hell. The food is good, though. Had a pastrami sandwich at a deli off of Broadway and for the reasonable price it was enough to feed a family back in Tijuana. And the pizzas...the pizzas I must admit are quite toothsome.

However, I shall try to keep a positive attitude. After New Year I will start looking for a job and I will look into that Columbia Film School. Who knows, maybe I will meet the love of my life amid the masses sloshing through this grey colorless city.

If all else fails, does anybody out there need a roommate? I don't eat much and I'm housebroken.