Nude

Acid flashback to Buffalo, I'm partying with hipsters, noticing nude photos strung out on the way to the bathroom down the hall. Meredith the photographer catches me staring at one, a side-view of a model holding a bicycle tire like an aureole around her naked torso, conjuring the image of a hula-hoop. I tell her about my fascination with tires and she presents it to me as a gift.


Eight years later in Brooklyn, I find the image in a forgotten stack and put it on the wall. I ask my girlfriend if she wants to see it, but she's distracted by the TV. Later in bed, I can feel the weight of her frustration. She doesn't like the portrait. I defend its artistic merit, but she doesn't want to hear it.

The next day, I'm in the locker room at the gym and there's a fat old naked man sitting on a bench like a centurion at a Roman bath. There are other white-haired, decrepit things prancing around the locker room without towels. I never see them in the gym lifting weights or hitting the treadmill, only back here among the steam and sweat of other men.

My girl doesn't have to say a word to get me to take down the picture. All she has to do is invite me over her house and have that fat old naked guy walk around, asking me if I saw today's Post.

When they ate the apple, Gwyneth (Eve) and Chris (Adam) realized they were naked and looked for clothing. And nude has been awkward ever since.

It is ethereal and repugnant. Sought after and rejected. It is Michelangelo and Spencer Tunick. Comported and vulgar like Kate Moss.


It is in the eye of the beholder.

Cosmic Coffee Shop

Beneath the muted glow of the expensive Time Warner Center, I headed south on Columbus Circle to a solitary figure standing on the corner where the Cosmic Coffee Shop went dark. My friend Melissa, who I had asked to meet me there, was waiting outside, not sure if she had the right place.

Apparently the proprietors of the coffee shop have relocated to 8th Ave., fleeing the exorbitant rent that could not be sustained by two eggs scrambled, hash browns, bacon, rye toast and a piping hot cup of industrial strength java.

Back when I worked nearby, I would often go to the Cosmic Coffee Shop for lunch. Once I sat at the counter beside Philip Seymour Hoffman and a gentleman, who was wearing a neatly pressed blue suit. I ordered my usual fare and paid them no mind until Hoffman excused himself, presumably to use the restroom.

The check was delivered in his absence. Hoffman's acquaintance seemed a bit befuddled before paying it and leaving a tip. Just then, Hoffman returned and thanked him for picking up the tab before hastily gathering up his coat and newspaper on his way out.

I thought of Hoffman and all the checks he must have stuck on unsuspecting people when he didn't have steady work.

The Cosmic Coffee Shop was the second corner joint I've lost to inflation. The other being Joe's Pizza on Carmine and Bleecker, which moved just a few doors down, relinquishing the convenience (and expense) of its original address.

I was there the last night it was open, sometime after 3:00 a.m., and bought the remaining two slices that were available on the counter. Then a black Town Car pulled up and Owen Wilson got out, wearing a L.A. Dodgers baseball cap and a black suit. He had to wait for a new pie while a late night crowd congregated.

While it seems that running into celebrities is common fodder for N.Y. conversation, the nostalgia of locales, come and gone, is greeted with as much intrigue as the weather. But when a place you've come to lean on is no longer where you remember, its memories become surreal, and the bummer lingers a bit longer than an ordinary rain out.

Cosmic Coffee Shop, New York City.

Bluff

Paint my face
and smile like a joker
now that I learned to
lay off poker
There was nothing funny
in losing all my money
What goes up
must comes down
Bet my smile
will become a frown
because like a one-eyed jack
I'll be back sitting at the table
until I'm no longer able
to walk away
Running up debts
I cannot pay.