Letter

Eber walks a guy over from the door. Said he needs directions. He moved slow. It takes him forever to unfold a packet of papers, then find the place on the sheet with the address he’s looking for. It’s the Pacific Garden Mission—a homeless shelter about a mile away. I’ve been walking all day, he says. Then asks for a glass of water and some napkins.

His face is swollen around the eyes and his features are off, like they’re the wrong proportions. Every movement takes forever. He dabs at one of his eyes, leaving stains on the tissue after each touch. He says he’s happy the shelter’s close—he thought he was still many miles off. Then he asks for a drink on the house. When I say no, he asks how much it would be if it wasn’t on the house. I tell him I wouldn’t be comfortable serving him a drink at any price.  

You think I’m fucked up, right? 

I say I don’t know but that he wouldn’t be getting a drink here. Can you make sense of this? he asks, fanning out his packet of papers. It’s from Stroger Hospital. Intake information, diagnoses, and directions for aftercare. I say I don’t know. This is what they say I got. Pink eye. You know how you get it? It’s from shit. Wipe your ass, then rub your eyes. The doc said I should get better by the 20th, that’s when I turn 22. But I don’t know. Then he asks if I heard about Banksy’s latest stupid art world stunt. Even skid row wastoids like my new friend know about that clown.

I walk away to pretend to serve my three remaining customers, but mostly for a break from the guy’s misery. When I go back to him he tells me I should probably throw away the glass I served him water in. That it might be contagious. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Let me give you a piece of advice: don’t ever mess up. 

I thank him for the wisdom and reiterate the directions to Pacific Garden Mission: Go left out the door down Cermak till you get to Canal. Take a left and walk about three quarters of a mile. You can’t miss it. Good luck. 

He takes several more minutes to gather his papers and stuff them slow-motion into his pocket, then points his body towards the door. After he clears the threshold, I throw the glass he used in the trash.

—I made some illustrations for an excerpt from a Will McGrath book for The Rumpus.

—Chris Miller wrote a really nice review of my Dominican show (which you only have a couple more days to catch.)

I went to California for my brother’s wedding. Max was born when I was halfway through senior year of high school. That spring, I took him in his stroller down the hill to Brookline High and presented him like show-and-tell to my classmates in the art building. A girl named Nina couldn’t get over his little feet. Rosy, unblemished baby feet which had yet to touch ground, feet which had never been used to walk.

Max and I haven’t lived in the same city since he was small but he’s visited me in Chicago many times. I took him to Six Flags for the Batman ride when he was eleven or twelve. Then to Kuma’s for metal band-themed burgers the next time. I snuck him into a bar to hear a metal band when he was underage. The next few times he’d fly in on business and we’d grab a meal—sometimes metal-themed, other times not. About five years ago he showed up in town with a girl. I’ve only ever seen Max’s life in brief glimpses but seeing him with Lauren made for a fuller picture. Just as with my other brother, Boris, and his wife, Blakeney, watching Lauren with Max made me see my brother in a new light. A couple which works creates its own world, which doesn’t need anyone else. It’s a joy to see that both my brothers have that.

When Max was growing up I used to joke that he’d have to take care of me in my old age. All these years on, it’s no longer so funny. I’m glad he has Lauren because he’ll need her help with that. She’ll help him steer my wheelchair when the time comes. Maybe they’ll find some place to present me for show-and-tell so we can come full circle. In the meantime, they have a narrow window of time to enjoy each other before I completely break down and I hope they take full advantage of it.

—I had a few hours to kill in LA before heading north to Santa Barbara, so I went to see Marc Maron perform at a venue called Dynasty Typewriter, located next to MacArthur Park. I could help singing the song as I walked through it…Someone left a cake out in the rain…etc, etc.

I listen to Maron’s podcast twice a week so seeing the guy in the flesh was like visiting a longtime companion. Afterwards he was out in front of the theater with some friends and I went over and thanked him for the show. It was awkward but I’m glad I did it anyway.

—I wrote about a horrifying new documentary about contemporary Russia called The Red Soul and about a clever and unique play by a young Iranian playwright. 

It was my birthday Friday. I turned forty-eight, in case anyone’s keeping score. I woke up and started a new painting out the window. Then I went to Lou Mitchell’s for breakfast and ordered toast, which I’ve been not eating for months now. Then I walked east to State Street and took the #29 bus to Navy Pier.

EXPO Chicago was there and, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, it is my own personal Yom Kippur. The fact it fell on my birthday this year is just an atonement/reflection/misery cherry on top. The thing which set this year’s fair apart from every other is that Sue, from Richard Norton Gallery, kindly gave me a pass, thus saving me from paying $20 for this annual hairshirt/bed-of-nails. Also, I can’t recall a show I liked less. I usually tally at least five or six paintings or drawings that appeal; this year there were two. A little Harold Haydon cityscape at Richard Norton and a Charles Burchfield watercolor at DC Moore. I stayed long enough to thank Sue for the free pass and to eat an overpriced cannoli from Eataly, then got the hell out of there.

I bought a book called The Nix at the Dial and started reading it on the outdoor patio of a Michigan Ave coffee shop as the skies darkened and the raindrops started to fall. Then I went to Five Guys and wolfed down a bacon-burger and fries for no other reason than to kill the half hour left before work.

I opened the bar at 4pm and not much happened until Shay came in with pomegranates and chocolate for my birthday. A couple hours later a procession of two candle-lit birthday pies came at me, followed by half the bar singing “Happy Birthday to You” and cheering, with many whiskey shots after. One of the reasons I agreed to work this night was to avoid acknowledgement of the blessed occasion. I obviously failed at that completely.

With every passing year celebrating my birthday feels more ludicrous, but ignoring it completely is impossible with living relatives still around, and in a certain way, pretending it’s not happening is even more of a conscious effort than just surviving the well-wishes. One day I’ll figure out some way to make it just another day, but I haven’t figured out how yet.

The next day I met Marie at Gene and Georgetti and we ate a feast of prime rib, carpaccio, a bunch of sides, a bottle of wine, cannoli, spumoni, espresso, and shots of limoncello to top it off. If I have one birthday tradition, it’s a trip to Gene and Georgetti, maybe my favorite restaurant in town. I always look around at the other diners and wonder whether they and I have anything in common. While I waited for Marie to arrive, I watched a bunch of aging, drunken bros pile out of a limo and press bills into their Asian driver’s hand. Several murmured apologies into his ear as they did it. Several of them were about my age and I’d bet money they were bribing the driver’s silence for being racist, obnoxious pricks. The news these days is full of men just like them being called out for behavior that they always assumed was their birthright. Lets hope their time is coming to an end. Whether it is or not, I felt like a Martian compared to them, which, I hope, counts in my favor.

I woke Sunday morning and worked on the computer a bit. Then I went to something called The Other Art Fair, which was even more depressing to me than the “real” art fair. I left after about fifteen minutes, feeling my year’s atonement ritual was now complete. Now it’s time to live through another year. Maybe next year I’ll figure out how to skip all this altogether.