Coverage of me and other train wrecks: my mama, subway nut jobs, sex and the environment.


Fork Me

As my friend, Nandita, is known to say, "Stick a fork in me, I'm done."


Left the house at 6:30am to make it to a 7:30 Yoga class. I had an HOUR to make it from Jackson Heights (Queens) to the 65th Street YogaWorks in Manhattan. A whole fucking hour.

Getting into Manhattan? No problem. The 7 train was simply charming. I was in Times Square by 7AM. There, I waited for a 1 train. And waited. The platform crowded. Tough guys and sneakered secretaries shook the 15 degree chills off their bodies and the muddy snow off their boots and still the platform filled. Early bird tourists scratched their heads. People piled onto people. Twenty minutes later, still no 1 train, and now there was no way I'd make it to my class. The MTA was too busy figuring out new ways to rob New Yorkers to make an announcement. We were all just standing there, cold, annoyed, confused, necks stretching out over the platform edge in the hopes of catching sight of the golden beams from an uptown train's headlamps. Nothing but a dark and misty tunnel and the gleaming eyes of sewer rats.

Instead of stretching into Nirvana I went to La Parisienne and drowned my anger in a cup of cheap coffee. I also chewed the soul out of a pile of dessicated home fries and greasy scrambled eggs.

It was 7:30AM. I could've been in bed. I could've been at home watching TV, eating a bowl of oatmeal. I could've been reading a book. I could've been at YOGA, mutherfucking transit system. It's okay. I got some writing done at La Parisienne. Some very angry writing. Then I walked to work. Oh boy. Trudging through muddy snow with temperatures in the teens for 15 minutes...the windchill below zero...I'm still defrosting.

January we had Spring; February we get Arctic wonderland. The temperature has been in the teens every day for over two weeks. I'm Cuban, born and raised in Miami, and yes I've lived up north for over 12 years, but I AM DONE. This is the last winter I'm spending up here. And since I can't afford a winter home in a warm climate, I reckon it's moving time. GRRRRR!

Hey Rey! Getcher suitcases ready, baby!


New Year's Eve

For New Year’s eve I was supposed to hang out with my friend Eddie in Miami. We were gonna go to some concert I can’t remember the name of the band, but Eddie fell ill. I decided instead, then, to spend the night at mama’s house. We bought broccoli an dtofu and I made a lovely stir fry that turned out too salty—not an omen for the year to come, I promised myself. We were thankful there was plenty of rice to soften the saltiness of the dish. I’d bought a bottle of red Chilean wine with the idea that after dinner sleep would overcome mama and I’d stay awake drinking and writing my newest play, Bitchez Wurk. Or maybe I’m calling it Hideaways. But I like the first title better. Anyway, I had imagined ringing in the New Year with my fingers at the keyboard and my eyelids heavy with wine.

Mama took me on.

We played Chinese checkers and drank glasses of merlot. Mama poured her third while I was still working on my first—she drank like a pimp in Vegas. I’d never seen her drunk and I told her so, I accused “You don’t know how to take your time with the wine because you’ve never been drunk.”

“What do YOU know?” She challenged, “I’ve been drunk. In Chicago with that bastard.” That’s what she calls her first husband. “He was screwing his whore and I was in the apartment drinking a whole bottle of whiskey by myself.”

I’ve never seen a picture never have known who this man was other than he was a borderline sociopath. If I could ever meet him I’d have to fight the urge to bite off his nuts. He ruined mama, and being from a culture where psychotherapy is frowned upon, she never recovered psychologically from the damage. He left her a paranoid, insecure cynic. He burned her innocence.

Mama, rightfully didn’t want to discuss him and I should’ve pressed her, but I was curious and the wine had taken away my modesty. I made her a deal: you can ask me a question and then answer me why it is you married him. Mama’s first question?

“Last time I was in New York you said that you let Rey sleep with other men.” That is NOT what mama and I discussed that day—I remember it clearly. I told her some people have open relationships, but mama inferred that I was talking about Rey and me. She was right. But still, I didn’t outright say it the way she was saying it. So I proposed, “You know what, let’s just keep playing. I think it’s my move.”

Theatre After Oil

Hello fellow theatre folk. James Howard Kunstler writes about our mishandlings of the natural world wrote Ten Ways to Prepare for a Post-Oil Society, which was published on I'm not gonna print the whole thing, just number 7, which speaks to us:

7. The age of canned entertainment is coming to and end. It was fun for a while. We liked "Citizen Kane" and the Beatles. But we're going to have to make our own music and our own drama down the road. We're going to need playhouses and live performance halls. We're going to need violin and banjo players and playwrights and scenery-makers, and singers. We'll need theater managers and stage-hands. The Internet is not going to save canned entertainment. The Internet will not work so well if the electricity is on the fritz half the time (or more).

BTW, the above prognostication is a result of the elimination of cars and highways and the restoration of locally-based economies. And for the record, I agree with his vision of the future, but I think the path to get there will be bloody as mass migrations ensue and people go to war over potable water.


Cold in New York City! FUCK!

Every strand of DNA in my body has been designed to thrive in 99 degrees farenheit, as my friend Kara reminded me today after I screamed "I HATE THIS WEATHER!"

It was fine throughout most of January. Global warming had postponed winter, but then XXXTREME Winter hit. Now, winter in NYC is chilly, yes, and there are days when it's ZERO degrees, but those are sporadic. Usually it's around 20-40 degrees, depending. Well, for the last week or week and a half the wind chill has been at zero and in the negatives. Oh my god. It's not just that it's cold and I have to thicken myself with moere layers than I care to list, it's that the cold is an energy-sucker. Walk around in this weather for a few minutes and you'll be exhausted and thirsty. The winter dehydrates. Plus indoors its dry from the heat. I haven't peed after 3 mugs of water! Plus, winter makes me snotty and my eyes tear up so that I'm walking around looking like I just lost my first born to a brain tumor.

Mama gleefully rubbed it in my face today that it's chilly in Miami--in the 70's! Brrrr! How frostbitten she must feel. She even had to put on a long sleeved shirt this morning. Heavens to Betsy. Next think you know she'll have to wear shoes!

If you're gonna have an emotional breakdown in NYC, have it now, because with puffy cheeks, teary eyes, and a snotty nose, you're sure to blend in.