Start Ups, Let-Downs, and Mergers

The Barclay’s arena had arrived in Brooklyn; the neighborhood was polarized. The yuppies and weekend hipsters who lived in Park Slope that were there for the schools and laid back neighborhood feel were upset about the gentrification. The Brooklynites were happy to have Brooklyn back on the map and new jobs; most of them weren’t alive when the Dodgers left Brooklyn for sunny Southern California, and unemployment has been an issue as of late. I think the stadium looks cool, but I hope the game traffic doesn’t interfere with my life.

It is a wet, early October day; the city feels like a soaked towel that wasn’t hung up evenly to dry—leaving it a bit damp and musty but not gross enough that it was unusable.

I love fall weather—it allows me to layer my favorite subdued-colored summer clothing under my light outerwear. I like to add a scarf sometimes with perhaps a single stripe of teal—orange is too obviously fall.

Along with the arena has come a new Atlantic train stop which allows you to avoid crossing Flatbush and Atlantic and having to walk into a giant cookie cutter shopping center to get to the Q train.

I walked down into the chic, modern, and altogether pristine underground station—it was probably the least dingy metro stop in the city, just blocks away from my apartment. Oddly, no one seemed to be using this new stop; I asked the MTA worker if the stop was open and he quickly said yes in West-African accented English and then looked back down at nothing.

I was on my way to a start-up convention to meet other pipe-dreamers like myself and maybe find some folks I could stand to work with for a few months. It may have been beginners luck, but I helped develope a guitar tuner app for Android called G-String that we ended up selling something like 6.2 million of, plus got another 8 million downloads of the free version with ads. The last two attempts, Qucklit (a micro literature reddit style app) and Jokesters (a social app for comedians that allowed for joke exchange), had both flopped. I was still living off my wonderfully simple and useful G-String which made me just enough money to continue the lifestyle I became accustomed to—for another 6 months or so… ‘It’s crunch time’ as they say.

The new, shiny, futuristic station conjured up images of a perfect, sunny, colorful utopia—like the future of ‘Back to the Future: part II,’ a movie I watched probably 35 times as a child. It was eerily empty, though. Only 2 other people were waiting for the Q; they were both sitting on opposite sides of a brushed aluminum bench near the track.

The guy on the left was a muscular black man with a bold pinstripe suit and a bolder red satin tie—he looked like a football commentator or a mayoral candidate from a second tier city.

The guy on the right was a skinny, crater faced and scruffy white man wearing an old sweatshirt emblazoned with Cedar Point across the chest as if it was a top tier university.

It was a five person bench, so I sat down in the middle seat, maintaining an appropriate bubble of personal space on either side. I soon became involved in both of their lives.

‘Lohn, I’m sorry but that’s fucking bullshit, you know how much I have busted my ass these last two years. We all had shitty quarters, even Apple had a shitty quarter.’ The Black man said in polished Midwestern standard English seemingly to himself but in actuality to a 140 dollar Bluetooth device in his ear. Apparently this new station has cell phone service.

‘Lord, I have told you a million times, the procedures are a due process of strict adherence. We must settle the scores and articulate your greatness to all of mankind.’ The crusty white guy said seemingly to a god but in actuality to himself, some consonants not articulated fully because of missing teeth.

‘We have a second kid on the way, you can’t do this to me, Lohn. I’m going to have to move Briggson out of the best school in the city if you let me go. Can’t I go on some kind of probation or something, I’ve never even gotten a warning.’ Briggson is a great son of yuppie name, all the more hilarious because he’s black.

‘The time will come when testifying to the lord is all that we can do, as the procedures dictate. Once we have lost all then we can truly give ourselves to you, Lord. I ask you please to fulfill the duties that I have read and read and read.’ I liked the strain of Buddhism that popped up in that exclamation.

‘Thanks, Lohn—but that doesn’t really help me right now. I appreciate your honesty but I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do now.’

‘Thanks Lord, you tell me of the great and glorious kingdoms that await for the righteous, and I tell you of the love I have in this realm, in this mirror of heaven.’

The light peaked out from the curve in the tunnel and a rumble became audible.

‘Well I’m heading into the city right now, I guess I’ll try and close up this last deal for you, but I don’t really see why I would.’ A listening pause. ‘Alright thanks,’

‘And here comes thee great grace, I thank you for your leadership and I will give you all my courage.’

As the train pulled up in front of us, the black man pulled out his Bluetooth, muttered ‘fuck,’ and walked onto the train, the back of his pinstriped suit a bit wrinkled from the stressful writhing he was doing during his phone conversation.

When I got on the train behind the business man, I looked back and saw that crusty old white guy was not getting on.

The Coffee Shop Business

It was not my dream to own a fucking coffee shop. It was not my dream to see my fucking town—my beautifully simple town—turn into a fucking tourist trap.

I have lived in Goa for all 42 years of my life, and I have watched the trash, both literally and figuratively, from the rest of the world come in and pollute my home. Goa is not India, Goa is Goa. We didn’t want the Portuguese to leave, we liked what we had going; we had a perfect blend of Mediterranean simplicity and South Asian wisdom.  Now it’s a bunch of fucking Indians and Russians and whoever else on holiday dirtying our beaches with plastic bags and semen.  My kids can’t even ride their bikes on the street, like I did, without running the risk of some coked up, tripping, novice motorbiking piece of shit running them over .

My family sold our cashew farms, in part because of me. I didn't want to be a farmer and my dad knew it; I wanted to be a business man. I wanted to jet around the world, adorn my body with precious metals, and fuck lots of white women, all of which require a lot of money—more than cashews can provide. Now, instead of lamping in the Hamptons and falling in love in Paris and Moscow, I am selling coffees to Indians and foreigners at prices that equate to daily wages a block down the street.

I make enough to drive a decent car and keep my family in utilities, but I will never get over the fact that I have failed as a business man; I have not, and never will, achieve my dreams.

A commercial came on this morning that ruined my day. It was for Tata cars, or Kingfisher Air, or Johnson and Johnson—I can’t remember; but it featured a father working in Dubai and face chatting on an iPad with his 9 year old son. First of all, I want to be working in fucking Dubai; second of all, all I have is a fucking daughter, and she is so fat and ugly that I am probably going to have to spend half my bank account to get somebody to marry her; and thirdly, I was an early adopter, and my fucking iPad 1 doesn’t have video chat capability.

I thought about this while I had my morning tea, I thought about this on the drive to the coffee shop, I thought about this as I walked into the colorful and joyous hell hole I was the owner of.

And now this fuckhead waiter’s drawer is 200 rupees short.

I visit my place twice a week, and make sure the numbers are what they need to be; they are pretty good this week, but this motherfucker has somehow lost almost 2 coffees worth of rupees in the 2 hours the store has been open.

I can’t hold it in, plus I pay more than anybody else around so I can get away with letting loose on my workers. I scream at him. I call him a piece of shit peon. I call him the laziest Indian alive. I say his mother did a shit job of raising him. I say his father set a bad example for him. None of these words are making me feel better, though; the rage is still boiling up in me. I grab his arm and squeeze; he jumps back. I almost slap him. I have to keep my cool though, the foreigners are all looking now. I tell him to go to the utility closet. He doesn’t want to. I threaten to fire him. He contemplates this and ultimately hangs his head and drags his feet towards the closet.

I follow afterwards, put him over my knee, and spank the fuck out of him. For about 3 minutes I channel all the rage inside me into the palm of my hand. By the end of the spanking session I feel much better, and I feel as though I can make it at least one more week in the coffee shop business.

Milk to Ice Cream

As I drive my 30 year-old, 3-wheeled, rusty ice cream cart down a busy Bangkok road, I look over at my daughter Liu every chance I get. She looks almost just like her mother, Milk, did-- minus the little bits of me, that is.

Big light brown eyes, high cheeks, little chin, electrifying smile, eyebrows angled like she’s angry even when she’s happy.

I miss Milk every day, every hour… nearly every minute. Thankfully I have Liu, a constant reminder of the woman I loved until I couldn’t love anymore.

I went to Thailand looking for a good time. I was 24 then and I worked remotely, so the cheap, fun living was appealing. I could dress nicely, pamper myself, and have a truly decent place on my modest salary as an editor.

One Friday night I met up with a few Thai friends. They took me to a fancy club that I could barely afford; but beautiful women gravitate towards high drink prices, so I suppose you get what you pay for. On my way back from the bathroom I bumped into Milk, and it was actually an accident (unlike so many other girls I had bumped into intentionally to start conversation). She turned around to identify the assailant, and I bowed quickly to apologize. It was probably my improper, awkward bow that made her smile, but as she did it seemed like they cut the lights on in the club, it was like that first hit of bright colors you get 30 minutes after popping good E, like a 4^th of July finale. We both suddenly burst into laughter.

We exchanged eye contact another 10 or 20 times from across the room over the next hour, smiling each time even more than before. Her eyes were like the sun before it sets—beautiful and easy and calming and inspiring, and then they would be gone, and I would be left with the reminder of the beauty on the horizon. I hate myself for it, but I can’t remember quite how they looked, and my eye shape shows too much on Liu for her eyes to make me melt the way Milk’s did.

I looked over at her again and she was leaving. I got one of my friends to come with me, in case she didn’t speak English. We stumbled through the packed crowd that was jumping up and down to a Thai band on the other side of the club. I got out the door and scanned the groups of high society Bangkok youth smoking cigarettes and mingling. I found her. I ran to her like a fool in love. I told her my name. I did everything in my power to make her smile. If her eyes were a sunset, her smile was like the clean shallow Southern Thai ocean below it— beautiful and dazzling and refreshing and invigorating, but unlike the eyes, I can remember every millimeter of that smile, every slight gap, every crease in her lips.

I gave her my number and I told her that she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She called me the next day.

Public affection must be done covertly in Thailand. I would love to take taxis with her; she would sit in the middle in the backseat, always much closer than she needed to be. Her smooth soft thighs would get me hard instantly when she pressed them up against my denim covered legs, the smell of her expensive shampoo would make me relax my shoulders, her shoulder touching mine would feel like a prayer; I hadn’t turned Buddhist at that point, so cab rides were the extent of my spirituality.

When she became aroused, her armpits would release strong odors that stung my nostrils; it was always clear to me when she was turned on. She also had a special smell when she was ill; it seemed to come out of every pore on her body. I hated it when she got the flu, I could smell her nausea. She pointed out to me after the fourth time we slept together that we had the same body odor. It was true. I thought it was odd that two people, born as far away as two people could be born from each other, had identical smells. The one thing I don’t hate about myself is my smell, because I can smell my armpits after a day out in the heat and it will bring me back to her for a moment.

Her spoken English was poor, but she could understand most of what I said, as long as I kept it simple. This meant unnecessary babble was kept to a minimum. It made me realize how over-intellectualized my past romances were. No longer was I trying to say things I thought would impress her, I was trying to do things to make her love me.

She would always say ‘yeah’ with enthusiasm, and more high pitched than any other words, and she would add the falling tone of ‘chai’ (yes in Thai) to it. It would always make me chuckle. I hate myself for not recording it.

After 2 years of perpetual visitations to Thailand, I loved her more than ever. Her English was better, and my Thai existed. Every time we were together I felt a rush I hadn’t felt since middle school (perhaps in a movie theater inching my hand towards a female partner, praying she wouldn’t pull away). I remember still, 2 years later, feeling tingles run down my neck every time a finger-tip made contact with her smooth, tattooed back, or her arms and legs with their blonde hair that caught the light when she was outside.

I was skeptical of Thai girls’ fidelity at the time—and still am for that matter—which is why I always wore a condom for the first few years. She had had a tumor in her uterus when she was 18, and the chances of her having kids were low, but I didn’t want to risk disease, and it was cleaner that way, and I never had a problem coming with her, condom or not.

On my 9^th visit in 2 years I applied for a long term Visa and it was approved. I bought a one bedroom condo at a fancy place in Ekkamine; I would have been happy somewhere cheaper, but status was important to her, so I suppose it was important to me too.

She kept a bedroom at her mother’s house, but her mother hated her—she looked just like her drunk of a father who had run off to the North to start a new life, and her mother resented her for it. No matter how much I insisted, I never got to meet her mother, until the funeral.

One night, 3 years after I first met her, as I reached over to my bedside table for an American condom I had shipped to me by a friend, she grabbed my arm and pulled my hand back. Then, she moved her leg down, lying flat on the bed, exposing the scars from her tumor removal, something I had only had brief glances of in the past—she had always artfully used a sheet or a leg or something else to cover the scars in well-lit situations. She looked up at me over top of her with no smile whatsoever, her mouth small and pouting and her eyes bigger than ever. She nodded yes.

36 days later, I found out I was going to be the father of a miracle child. I accidently got drunk the night she told me the news; I forgot to keep count of how many scotch and sodas I had had. At the time I could only think of how happy I was with myself—I knew for the first time, unequivocally, that I didn’t shoot blanks.

Me, the flaky ex-pat white guy, was going to be a dad… I was going to start a family in a Bangkok apartment.

I spent the pregnancy doing my best not to drink, and keeping Milk from smoking. Her petite little body was magical with that round, taught belly. I hate myself for not taking photos of her naked and pregnant; I remember telling her it was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen (and I remember meaning it) but I can’t remember the exact shape.

Then Liu came, during a rainstorm in August. Like every man before me who looked down at their own baby, I knew what life was—for a split second.

Now, 8 years, 3 months, and 12 days later, I have an 8 year old daughter smiling at me every time I get a chance to peek over at her, just like her mother would smile at me when I would get a chance to glance at her before.

I don’t use a computer anymore; I mostly spend my time with Liu. We sell ice cream in the day and flowers at night. She’s a great saleswoman, like her mother; she knows when to joke, knows when to be firm, and knows just what to charge people. I’ve never been good at that part of business, I’m a visionary type; the second someone tells me about their troubles I cave and give them my products at cost. Not Liu, though; she’s cut throat. I don’t know how she does it, but it’s good for business.

While Liu is at school, I go to meditate. It’s the only time I ever get moments where Milk isn’t the foundation of my consciousness. It seems I love her more since she has been gone; my mind has since created an image of her that has no flaws, not that she had many in reality—but then again reality is an illusion that I create, so who knows what her flaws really were.

I thought we would be together forever. I dove into our love without any thought that the lake might dry up. Now she is a bitter and constant reminder that nothing is forever. I hate myself for being such a fool; I would have skipped the gym sessions and the day trips without her had I known I only had 7 years, 3 months, and 21 days with her.

I do my best to spread an appreciation for joy and death through my business; no one buys flowers or ice cream because they are going to last—they buy them to please themselves and others in the short term. They buy them to begin a night of romance, or to give as a gift to a meaningful host; they buy them to share with those they care about, or just to make the moments we have together more enjoyable.

I have taught Liu all of this. She is already a better Buddhist than me.

If life is suffering, then I sure am living.

I will never—and I mean never—be able to rid myself of all desire, though. No matter what, I am always going to desire that beautiful, petite, big eyed Thai girl that made me so mad with love that I changed all my plans (or actually made plans for once); that girl that was my world one day, and then gone from this planet so suddenly the next.

So now here I am, a man without a country, a man without his woman, a man without any chance of attaining enlightenment.

The only thing I have left is my daughter, and the little bit of Milk in her.

Addiction and Living Like a Douche

I still remember the first time I tried it; it was about 5:15 in the afternoon in June. I had just gotten back from work; my clothes still smelled like fryer grease. People had told me about it before but I didn’t think it was for me. But I tried it, nonetheless. Before I knew it, it was 6. I remember thinking to myself that it was the best 45 minutes I’d ever had in my life; I wasn’t worried about anything; I wasn’t challenged; I was totally and utterly numb; numb to the world, numb to my inner feelings, numb to everything that made my anxiety bubble up. The best part was that I felt great afterword. I had things to say to others, I could finally connect with someone. I even met Danielle because of it. I would sit with her and we would just turn off. Then afterwards I would have the best sex of my life, it inspired me to do so.

I was an addict; I was addicted to Jersey Shore.

I wanted it all the time; I wanted it more than I have ever wanted anything. But I realized: it doesn’t last; I never felt the same way the second time around, it never hit me as hard; I was never as fulfilled by a re-run.

I started watching during season 2, so I had a back catalogue to rely on. I bought the DVDs so I could see the special features. I bought a flat screen so I could see the imperfections on The Situation’s face better, I swore I could get more girls then him; Danielle would assure me it was so.

It became less of a “me and Danielle” thing and more of a “me” thing; I would tell Danielle I wasn’t in a Jersey Shore mood and when she would go to bed I would watch an episode. Me, the couch, underwear, and a big ol’ pile of Jersey Shore in front of me, god it was beautiful.

I started realizing there wasn’t much Jersey Shore left when they all started becoming re-runs; something had to be done to stretch out my waning supply.

That was when I started cutting it down; I would watch more commercials, stop the show and channel surf, whatever to draw it out; 42 minutes of Jersey Shore could now give me a fix from 2 to 4am, I had it made.

This was when Danielle left me; now I was all alone to indulge in Jersey Shore on my time.

One day, while I was at my job, a customer asked me to hold the Mayo.

“How about you go f*** yourself and hold THIS you f***ing grenade!” It just came out; I was fired.

Being fired had never felt so good; I had found my bliss; I had found out how to never be short on Jersey Shore; I didn’t just have to WATCH Jersey Shore, I could BE Jersey Shore.

I sold my Plasma Screen; the money covered 6 months at a gym and tanning salon, I got the premium package.

I started skipping lunch for a new wardrobe; fitted hats and club shirts may be expensive, but the tank-tops kept the average price of gear down.

I started practicing my accent and my behavior; it’s tougher to be totally inconsiderate than one would think, but I started getting the hang of it.

I got a tattoo; where my bush once was there is now waxed smooth skin with the letters DTF in old English script.

I got a new girlfriend; she has melanoma, but she knows how to party.

I moved to a new house; it doesn’t have electricity in 3 rooms, but there is a hot tub in back.

Never have I been so happy in my life. The Hydroxy cut is really taking hold and my abs have never been tanner. I have a reason to wake up in the morning, I have a philosophy, I have something to stand for. I see people walking around so lost, so confused, so unsure; I am confident, I know what is what, and I am in love with who I have become; I can just look in the mirror and get off.

Before you criticize me and label me as a “douche” or a “Guido” or whatever you may call me, remember that I have a brain, I just choose not to use it; I have class, but I disregard it in the name of a good time; I respect women that deserve respect, I just choose not to interact with those types of women and therefore from afar it may seem I’m misogynistic; I have manners, I just think they keep me from enjoying myself. After all, aren’t we here to make our dopamine fire as much as possible? All I ask is that the next time you judge, remember that I’m being what I love and I am living the Jersey Shore Life, because I am an addict.

America

By Jon Gartner, columnist at large

Of all the things Ludwig Von Bonword isn’t, an artist is not one of them, which means, of course, that he is an artist. He began his “emotional and intellectual journey into nothingness” (his words) when he was 4: he made a giraffe out of construction paper; his aunt sold it at auction for a cool 2 million last year. His work quickly escalated into full blown installment art with international acclaim; at 11 he designed a piece dubbed the canker swhores of living(sic); it featured themes such as the holocaust, public transportation, and the systemic use of Monsanto branded GMO foods; Art and Wine magazine called it “the installment piece of a generation.”

He lives in a loft in Milwaukee, the “hipster anti-capital of the galaxy” (his words). He spends the majority of his time “involving himself in the community” (his words) which means, as far as I can gather, watching his roommates play children’s games and attempt to redefine what footwear REALLY is through edgy sandal designs.

I was fortunate enough to spend about 8 minutes with Ludwig last month, as his newest piece of art was coming to fruition. Our conversation was insightful and moving, and while most interviews seem to make someone more human, Ludwig is now less human than ever.

His loft has no parking, he posted no parking signs all around the perimeter; it symbolizes “the hatred that consumed the dictators of the early and mid 20^th century, forcing their cabinets and most trusted advisors to metaphorically park in other places” (his words).

I parked a few blocks down and walked to his loft; outside, two kids who looked no older than 12 were cutting each other’s hair; they made an effort to disregard me as much as possible.

Inside the loft were about 20 remarkably overweight people, all in attire that wouldn’t be out of place in children’s ballet recital.

The tutus seemed to be at maximum capacity; the rolls in their fatty mid sections seemed on the verge of splashing out and, like a tsunami, engulfing myself and all the roommates, laying us to rest at the bottom of an ocean of human lard (I later found out he has 131 roommates, not including family).

And there he was, sporting half of a mustache, night vision goggles propped up on his head as if they were reading glasses he may need at a moment’s notice and a thermometer as a charm on his leather necklace. It seemed he was giving these seemingly normal, albeit grossly overweight people, ballet lessons.

He noticed me and ran over, yelling some words out in what sounded like Russian to the dancers. We exchanged formalities and then he curtsied and handed me a blank piece of heavy white construction paper the size of a playboy centerfold (this, I would later learn, was his business card). He firmly commanded me to sit on an empty bean bag chair, which he insisted was “much better for my back than any silly bar stool” (he pronounced “stool” with a French “u,”).

JG: So, Ludwig, you’ve been creating art for all your life, what would you say is the most fulfilling aspect of creating art for you?

LVB: I have spent so much time all around the world, you know. I have jousted with Indonesians and spoon fed Moroccans, I have eaten acid in a slum district of Capetown, I have meditated with Siberian prisoners, I have played basketball at the Northpole. I have, Jon, done it all. The thing that keeps calling me back, though, is modern dance.

I waited, thinking this may have been the preface to his actual answer; this was, however, his actual answer, as far I know.

JG: Does this calling have something to do with the folks here learning ballet?

LVB: From now on, my art will no longer include dead things. This means no more paper or glue or plants.

I waited again, but I started realizing my questions could not be so open ended.

JG: What are these people doing here?

LVB: They are learning the great art of Russian ballet.

JG: I heard you say something in Russian, are they from overseas?

LVB: I taught them Russian, they are all from Detroit. I pay them to speak only Russian.

I was surprised at the relevance of this answer.

JG:  why do you have a group of Detroiters here in ballet garb speaking beginner Russian?

LVB: It is all the greater context of things that drives me. I am working on a new piece; its working title is “America.”

JG: How are these, um, students of yours involved in this piece?

LVB: It’s about time you asked me a real question. If you must know, they are laid off manufacturing workers, I am paying them minimum wage for 50 hours a week, and I have given them all 120 GB iPods loaded with tons of good stuff. In return they are learning to dance and speak Russian, and next week we will hit the road, beginning at the High museum in Atlanta. In this work, these strapping folks will spend their days dancing The Rite of Spring over and over again. They can only speak in broken Russian amongst each other to coordinate, and the music is played through their iPod ear buds.

He finished with a snarky little giggle; I hated him, yet I wanted his friendship and approval at the same time.

The interview was, for all intents and purposes, over though. He had planted the seed in my head, and it was sprouting into a willow that was feeding off my dura-matter and now my brain was barrel rolling in my skull.

I couldn’t ask any more questions; there was nothing more to ask. It was then I realized Ludwig isn’t just an artist, he is art himself. His loft, the tweeners aspiring to be barbers, his useless instruments he adorned as jewelry, his aggravating facial hair. Everything was dually stupid and insightful.

I thanked him for his time, and it was perhaps the most sincere thanks I have ever given someone.

I could not finish my assignment, a 6 to 8 page interview to help readers “understand the humanity of modern art” as my editor had requested.

I walked out thinking about his work, this strangely haunting installment.

America.

Maybe that’s all America really is, maybe that’s all anyone is really doing here.

Maybe we are all just desperate people, struggling through a language that isn’t really ours, trying to co-ordinate our attempts at community through near-meaningless gibberish, struggling through a profession or lifestyle that we are clearly not optimized for, looking ridiculous donning garb fit for a 6 year old, and dedicating ourselves fully to some wealthy man’s vision, all for minimum wage and an iPod full of good stuff.