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| atheism, mad about, humor, poetry, david eggers, mama, muslim, judaism, gotham comedy club, comedians, arizona driving drunk law, stand up ny, 2001, | Only once did he say exquisite words that altered my take on the world. ‘Those pictures of yours?’ Then followed without a question mark. ‘They‘re crap’. I stopped taking photos. Not long after Mickey left Long Island. My mother said. ‘They didn’t have time to unpack the furniture’. My father said, ‘What for? Such a big house? A woman and two boys?’ Then Denny my boyfriend announced. ‘Mickey said he hated us exquisite ‘fucking islanders’ and he hated his father commuting through ‘fucking Queens’ day in and day out. ‘He’s schitzo. His father never lived here’. |
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| Our gang’s beginning to splinter into sub-genres, virgins and comedians sluts, passengers and drivers. Some of us still hitchhike on weekends to the Hamptons. In the beginning I was so out of my comfort zone comedians but still I risked it. My rationale belonged to my parents... ‘Safety in numbers’. Mickey’s a cool dude. Tanned and lean and new to the neighborhood, he looks like he’s stepped straight off Sunset Boulevard. My mother says. ‘That boy has a gene pool from Troy Donahue and Sandra Dee’. Then she sings, to the tune of Barbara Streisand ‘Papa Can You Hear Me?’ ‘Malibu comedians eyes in Port Jefferson’ Anties, cousins and every girl in the neighborhood speculate about Mickey’s bad boy allure, but it’s wasted. He watches us watching him. He ignores us. We try harder. He remains unmoved. |
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