NYC Diary #31
MONDAY
4:09 a.m. I can’t sleep anymore. At all. I’m even more annoyed with myself for smoking cigs again. More than I am for me doing blow. I don’t know why but (I always socially smoke, just cause it’s nice to join people, and there’s something so intimate about it when people make eye contact with you over a cigarette…..very different than when drinking say a glass of wine)—yeah so, I don’t know why but when I smoke alone, and a lot, something is very wrong. Like I know I’m really going through it.
I get up and pace my block. Down 75th. Left on 1st. Left on 76th. Left on 2nd. Left on 75th.
Maybe I actually need to go right. I don’t fucking know.
You know what I keep thinking about. Well first of all. On a Monday morning (though to me it’s still Sunday night), at 4 am, it is so fucking quiet in the Upper East Side.
But what I’m really fucking thinking about is. How on a train from Aix-en-Provence to Paris, on July 10 of last year, I was fucking crying my eyes out in front of my ex and these fucking Europeans. Who were looking at me like they’d never seen anyone cry. Yes bitch. I’m American. I will fucking cry. And be loud. And laugh. And flip my hair. And I will do what I fucking want. Anyway. So I was crying in front of this entire train car, and my ex literally was like, please stop this is so embarrassing.
I mean what is. The fact that these strangers who you’ll never see again judge you or me or both of us, for like the next hour, or that you can’t process your emotions as a grown man in your mid thirties. Let’s come to god here motherfucker.
So I am crying right. And everyone is like, not a person crying in the world let’s look away—the same way that Americans do with death, and grief, so let me drag Americans too now. Fuck everyone today equally actually.
And he is just like, out of nowhere. Lana Del Rey is playing in Paris tonight. And I’m like no way. She was in London playing Hyde Park for 60,000 people, literally something that insane, just the other night. I didn’t see a Paris date.
And he’s like, no no. She just added this last minute. She’s playing at the Olympia.
Which btw holds only like 5,000 people. So I’m like wtf. Why would this bitch play to 60,000 in London, then 5,000 in Paris. She’s so random. The French have always loved her the most. They have taste.
But it’s not even about that. She literally is so moody, I guess she said on insta she just woke up and wanted to play a surprise show in Paris and didn’t care how many people came or not. Lmao.
So she just books the Olympia like last minute. Like honey, you can sell out an arena what are you doing. I just loved her for doing that. And I was like see, that’s my kind of energy honey. She just loves to do it. She doesn’t do it for the fame. She just loves to fucking get up and do her job. She likes the work.
And I am crying still. And my ex is also like, really had it with me. He’s in such a bad mood. And I don’t know what makes me say this because he’s being so fucking cruel by ignoring me and all, but I’m like, I’m gonna get us tickets to see her.
The train fucking gets in at 7. The show is at 8. He’s like no way. We won’t make it one. With the time issue. And having to leave the bags in the apartment and all. And two, it’s obviously sold out. It’s 5,000 people.
So I’m like no. I will not be crying over your ass tonight. We are going. I am seeing Lana in Paris. And also like. I feel this weird kindness come over me and I’m like, and you’re seeing her with me and maybe it will make you nicer and fall in love with me again. I don’t know. Is that fucked up to say.
So then on the train I get these tickets right. On some French scalp site. They’re like 900 each. Like Euros so it’s more in dollars omg. And I am like charging this on a card. I don’t even like have this money really lol. I am like Alex what the fuck are you doing. And the romantic in me is like go off king. You fucking pull the big gesture.
And my ex just kinda doesn’t believe me. And then I’m like no bitch. We are really going. Put your gentleman pants on and just like be a gentleman. Be a man. Be a fucking man, my dude.
Wait, you don’t know how? Let me fucking show you what a gesture is. Let me show you how to save my own day and night so next time you can do it for me. Since you seem so fucking clueless.
And so we go, of course. And she’s amazing. And I’ll never forget it she says at some point, “do you guys think it’s really true? That Paris is the city of love.” And I want to correct her kinda in my mind because Paris is known as the city of light. Not the city of love. (Years of watching Roland Garros.)
But I just fucking start sobbing. And my ex pretends he doesn’t see. Or doesn’t see. Or I don’t fucking know actually to be honest. But I am just like. It’s just me and her you know. And I am seriously like. LANA. I can’t believe I’m seeing you here. In love with this man who isn’t in love with me. It’s all your songs into one baby. Every single one of your songs. This is who I am right now.
And Lana, thank you for your music (I love you). I really couldn’t have survived the last 12 years without it. Or that one day. July 10, 2023. You saved my life.