Had drinks with my brother on Friday night. We met at a gallery on 9th and Ave A first, so that I could show him a painting I wanted to buy for him and his wife as a housewarming/birthday present. It's spraypainted by a graffiti artist, in primary colors, just as his living room is painted. It's a hefty enough purchase that I wanted to make sure they would like it first, and he did. I try to support my friends' work usually, but I wanted something in color that was fun, and most folks I know work in monochromes or dark, depressing colors, and that just won't suit their happy little home.

Anyway, I don't write much about my family, as I've mentioned before, mostly because they're private people. They indulge my public persona respectfully, but are open about the fact that they wouldn't - and don't - go the same route themselves. It's a fine balance, providing me with support while not understanding what drives me to my exhibitionism, but they pull it off perfectly. They don't read anything unless I tell them they would like it. There are few things I tell them to read, (though I did tell my mom to read my trip journal.)

But I feel comfortable saying this about my brother: he's solid. He wasn't always, but he is now. He's an adult, but he has maintained his sense of fun. He knows what he likes. And he has an amazing wife, a great house, a dog and three cats all of whom are rich with personality (even Marty, the slow cat, who of course is my favorite even though he bumps into things sometimes, because he always comes to me and loves on me,), and they all have a plan for the future framed in a loose enough way that there is plenty of room for divergence. It's a life worth of admiration and aspiration.

It's good to check in with your big brother every so often. I forget I'm a little sister most of the time, because I have to be on my own so much and am forced to fend for myself. But he knows me well, and he's known me the longest of anyone in New York, and he's able to view me in the grand scheme of things rather than up close and personal. So I always listen close when he has something to say, even though I never have any advice to offer him myself.

How could I? I'm the little sister.

He had a pillow with him that he just purchased from one of the little boutiques on 9th.

"I have to admit I was a little disturbed by how young and hip everyone was on this block at first, but then I was swayed by the amazing commerce opportunities here," he said.

He showed me the pillow. It was blue with yellow flowers, and very cheery.

We went to 10th Street Lounge. He decided I should drink a margarita, and he had a Manhattan. We caught up on family matters, and then on our friends. I know most of his, because he's had the same ones forever. He knows some of mine, because I've only had a few friends my entire life.

And then I told him about people I don't talk to anymore, and he told me about people he doesn't talk to anymore, and we both discussed why we had eliminated those people from our lives.

He calls it "icing" someone.

I enjoyed that term. It's cold and bloodless, but efficient and accurate. In New York City, it works that way sometimes. It's happened to me before, too. Rarely, but it has happened. This is why it never bothers me when I do it to someone else. It all goes in one big circle, and, in the end, we all have enough people to love and love us back. We're just trying to find the right fit, is all.

He also gave me advice on my love life, which, as per usual, sucks big fat sweaty ass. There was no suger coating of his opinions, but I felt like he was in my corner. You can always expect the truth from a member of my family (whether you want it or not.) And I feel good now, better about it all, and I'm ready now to move it on and up and out.

***

Next week: I leave for Seattle and Vancouver. I'll be seeing my ex, John The Welder, the hippie girls Mollie and Kelly, and boy wonder novelist Kevin Chong. It should be good, and I'm optimistic for some interesting dispatches.

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