The Idles Of March: A Pandemic Diary
Osvaldo Chance Jimenez is a writer, artist, and native New Yorker who has been locked down in the city during the COVID-19 pandemic. Cell Vision is happy to present his pandemic diary, a collection of both his personal experiences and broader thoughts during this unprecedented global crisis.
“Allow me to reintroduce myself...” My name is Osvaldo Chance Jimenez, & I live with my wife, Kara. We got married 3 years ago in August (famously on a NYC bus!) but have been living together for around 11. I’m Hispanic, she’s White. She’s corporate, I'm creative, and like sunflowers & dirt, we go perfectly together. But that’s not what this is about.
Her stay-at-home work order started on Friday, March 13th, about two weeks after I had already decided to do anything I could from home. Because I’m an artist and writer, my finances are mostly tied up in the gig economy. Art shows, book readings, merch releases, nightlife work, you name it, I’ve done it, and I’ve gotten paid for it. All of my tithings come in cash, and usually pay for everything except for the major stuff. It’s my wife’s labor that makes sure the rent is met with due diligence.
That week I had started “interning” with Julie at Ivy House Studio. My intention was to apprentice under her tutelage, so that I could learn how to run a studio. My goal, unbeknownst to her, was to eventually partner up and manage the venue by helping her renovate her space. This would allow me a percentage of the profits from any new business generated and a stream of income a bit more consistent than my creative work. “Wine & cheese money” I call it, because you can’t sell art without charcuterie.
The last event we hosted was on March 11th; it was a comedy show. I assisted in the production (which is a real 'industry' way of saying “I put out the chairs and adjusted some lights”) and produced myself a couple of shots of well whisky. I then invited my drug dealer homie to my “job” and proceeded to share about 27 joints with him and the rest of the party. In hindsight, that act alone was just as dangerous as attempting stand-up for the first time in your late thirties. We all laughed at the comedians, drank everything we had, and I quietly bought something from my boy that I wouldn’t share—at a discount of course.
We hugged like we didn’t want the air trapped in between us to escape. Little did I know that would be the last party I would attend for the foreseeable future.
By the time the night was over we went from Bushwick to the west side of Manhattan and my nose was caked up like a bowl someone used to make pancake batter. How they allowed me into Paul’s Baby Grand with a dude who obviously looked like a Dominican “chemical engineer” is beyond me. He flirted with some sauced socialites while I found my friend who manages the place and apologized for missing his 'indie-rock-in-bathroom-stalls' nostalgia themed birthday party. We hugged like we didn’t want the air trapped in between us to escape. Little did I know that would be the last party I would attend for the foreseeable future.
The powers that be went from ordering venues to stop letting people in at half capacity, to a limit of just fifty people, down to a measly 10, and finally all the way down to “Just close your doors, the party’s over.” Any chance of making money the old way—anything from doing the doors at parties to dealing “party” behind bathroom doors—slid down into its grave, just like the roll-down gates of all my favorite venues.
Still, I kept busy. The wife and I used that first weekend to tidy up our apartment, which we had recently converted from a studio to a one bedroom. We assembled the new furniture and organized a bunch of clutter into storage bins. Since I knew she would be video conferencing from home a lot, I wanted her to have a really nice living area—something that would reflect her new super-boss promotion.
All the art that we had collected (and some that I created) that had been lining up the floors and collecting dust for years, finally went up on our brutally bare walls. A Christopher Johnson here, a Pablo Power up there, a Jason Wall over there. She curated the living room, I curated the kitchen. Our more unsightly furniture was tossed, while some was repaired and painted over. By the 15th she was able to video conference in a space befitting of a national director of whatever she does.
We stocked up on food and snacks at Trader Joe’s and ordered one of those prepped meal boxes from HelloFresh while waiting over an hour to pay at the register. The line snaked all the way back to the refrigerated produce section—out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few underdressed downtown yuppies freezing to death as the line moved at a snail's pace.
All of the toilet paper was gone, but I didn’t care about that—we just loaded up on baby wipes. I was more upset at not finding any organic eggs, and this weird Manuka honey that all of “Horoscope and Crystals Twitter” kept promoting. This was before social distancing rules were put into place by law. When I asked the cashier about how the toilet paper rush had basically turned the store into a petri-dish of media-stirred panic, he just shrugged his shoulders and said “it’s in God’s hands now." I noticed he wasn’t wearing a mask but was wearing dishwashing gloves.
That Sunday we cooked one of the meals from the box, and it was frustratingly easy. My wife is cooking impaired, so she overcompensates in the kitchen by being silly. As I googled “how to mince garlic” she stood on one of the stools in our kitchen lurching over me, mocking me by saying “I’m helping!” over and over again in her best Ralph Wiggum voice. The food was good, but the passive trauma was a little unsettling. If NYC becomes a Mad Max-level apocalyptic arena of toilet paper plundering & hand sanitizing blood lust this is who I’m going to have to survive the end of the world with... a freaking Wiggum.
Monday was the start of her first full quarantine week, and after 4 years I finally learned what she does for a living. Her video conferences were a name-dropping festival of some of the biggest brands in the world. Her expertise and dialect were sharp and confident. Her voice was dominant and deep like a bunker buster bomb.
I was both turned on and afraid.
I was convinced she’s in the Illuminati, or in some government agency that works exclusively with retail brands. So in a house where I once walked like a mighty Randy “Macho Man” Savage, I now slithered on my stomach like a no-name filler wrestler trying to sneak out of a Royal Rumble. “HER CAMERAS ARE EVERYWHERE” I thought, watching her scowl at her daily assignments behind the haunting glow of a Thinkpad. One day I heard her talk about the new color and flavor of an iconic brand of cereal, and I spent the night imagining her getting me murdered for all the things I accidentally heard. This is one of my favorite childhood cereals, and here she is, tampering with it like a supermarket god. I can’t believe that this is the same person that doesn’t know how to boil a pot of water.
My station looked more and more like Skid Row each day, with the homeless pitching entire tents, complete with an open bar and a sound system. I kept my Metrocard ready at hand, and didn’t touch anything—no sitting down, no leaning against the door, no pretending to be a stripper on the poles—until I arrived safely at the studio.
I spent as much time at the art studio that week as I could. My ego couldn’t take learning how wildly smart and important my wife is. Misogyny, patriarchy, mahogany... I’m 44 years old, so that’s probably all me. But I was afraid for my life, and braving the virus sounded safer than facing the consequences of eavesdropping on highly sensitive information. I wore a black face mask made out of cotton (complete with anime cat whiskers on it) and dollar store winter gloves when I left the house, even though the weather that week was sunny and in the mid-60s. I was ready to face the calm before the viral storm by sweating against it.
I couldn’t believe that the subway $2 swipe scammers were still trying to hustle commuters at my stop, sabotaging the Metrocard vending machines so that your only options were to either walk two blocks to the next entrance or pay them their ransom. Absolutely nobody was riding the trains, and COVID had the usually bustling East Broadway stop emptier than a vapid teenager’s mind while flipping through SnapChat filters. So the scammers just stood there, smoking clips of dirt weed, looking like ghosts of New York’s gritty past. Once you passed the turnstiles it was like entering a different world. My station looked more and more like Skid Row each day, with the homeless pitching entire tents, complete with an open bar and a sound system. I kept my Metrocard ready at hand, and didn’t touch anything—no sitting down, no leaning against the door, no pretending to be a stripper on the poles—until I arrived safely at the studio. After several days of misery tourism, I was curious if the cops had just completely stopped policing the subway. A win for the people, I guess.
Each day there were fewer and fewer people riding mass transit. The governor issued his “New York State on PAUSE” order (a shelter-in-place order by another name), ordering all non-essential businesses to shut and workers to stay at home. The class divide in NYC was now brutally obvious. While offices, museums, and Broadway theaters were ordered to shut down, restaurants & fast food spots with take out/delivery, hardware stores, bodegas & deli’s (basically any job with a heavy POC ratio) were ordered to remain open. The subway lines that ran in Manhattan (mostly from 86th to Battery Park) were empty, while the blue collar lines like the JMZ & the F train stayed busy, as the MTA reduced the number of cars on each train.
The Delancey Street station became a lawless shanty town, and the griminess of the Myrtle Av-Broadway JMZ stop was still very 1988-crack-epidemic active. The CD guy near Popeyes was still playing music, the mentally ill pan handlers were still dancing to it, and the garbage tornado was still hovering around. The usual junkies were still passed out after smoking K2 (even though the Big Boy deli that sold it was raided and shut down months ago) with newer and younger friends, and the NYPD kept a very close but blind watch over it all. Hipsters on their way to work climbed up and down the train station steps with their privileged blinders on, AirPods blasting Toro y Moi or Doja Cat, oblivious to the slow cooking catastrophe surrounding them.
I only work with one other person in the studio, Julie, so in my head, I had morally negotiated that I wasn’t a selfish “Spring Break in South Beach” style spreader. In my defense, this was totally in line with self quarantine rules. We kept proper social distance from each other, and didn't share smokes or other personal vices. On Tuesday I started noticing a little chest pain, but I assumed it was from all the “I’m a Macho, Macho Man” workouts I had done—totally ignoring the fact that my gym had been locked down for over a week. I ignored the pain—and my now omnipresent cough—until Thursday, when Julie volunteered a home remedy with a real concerned look on her face. That’s when I began to worry.
We disinfected our work spaces with calming incense and a Spotify reggae playlist, and we treated our trash like it was medical waste. We only ventured out for coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts and the occasional Popeyes chicken sandwich. She taught me how to enjoy it her way by putting coleslaw on in it, which made the meal extra crunchy. My taste buds swore that it was a gift, while my stomach thought otherwise. Every time we stepped outside to go from studio to storage and back, we washed our hands like they had spent the day massaging mud. I sang the 'Happy Birthday' song so many times while handwashing (as recommended by the CDC) that I felt like I was trapped in a never ending loop at a toddler’s birthday party in Hell. We ended our work days around 8pm, anticipating a transit shut down that never came, and she drove me back to the Myrtle stop in her Jeep to make sure I caught it. Our goodbye hugs got more and more distant as the days went by.
Something about quarantine doesn’t allow either of us a decent night's sleep. If it isn’t the siren of a speeding ambulance slicing through the empty midnight streets, it’s the early dawn ravings of a junkie howling for the dead to rise.
I would leave my gloves and mask at the door of my apartment and remove most of my clothes—washing my hands again for the 26th time—before I hugged the wife. I would make corny social distance jokes in between telling her about my day, playfully forcing her away, which only made her want to get closer. Our pandemic meals went from full-on entrees to whatever scraps we could put in a bowl or toaster. My wife went from someone who drinks a glass of wine once a season to drinking a glass or 5 every night at dinner. One night I asked her if she was anxious, and she crafted a meticulous response to try to make me feel safe—I knew she was lying though, because I’d been privy to her browser history, full of conspiracy riddled YouTube clicks: The week-long Zeitgeist series, 5G & population control sponsored by Samsung, boomer killing lizard people from Inner Earth. I didn’t watch them, as my life has always been a tinfoil-cap-wearing nightmare. By 10pm one of us would be in REM sleep being jostled awake by the other in an attempt to get the other person to bed—only to be wide awake again at 2 am, 5 am, & 7 am. Something about quarantine doesn’t allow either of us a decent night's sleep. If it isn’t the siren of a speeding ambulance slicing through the empty midnight streets, it’s the early dawn ravings of a junkie howling for the dead to rise.
I run an IG account called @HiLOVENEWYORK as a hobby. It started as a way for me to continue to support my nightlife friends after I got married and stopped going out as much. At first I simply posted party fliers and art events, while ripping off NY1’s “Today in NYC History” news clips. Then I started making fun of articles in my favorite hometown newspaper, The New York Post. My plan was to ridicule it until my name attained boldface status in Page Six, their world famous New York-centric gossip column. The off color back seat commentary became a way to sharpen my wit while practicing my writing. Soon enough, those long winded essay-length posts outshined the party ones, and grew in popularity, winning the follows of some of Post’s editorial & content team.
I always felt the account was like an abandoned newspaper on the subway, seen but mostly ignored until the right person, curious and bored, picked it up and read it. But when my scathing scribblings about a certain article about the Mayor of Nightlife started to be heavily reposted (giving the poor author several weeks of hell) I knew I had something, and for a very small and influential local community, I became their voice. A role that I welcomed but it odd, since I hated the sound of my own.
And then the first major music festival of the season was canceled in Texas, followed by the one in Miami. Then the big Palm Springs one was rescheduled, and every major local club event and bar party I knew followed suit—DJ after DJ, confused by the cancellations, apologizing for something they had zero control over. Restaurants started laying off full staff, leaving their undocumented kitchen workers at the mercy of their personal GoFundMe’s. Big retailers closed their doors, uncertain if they would ever be able to open again. Pop up shops popped. Mom & pop businesses, unless they were considered “essential” by the death squads of public safety, plopped. My account had now gone from local party flyers & amateur news punditry to doing full blown community outreach & grassroots fundraising for an entire community that I loved and was now watching gasp for their last breaths in real time.
The shares on my IG posts were in the triple digits every single day. The idea of being the digital Paul Revere of the pandemic, the one that everyone looked to for no-bullshit information in a complicated chaos excited me, but only for a minute, as it sunk in that what had started as a fun hobby and distraction I pursued whenever I wasn’t socially isolating was becoming a serious source of information for an entire self-isolating city. I was overwhelmed realizing how many people needed help, and the reality of how few of these people would actually receive any help crushed me. New unemployment filings were estimated between 3-6 million that week, with over 300,000 in NYC alone. And those numbers are just the “real jobs” that pay taxes—you could double that number just by including off-the-books bar staff alone.
My brain was being dogged by all the Doomsday scenarios playing out in my head, too distracted to concentrate on someone’s subpar home cooked meal or quarantine fashion. All the things that mattered to me pre-pandemic now seemed pointless and moot.
I spoke to my sun, his mother, my mother, my siblings, and my wife’s family almost daily now. I was used to hearing from them about once a month, but now my ear was glued to the phone like I was trying to win concert tickets during a radio contest. Keeping up with all my different group chats consumed my entire day. My Twitter & Facebook feeds were filled with the prose of the panicked and the proud, each one calling each other out for casually breaking social distancing rules, and Scarlet Lettering them all over social media. I became curious as to how all of these now combative relationships would recover after this time in the Corona. “It’s just an elderly & pre-existing condition germ, and I don’t hang out with old people” the young shouted to the heavens, taking advantage of the boomer-less streets and not seeing their role or responsibility in stopping the spread as the skated or biked down the middle of our now empty streets.
The temperature hit 70 degrees that week, and everyone was tossing frisbees in the park shirtless, with sweat dripping everywhere, to prove their naive invincibility. I gave it all an eye roll and kept scrolling. My older friends on the other hand were terrified, and quietly making final arrangements while writing out wills.
My more responsible friends were playing games on Twitch and having Zoom hangouts, drinking their hoarded wine while speaking over each other on glitchy conferencing apps. I gave it a shot then quickly opted out, as I’ve always hated FaceTime & video chats. My brain was being dogged by all the Doomsday scenarios playing out in my head, too distracted to concentrate on someone’s subpar home cooked meal or quarantine fashion. All the things that mattered to me pre-pandemic now seemed pointless and moot.
On Wednesday the 18th I called my sister to wish her a happy birthday. She didn’t answer, and I secretly thrilled at the thought of fulfilling a family obligation by voicemail. But my little pint-sized long haul trucker sister video chatted me back several hours later from a highway. Still, I answered with haste, expecting to be transported away from my tiny apartment to the open road. Will she show me the Grand Canyon? The redwoods in Northern Cali? The mountains of Colorado? No, she just added fuel to my anxieties, telling me how most truck stops are not allowing drivers to enter their shops to browse for snacks or use their bathrooms & showers. The ones that did had long waits and when you finally got in it was full of unattended grossness. Some had even set up port-o-potties outside in their parking lots, closing their main bathroom stalls altogether. She tried to make me laugh by telling me that her partner, desperate to unload, took a shit in one of the urinals, but all I could think of was how terribly infectious this all was, and it broke my already shattered heart.
On top of that, she told me that the government had deemed every single licensed trucker in the United States an essential worker. Once FEMA got involved, the major transportation companies who broker the loads that go to big box retailers gave those high paying runs to the company drivers they employed, and not to independent operators like her. Those company drivers are protected by federal employment laws—allowing them paid sick days if they become symptomatic—but independent drivers like my sister have no safety net. She proudly owns her truck, but it’s under a lease she has to pay every week. Any client can fire her, and until the truck is fully paid off, the bank can repossess it if she misses a payment.
So basically, she has to drive no matter what. Most of her loads are for FedEx, and the increased demand for mail order goods has her out on the road at least 15 hours a day. Before the pandemic, Federal regulations limited her to 11 hours max, but those regulations have been suspended, and now she can drive for as long as her tiny body allows her too, which means more money for her, but it is also very dangerous to drivers—just ask Tracy Morgan. Her health, both mental and physical, is in her own hands. She is my hero, one of America’s low-key champions, and the only rewards she gets are the newfound talents of being able to piss in a water bottle without spilling, and tossing bags of shit at the road signs that connect (and infect) us all.
On Thursday I found myself sitting in bed reading about how the tsunami of Airbnb cancellations will bring on the next housing crash, as people who mortgaged their primary homes to buy rental properties won’t recover the lost income in time to satisfy the banks. How many small businesses won’t recover? I read about how there's been a sharp uptick in domestic violence. Unable to take it anymore, I moved the charger to the kitchen and started leaving my phone there overnight.
By Friday I’d had enough. My need to communicate with someone other than the two ladies who bookend my days and the demonic cell phone that glowed with new alerts all night long superseded any and every need for safety. I escaped to the studio and after I applied a second coat of paint to the coffee table I was revamping for the wife, I invited three friends over for a few drinks... or 12. I dusted off a bottle of Evan Williams left over from an after party thrown there and called a drug dealer. I paid with Cash App, as ATM’s were now considered germ hot spots, and did a rail with a $20 bill I’d been saving for the occasion before my guests arrived. When they got there I was in full on tweeter mode, applying a 5th coat of paint to a drowning piece of furniture.
We all kept 'boxers-in-their-respective-corners' distance from each other and nobody shared anything except memories and conversation. We each had our own bag and didn’t share bills or keys, only our dilated eyes and pendulum-swinging jaws. We kept our get together off of social media, as we were well aware that our peers would have eviscerated us for such childish irresponsibility. One hour turned into seven, and I was briefly able to forget about the calamity that had claimed our city. We parted ways near the Graham L stop, and I overpaid for an Uber ride home. I arrived at my house and fell asleep on the couch with a half-full warm beer balanced on my gut, my clothes strewn all over, spreading around the polluted nighttime air like a dirty mop.
Life, for one second, was good again.
This wasn’t a hangover I was experiencing—I felt like a hung man. Not the kind with a promising porn career in their future, but a tombstone.
I woke up the next afternoon, having been magically stuffed into the fold of my white comforter, to the news of hundreds of people dying in Italy. The impact of that news was soon followed by the return of my chest pain, compressing my broccoli top chest hairs into my spine. This pain was accompanied by a newly acquired plaster-shattering, body-quaking cough. I also learned that the first few deaths in New York City of people under the age of 50 had been recorded… I’m 44 years old, with a history of casual drug abuse nestled into a terrible diet. I was legit concerned.
This wasn’t a hangover I was experiencing—I felt like a hung man. Not the kind with a promising porn career in their future, but a tombstone. I canceled work at the studio for the next week, and I allowed my hypochondria to self isolate me. This proved to be impossible in our tiny one bedroom, as my wife wouldn’t leave me alone. In between mocking my condition and guilt tripping me for partying the previous night, she persistently annoyed me with her cuteness, covering me in kisses, trying to reassure me it was nothing by talking to me like I’m a colicky baby who only speaks Web MD.
By Sunday I was convinced that I most likely had the virus. Any remaining doubts I had were cemented in by the diarrhea episode of “Curb your Enthusiasm”, the one that showed how easy it is for “the cooties” to spread. My chest pains were followed by gasps for air. My coughs echoed around our apartment like the sound of bears fornicating reverberating against the walls of a cave. My headache was accentuated by a deep-sea-diving-level feeling of pressure, and my forehead was boiling lobster hot. To top it all off I actually understood that week's episode of Westworld (something about AI & feeding the algorithm), so I was convinced I was also suffering from dementia.
Eight o’clock hit, and the city that famously never sleeps was officially on lockdown, with violations punishable by fines or jail. I celebrated it with a New Year's Eve style countdown. I yelled it out my window with a hoarse and raspy voice, posting it on my socials, but receiving very few likes. Nobody enjoys the loss of their freedom. My sense of humor had slowly slipped to the dark side. Before the pandemic, I was always anxious—“Why am I not out promoting my book? Should I be doing more parties? What about opening another club? All these parties are happening, shouldn’t I be out taking pictures?!” But now, how could I ever catch FOMO? There was absolutely nothing to miss. This gave me an odd sense of relief.
Monday morning came and the second the little hand struck the middle of Blu Jemz’s forehead on my ClockWork Cros clock I video chatted with my doctor, who was now doing house calls... from his house (something I might call ironic had I knew what the word meant). My ailments rolled off my tongue like the red carpet at the premiere for my social media induced panic, and he confirmed that I was indeed displaying symptoms of coronavirus. I shrugged it off with a callous “oh well” and quickly messaged everyone who I had been in contact with. I was afraid, but I announced the deadly contagion like it was a fun game of tag. After the initial “oh shit” reaction, followed by the (obviously not) “you good?”, every single person wished me well and offered me questionable medical advice—without acknowledging that they might also have it too!
Hidden underneath my corny COVID dad jokes was a very real and genuine fear. I left a draft of my will unfinished in the notes on my iPhone before I fell into what I thought could be my final sleep.
I woke up on Tuesday and God had rejected my application to attend the Spring Semester in Heaven. My day was spent googling ancient herbal remedies (all disproved by science, of course), reading up on exponential math (wishing the math teachers that failed me could see me now, doing formulas all wrong), drinking as many hot liquids as possible, and trying to Rip Van Winkle myself into a better, germ-free future by taking as many weed induced naps as possible.
The rest of the days turned into weeks, each one mashing into the other, and life in general adopted airport rules. Waffles at night? Enjoy! A shot of whisky and a steak at 8 am? If your little heart can handle it, then sure! The wife tried to keep me in working order (bless her non-symptomatic heart), sneaking vitamins into my comfort food and making all the vegetables I hate taste like candy. I laid in bed, then on the couch, then back to bed, and then back to the couch, whereupon I realized I was losing the ability to stand up and balance myself, so I would fall into the kitchen and crawl to the bathroom.
In between meals I watched whatever streaming shows my limited internet bandwidth allowed me, turning up the volume so as to not have to hear my wife and her end-of-the-business-world-as-we-know-it back to back 9 hour conference-call-apaloozas. Clients were trying to cancel iron-clad contracts with her company, playing the world’s biggest violin as they fed the unemployment machine with more lay-offs and furloughs. These weren’t boutique companies either, we are talking about the companies that make up the financial fabric of this country.
Even the television shows I used to escape got old. Modern Family made me miss a family I used to avoid. Ozark made me miss pissing in dive bar bathrooms. Black Monday made me want to do ALL the coke. Brooklyn 99 made me miss getting arrested. Tiger King made me want to get eaten by lions.
I had a lust for a society now a month locked away in their respective homes. So for fun I yelled out of my window at anyone I saw not practicing social distancing, joining the exhausted NYPD who kept kicking the same Mexican alcoholics out of the park across the street everyday. The skater kids still didn’t listen, and told me to fuck off. When that got boring, I would search my chats for anyone planning an illegal rave, and shame them publicly online. I was and still am pretty sure that when this is all over, my neighbors and friends are gonna collectively tar & feather me. But hey, if I saved a life—or a few thousands of them, it was totally worth it.
A Note From The Author:
This is the complete version of the diary that was partially excepted as the kicker in a New York Post article about the pandemic titled “True Lies” published on March 29. Since then, thefatality rate from COVID-19 has surpassed 700 people per day in New York state. Most gentrifiers have moved back to their respective out-of-state hometowns, quarantining with their families, leaving a quarter of NYC apartments vacant, while the city struggles to provide housing for its surging homeless population. More and more, the city resembles the dope-fiend-in-burnt-down-lots days of the '70s & '80s. Religious groups refuse to obey the social distancing order. Open-air drug markets have slowly come back, and the crime rate, which dipped tremendously during the first few weeks of the pandemic, has shot back up, due to half of the police force calling out sick. This was all laid bare to me when I saw a crackhead take a shit in front of the Flatiron Building At 5pm on a weekday, while there was a huge line of people waiting for their order at the Shake Shack across the street.
Please stay inside.
Or leave your house strapped.
But do not leave without your mask and gloves on.
Stay up to date with the latest Osvaldo Chance Jimenez's pandemic musings on the @HILOVENEWYORK Instagram account. You can also purchase is latest book, 'WASHED PART III: EUROTRIPPP (a scumbag sonnet)' at the link below.