the map of when

Via Google street view, my first apartment in NYC was in this...

Tue, 29 May 2012 00:05:00 -0700

Via Google street view, my first apartment in NYC was in this building on 21st street between 8th and 9th Avenues. It was a co-op building and I rented, across the street from a school and also the street all the geighs used to walk to The Spike.

The metalwork on the stairs is new. When I lived there it was solid walls and you could sit on the stairs and make out (or whatever) and no one could see you.

This was 84-89 and the rent was $750. Oy.

LEAPING BUILDINGS

Mon, 28 May 2012 22:34:01 -0700

I want to be a Superhero.

Naturally, I’ll have a Cape. The rare opportunity to wear something goofy without looking inappropriate will not be missed. Tights, masks - we see those all the time. So Last Issue. But a Cape, that’s an outfit. Whenever and wherever I leave, my Cape will flow gracefully behind me like a brief reminder of where I was.

These will be my SuperPowers:

1. I will be able to repair my car with my SuperMechanicBeam. Hands on hips, Cape fluttering patriotically behind me, the SMB will envelop my car and that weird knock will vanish. It ‘s imperative I have a SuperCar to get to my duties and the Dog Park. Humming smoothly down the road, Polly and I proudly posing in the gleaming windows, we’ll pass Citizens asking “Who was that?” Not now! On a Mission! Good ta see ya!

2. I won’t be able to fly but I will hover. Hovering seems vastly underrated for Superheros but that will change. Hovering will be the New SuperPower Black. No bumps to worry about, no mud, no wet grass. I’ll serenely float above the Earth while Polly crisscrosses beneath me, demonstrating my talent like a Magician’s Assistant with a large hoop. I’ll call her and she’ll jump into my arms to hover with me, both of us able to better appreciate the sky due to our new advantage.

3. I will not have to trim my nails. This isn’t important other than the fact I hate doing it. Blech. You do it and then they grow right back! Who thought of that? Perhaps the clippings will have some SuperUse to be determined at a later time.

4. My SuperHands will ooze with patience, compassion, relief, space and yes, Hula Boola. Full strength, all the time. I’ll gently touch someone’s arm or shoulder and they’ll instantly be full of my world and I will see theirs. I’ll leave behind a Band-Aid featuring my cartoon likeness so that even after I’m gone, they’ll have a memento of our meeting.

Of course, I’ll need a SuperName. Buzz Lightloafer. Tall Guy. The Funster. Hula Boola Man. The Hughminator. Hughman.

It’s a good gig for at least twenty years, after all I am only human. One day I’ll pick up the Cape from it’s shelf and feel it’s warmth like a blanket left in the sun or a cotton shirt fresh from the dryer. This time, my SuperHands will not release but absorb all the light and wonder. Polly will rest beside me like she always does while we fondly recall our SuperBehaviour. Thinking about what we have accomplished makes us both very happy.

“Do not have an opinion while you listen because frankly, your opinion doesn’t hold much water...

Sun, 27 May 2012 23:32:00 -0700

“Do not have an opinion while you listen because frankly, your opinion doesn’t hold much water outside of Your Universe. Just listen. Listen until their brain has been twisted like a dripping towel and what they have to say is all over the floor.”

― Hugh Elliott

dionnewarlock: ONE Memory (I’m tired) I’m in an acting class...

Sun, 27 May 2012 20:14:20 -0700

dionnewarlock:

ONE Memory (I’m tired)

I’m in an acting class with the one member of the Stella Adler Conservatory’s staff who actually worked with Stella Adler. It’s the last week of the semester and we run out of stuff to do and we all ask for a Stella story, like she’s our famous grandma:

“Okay. Well. Stella’s directing two students on the stage. It’s the balcony scene from ‘Romeo & Juliet.’ And the actor is - well - he is one of our more obvious homosexuals. And the whole thing is just a disaster. She walks onto the stage and starts screaming and waving her cigarette around.

“She’s saying, ‘This scene is about heat! Hormones! The stage should be on fire with sex! And, honey, if the audience doesn’t even believe Romeo is a man, well…they may as well kill themselves! You’re prancing around like Audrey Hepburn and they’re gonna see you’ve got no interest in the girl from the back row. Get off the stage.’

“So, the boy and the girl sit down. And everyone is very quiet. And Stella just moves on to another scene. But the boy is obviously quite upset - trying not to cry, his shoulders are shaking.

“So she stops. She calls him back onto the stage and he’s just standing there, all sad and scared thinking she’s going to ream him out some more. And we’re all scared for him, of course.

“And Stella just says, ‘Pick me up.’ Very lightly like that. ‘Pick me up,’ she says. And he says, ‘What?’ And she turns to him and says, ‘Pick. Me. Up.’ Very serious.

“So he - very gently - lifts Stella into his arms. One arm under her knees and the other around her shoulder. Cradling this woman like a baby.

“And she looks to him and grabs his cheeks with both her hands and says, ‘See?’.

“And he says, ‘What?’.

“And she says, ‘See how strong you are?’”

These “memory” stories are just the best. The. Best.

CHAKA KHAN / UNTIL YOU COME BACK TO ME

Sun, 27 May 2012 18:12:56 -0700

CHAKA KHAN / UNTIL YOU COME BACK TO ME

The Jacksons - Walk Right Now Love love love this song. But...

Sat, 26 May 2012 22:18:00 -0700

The Jacksons - Walk Right Now

Love love love this song. But let’s break it down.

One - It seems awfully fast. I don’t remember it being this fast. Maybe this is a fast recording? Also, my brain was possibly so drug-addled when it came out and I danced to it on the dancefloor that it seemed slower at the time. In my head, this song was always considered “early morning music” you’d hear towards the end of the dance evening but when I heard this I was like, yikes. CLEAR IT OUT PEOPLE.

Two - It’s a relatively upbeat song, no? And yet… the main lyric is “I don’t care” which is not usually a phrase one associates with happy thoughts. “I’m having doubts about our romantic involvement”. I DON’T CARE. “My car has exploded and my house has burned to the ground.” I DON’T CARE. Hard to see how one gets joy from this sentiment but, whatever.

Three - This was one of the last songs I remember being by “The Jacksons” and not a “Michael Jackson Song”. Which was really great because it wasn’t all about Him, etc. THERE WERE JACKSON SONGS THAT WERE BRILL, PEOPLE. This is one of them.

Finally, on the dancefloor this was great as a “lose your shit” song. Arms akimbo, twirling, whatever. All was fair in this song and war. This song made you sweat. Which, yeah. Brill.

BEES

Sat, 26 May 2012 20:59:00 -0700

It wasn’t John, it wasn’t her frustration with her life, it was the bees. She hadn’t found the hidden nest and now, everywhere she turned, was a bee. They seemed to meander aimlessly around the kitchen, not logically sticking to food. She would open the cabinet under the sink for Comet and there was a bee. She’d open a box of cereal and out would fly a bee like a small toy surprise. Once she even opened the fridge and there was a bee, drunkenly crisscrossing the lid on the butter.

She insisted no one kill them. John never paid them much interest anyway but when she was faced with squashing one or life, she chose life. To her they were just creatures trying to survive, do their job, get through their bee life. They were just doing what they could to get through their bee days. She felt them hover near the ceiling light, watching her and critiquing her dinner plans. She’d spread butter on her toast and grasped the knife harder in righteous frustration. Who were they to judge her cooking? What did they ever do to help?

Once she found three of them huddling together on the window screen, their front legs twisting like the hands of villains. She looked out the window expecting thousands of bees flying towards her. Word’s out! Big bee party in the house kitchen! After she was dead, all they would remember was she was the woman with the bees. Were she to slide a knife in the toaster and die of electric shock, her last thoughts would be if she’d ever find the nest.

John came in for something to eat before school. A bee was on the fridge handle but he merely brushed it off and pulled the door, taking out a can of Diet Coke and a bagel. The bees hovered above asking if she was allowing soda at this hour. Doesn’t Diet Coke have that bad sweetener? Didn’t you buy orange juice?

She watched him flip thought the morning paper looking for comics while eating. No butter. No cream cheese. She studied him like a bug she’d found crawling on the lawn, with black shiny armor and menacing horns. She could find nothing that led back to her.

“Mom, I need some money.”

The bees dove and circled the scene like TV news with a car chase. She wished the bees could take her brain like nectar from a flower and climb inside of John to make honey. She would be doing her job correctly and the entire nest would praise her work.

“I just gave you a twenty.”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

“I spent that. I need ten more for pizza after school. I get hungry.”

One bee landed near her hand on the counter before walking closer then away like a dog testing water. Perhaps it was a friend of John’s creeping up to remind her again how late she worked. She lifted her finger and the bee jumped back before slowly inching foward. It felt vibrations from her skin, the low humming leaking from the nest inside her head. Millions of bees circling around and buzzing like a neighbor’s chainsaw.

“You shouldn’t be eating pizza.”

She shook her head and the bees inside began swirling in a frenzy. Their weaving bodies formed a figure who was there but not there, pure Bee Energy. One who was home all the time, who shopped once for the whole week, who laid it’s Bee hand on John’s arm while listening to him talk about school. Outside she would pretend she was normal but inside her Bee Self constantly reminded her of who she couldn’t be.

She reached for her purse and it fell, loose change shooting out to spin in circles on the floor. The bees all arose and circled as well, surrounding her with things spinning out of control. She picked up her wallet and riffled through the green bills before setting a ten on the table.

John ignored the change on the floor to push back his chair and walk out. A bee landed on her thigh and she angrily slapped her leg, killing it but not before it stung her. She lifted her hand and it’s dead body fell to the linoleum. Where she’d been stung began to turn red and swell. The pain gave her an excuse to cry and tears began to well and drip down her face like honey from a comb.

She hid her face in her hands, not wanting the bees to see her this way. She’d failed the hive, she’d killed one of them. She took the morning paper and pushed the dead bee onto it before opening the back door and flinging it into the yard. The other bees accusingly ignored the open air and kept their distance.

She finally went to get ready for work, some of the bees lazily following behind her like pets. She heard the front door slam and John leaving for school. She sat on her bed and wondered what to do now that she’d been stung. What do people use to rid themselves of the tenderness, the pain? How do you hold still when you always feel them swarming around you like things you never get done?

Surrender, she thought, there’s no place to hide. The bees will always win.

mrpinky: Alton McClain & Destiny - It Must Be Love

Sat, 26 May 2012 15:54:43 -0700

mrpinky:

Alton McClain & Destiny - It Must Be Love

SPURS

Fri, 25 May 2012 18:37:00 -0700

“I’ve got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle…”

That was the only line she knew, so she assumed spurs were charm bracelets. She watched her mother stand in front of her dresser and lift the top of her satin jewelry box. First were earrings, giant beaded clip-ons, then one of her watches and finally her spurs. Her mother would lift her hands in the air as if donning surgical gloves, shaking them so her spurs slid down her arm. Like loose coins, like an ornament falling from the tree, they’d delicately jingle, steely jangle then the grace of jingle again. She’d find her mother’s spurs on the kitchen table in the morning. She’d slide them on, surprised at their weight, and fan out her fingers so the spurs wouldn’t drop to the floor.

When her mother realized her ignorance, she told her about bracelets. “Spurs”, she said as she pulled out a chair and lit a cigarette, “go on your shoes.” She left her mother in the kitchen and snuck upstairs to examine her father’s shoes. She thought of the way he rolled change in his pocket, a habit proving he liked things that jangle. Surely, she thought, her father would have spurs. She inspected his soles but found them free of noise, his steps were bags of potatoes not sleigh bells, not spurs.

She stayed up late to watch The Ed Sullivan Show and Sammy Davis Jr. His were the only shoes she knew that made noise. The next day, she went out to the garage and her father’s toolbox. She opened the lid and a shelf unfolded to reveal a cardboard box with thumbtacks. She arranged eight in a pattern the size of her feet on the garage floor and carefully stood on them all at once. She worried the spikes might sink through and prick her toes, like an Indian lying on a bed of nails, but when she felt them sink into her rubber soles without reaching her, she confidently rocked back and forth.

She started to walk, slowly at first, like she was wading through water. The tackheads made an awkward clack, clack, clack. Soon she began to shuffle her feet, tossing them over the cement like jacks, like there was music. Her spurs began singing a song about her legs while they scattered over the floor, writing notes in chalk on a blackboard. Click, click, click.

She decide she would put spurs on all her shoes. She took out an old class poster she’d made (Birds of Florida) and laid it face down on the floor. Using her shoes as guides, she outlined each foot and marked where to set tacks. The heads would rest on the ground with the sharp points sticking in the air like umbrellas abandoned in the street. She wondered if there was a secret pattern to spurs, an ancient way of arranging tacks which enhanced the effect. There could be a chart in National Geographic next to pictures of primitive shoes or a blueprint (under S for Spurs) in her World Book. “Here is how Aztecs made Spurs…”

She walked to the kitchen where her mother was still sitting at the table, coffee cold and her third cigarette. She tried shuffling silently across the floor, hoping her Spurs wouldn’t mark the linoleum. She wanted her Spurs all to herself, at least now, until she was confident their power was real. Her mother watched and squinted slightly as if trying to hear a phone ringing far away.

“Why are you walking like that?” she asked. Her eyes scanned her daughter’s body until they rested on her small shoes. She froze in front of her mother, feet flat on the floor, the thumbtacks mute as snails under a rock. She forced the soles of her feet to press them against her body like keys in her pocket.

“I’m doing something.”

Her mother seemed ready to doubt her answer, raising her eyebrows while her cigarette smoke snuck around looking for the truth. Finally resigned to the statement (she was, after all, doing something) she smiled slightly and cut off her questions like stray limbs from a tree. This is going nowhere, her mother realized, and she ended her curiosity with a swift clip.

“Can you love anything?” her daughter suddenly asked.

She loved Spurs. She loved the way they jingled, jangled, jingled. She wanted Spurs all the time. She wanted to pretend to listen while she shook her Spurs in her pocket.

Her mother paused like a gypsy reading a crystal ball, her young daughter stiffly waiting for an answer. She had stopped reading this girl’s mind but even in the face of questions about Love, she felt she was still hers. “Always”, that’s what Love felt like. You could lock the door and take the key where you wanted. Feel it pressing in your palm while waiting in line at the bank, in a store, smiling and nodding to people passing by. Love is a door to a house.

“I suppose.” she finally replied, still unsure of what they were talking about. “After all, I love you”, she said before rolling her eyes. “Come here.” As her daughter walked over to her waiting arms so she could wrap her and take her back, she could hear the faint clicking of the clock on the stove.

mudwerks: Sade | No Ordinary Love A gorgeous woman...

Thu, 24 May 2012 22:29:00 -0700

mudwerks:

Sade | No Ordinary Love

A gorgeous woman (hoodoothatvoodoo) posted this gorgeous song so how could I resist?

The The - Uncertain Smile

Thu, 24 May 2012 18:36:43 -0700

The The - Uncertain Smile

WONDER BOY

Wed, 23 May 2012 21:34:09 -0700

I remember when my father told me Indians called it a “Giant Bird”. Even though I was only six, I still smelled a whiff of TontoSpeak about that tidbit. Giant Bird? Oh brother. That was the thing about my father, even when he was feeding you a party line he was so damned earnest. It’s one thing we shared, except with me, when I’m earnest it sounds like I’m feeding you a party line. My father, the closet scientist, would begin his lecture on aerodynamics and the nature of currents. I pretended to listen, nodding in the right places and acting perplexed now and then while watching the hair on the back of his hands flow like seaweed across his wrists. Finally he’d finish his great musings on the nature of flight and the two of us would gaze at the “Great Bird” on the runway, full of awe and resignation how after all our talk about aerodynamics, we’d never really understand what flying is.

I often went with my father to the conventions he attended. My mother insisted and every time we came back from one, she’d have redecorated the entire house. My father would be in meetings all day while I’d sit in our hotel room watching TV and flipping through the local yellow pages noting sex-related businesses. Occasionally I’d wander down the hall to the ice machine where I’d bury my G.I.Joe under all the cubes pretending he was Walt Disney. The day we were returning home from Atlanta, the weather was perfect. We boarded our flight uneventfully. I was not a noisy child in public, more interested in appearing angelic so as to attract the interest of passing movie stars. “My, how beautifully you’ve colored that firetruck. Let’s be best friends.”

After the plane left the ground, I promptly fell asleep. Not until I was shaken awake and saw magazines scattered up and down the aisle did I realize something was different. My father kept looking out the window, his head bobbing up and down as if there would be a difference in the view between the top and bottom. I wasn’t scared, I was used to Father’s resourcefulness in these situations or the ones I’d imagined. The plane lurched and my box of crayons slammed against the seat across from me, colors bursting free like quick bright birds.

I stared as Father removed his shoes, old, thick Oxfords he bought precisely twice a year, holding them in his lap as the plane jolted and growled like a bear in a trap. We suddenly tilted to the other side and began a rapid descent. To the pilot’s credit, when we hit water we didn’t nose dive or skitter like a thrown stone. We seemed to just land and were it not for the panic and confusion, you’d have thought we’d arrived at our destination. Stewardesses began pulling orange vests out of compartments and throwing them to panicked hands along the aisle. The plane lurched again and then we were in another world. The window was above us and we dangled in our seats, limp dolls strapped at the waist.

My father, calmer than ever, took one of his shoes, put his hands in the soles where the shiny leather had molded to his black-haired toes and pushed out the window. The entire glass popped, like a contact out of an eye. I was impressed. I suppose planes were built different then but the whole thing was a super-human feat like you read in line at the supermarket. “MOTHER LIFTS CAR OFF INJURED BABY”, that kind of thing. There was a huge gust of sea air, sticky and chilled. My father undid my seat belt, shoved his life preserver through the hole and lifted me through after it. I went without question, he was still so resolute and earnest. I think I expected him to follow behind me, sliding through the small opening like a trick monkey. I was now sitting on the plane’s side, lone inhabitant of a smooth silver island. There was another lurch and water drenched my shoes and socks.

“Thomas, put on the life vest.”

“Ok.”

“You’ll have to get away from the plane. I know the water’s cold but someone will be here soon. Go on.”

As I slid feet first into the Atlantic, the plane lurched and began to sink. I paddled fast as I could away from this thing, this great dying beast. I turned for one last time to see my father’s head sticking out of the window like a newborn chick out of some great egg.

“Goodbye Thomas. Say goodbye to mother. I love you.”

With one last lurch, the entire plane sank into the sea. Two or three minutes later there was a huge eruption and the water was suddenly littered with suitcases, trunks and loose clothes. I dog-paddled my way to several larger boxes, making a small island where I sat waiting in the sun.

I was a media freak for awhile, though at that time there wasn’t the feeding frenzy there is now. No Hard Copy, no Connie Chung. I still have a newspaper photo of me looking at the camera, the grass stretching behind me to our empty front porch. WONDER BOY, the headline screamed. The neighborhood kids constantly prodded me for information. Did I see a dead body? Was there blood? Finally, they tired of hearing the only response I would give, “I did what my father said”. My mother never asked what happened. One day after being sent to my room, I decided to never tell her the message my father sent. I never did. Eventually, the whole incident took it’s place on the list of my life’s events until all I recalled was my father’s shoes clutched in his thick, dark-haired hands.

ROAD

Wed, 23 May 2012 18:39:00 -0700

There’s something you’re hiding I don’t need to see,
There’s something you’ve chosen I never will be.
But I want to know,
I want to feel
I want to hold onto me.
I’ve moved on.
Changed and have gone.
Now it’s time
To be free.

There’s something you touch in me I just can’t feel
There’s something that brushes by that isn’t real
But I want to grow
I want to know
what love means.
Right the wrongs,
Rewrite songs
About your tie to me.

You’ve painted a room
but there’s no room for me.

WHEN I MET THE JEFFREYS III

Wed, 23 May 2012 16:57:00 -0700

When afternoon in the Pines rolled around, a social hour called Tea was held every day in the bar overlooking the harbor and boat dock. This building was part of a complex that served as the resort’s town center and contained all the commercial businesses in the entire community - a grocery store, hardware store, restaurant, gym, a clothing boutique and a large two story building named The Pavilion which held the disco/bar. On the second floor, a balcony ran the length of the side facing the harbor and that was where almost everyone in the Pines congregated for a few hours every early evening for drinks and to scope out fellow residents, including any arriving on the ferry which docked just feet away.

Tea was an operatic melange of activity. Passions would ignite, feelings would be hurt, words would be flung, numbers would be exchanged, kisses would be traded and many many cocktails and other substances would be consumed. Seven days a week, Tea would ignite the evening, flare brightly for a few hours, then fade as everyone left to return to their respective homes for dinner. Around midnight or so, it all began again when the disco opened and throngs of anxious men would return to dance through the night to early morning.

Of course in my house, Tea was analyzed and debated with the seriousness afforded battle plans by career generals. After a late lunch, Jeffery One and Two would retire to their room and begin choosing their outfits for the impending event mere hours away. During this time, I’d often go with Steven to the grocery store to purchase supplies for whatever meal he’d planned for dinner. To my amazement, he never made a list of things to purchase. He’d leave the house with only a drink in hand which he’d either toss in the trash when we’d approach the harbor or set on a banister somewhere to be retrieved before returning home. I’d follow him through the store, shopping basket ready, as he’d wander the aisles mumbling to himself or greeting various men I assumed he knew. After he’d say hello and walk away, he’d turn and roll his eyes before loudly whispering a one word assessment : “Mess!” or “Hot!” His critiques drastically veered to extremes.

When we returned to the house, the impending event would have already begun as dance music provided by David and his DJ Boyfriend Ronnie would be blaring throughout the house. The two of them would be plastered together on the couch, Ronnie’s hands jerking in circles over a phantom mixing board while David appeared to nap. Now and then, he’d raise one arm in the air as a half-hearted expression of dance floor memories.

Jeffery Two could often be found sitting wide-eyed in a chair across from them, observing them as if they were caged gorillas. When one song began to transform into a different one, he’d lean forward a bit as if he could covertly glimpse the record label on DJ Boyfriend Ronnie’s imaginary turntable. His suspense regarding pre-taped music was palpable.

Steven and I would take the groceries into the kitchen but after setting our haul on the counter, I was out. From that point on, it was Steven’s game and I had no idea what his cooking plans were and frankly, I didn’t want to know. I worried his culinary methods weren’t something I wanted to observe and I was happy to leave the mystery intact. When I returned to the living area, Jeffery One emerged from down the hall.

I watched him slowly walk around the perimeter of the furniture, pausing to cock his head as if he were some strange bird hearing a noise outside the window. Finally he walked to the middle of the room and paused.

“Well?” he asked while looking towards the ceiling. I looked up as well expecting perhaps large bats hanging from the rafters before I looked to the others.

Jeffery Two squinted and scanned him up and down. “I’ve always liked that shirt.” he offered.

Jeffery One sharply turned. “When have you seen this shirt?” he demanded. I actually thought I’d seen his shirt before too although blue t-shirts can look terribly similar.

“Oh Christ” Steven barked across the counter. “June 1951. You wore it to your junior prom.” I watched him roll his eyes and slam a cleaver on the counter, shattering a head of broccoli and showering the air in green bits.

“This shirt is new!” Jeffery One insisted. “This is a virgin shirt! Isn’t this a virgin shirt?” he asked anyone.

David just shrugged his shoulders while Jeffery Two squinted harder as if his will alone could cause the shirt to reveal it’s age.

“I guess I’ll see what else I have.” Jeffery One declared icily before quickly returning to his room. Jeffery Two looked down at his own shirt, perhaps beginning to question how and when his own clothes were chosen. “I bought this last week at Bloomingdales” he finally offered to any who might have been wondering.

I also retreated to our room to rest and eventually get ready myself. Though I worked as a freelance fashion stylist at the time, I wasn’t particularly obsessed by what I wore at the Pines. I subscribe to the belief that one’s wardrobe should be appropriate to one’s surroundings. Therefore as I was on a sandy island, I wasn’t going to dress like I was accepting a Nobel Prize. I’d throw on some khaki shorts, a tank top and whatever comfortable shoes I might have brought from sandals to work boots.

I emerged to find Jeffery One once again standing in the middle of the group, arms extended to show off his black t-shirt. Jeffery Two had a hand held up obstructing Jeffery One’s face, presumably to allow him a decision unswayed by his roommate’s pinched expression.

“It’s very pracitcal?” he eventually offered.

“Yeah” Steven added “If you’re a street mime.” A roll of the eyes and a lemon was decapitated and divided between two to-go cups, one of which he offered to me.

Unsurprisingly, Jeffery One didn’t take this assessment lightly. I watched as he grabbed fistfuls of the cloth and pulled it away from his body. Had he been stronger, I imagine it ripping away in a superhuman display of fashion frustration. However, despite his attempt at a dramatic purge of questionable attire, the shirt remained to taunt him with it’s inability to inspire envy and awe.

He quickly turned his attention elsewhere. “Haven’t you worn THAT shirt before?” he said, accusingly pointing at Jeffery Two. “He’s worn that shirt before!”

We all looked to Jeffery Two who managed to appear both flattered and petrified at our attention. I had little exposure to the clothing repertoire of my housemates so I had nothing to offer. David opened one eye and glanced at the incriminating evidence before resuming his disco coma.

“He looks cute.” DJ Boyfriend Ronnie offered. I winced and hoped his invaluable gift of mixed tapes would spare his life. “Of course it’s cute.” Steven stated. “His face seals the deal. Good luck with your shirt Jeffery.”

Sensing his accusation had failed to deflect attention from his questionable shirt, Jeffery One reloaded his guns. He turned to me.

“And what are those shoes?” he said, pointing at my boots. “Are you one of the Village People? He’s a Village Person!”

Steven leaned over the counter and looked down at my feet while Jeffery Two quickly tucked his legs under his chair, allowing my footwear to prominently attract everyone’s scrutiny. My enormous, battered, common construction boots now seemed to grow and pulsate with their own malicious intent, like I’d murdered a pair of baby deer that wandered the Island and brazenly tethered the bloody bodies to my ogreish stumps. I had the audacity to assume the stolen identity of that disco group who sang of the YMCA centuries before any ferry or fairies even dreamed of landing at The Pines.

“They’re just boots.” I replied. In hindsight, I was rather sheepish.

“Ha!” Jeffery One quickly huffed. “It always starts with the boots!” And with that he smoothed down the front of his ruffled shirt with his palms, turned on his heels and left. Jeffery Two worriedly stared at my feet, awaiting “it” to tragically “start”.

“Maybe I should have a drink now too.” he nervously suggested to Steven.

“Oh Christ” Steven slammed the refrigerator door and I could hear him dropping more ice in to-go cups. “I just might wear fucking boots too.” He walked over and handed Jeffery Two a cocktail before disappearing into our room.

Jeffery One wore his black t-shirt that night. I guess the the allure of practicality wore him down. Jeffery Two remained in his t-shirt as well although I don’t recall ever seeing it again. Steven actually did wear boots and when we got to Tea and both perched on the balcony’s edge, I think he was proud of his decision. If he thought anyone even glanced at his feet, he’d turn to me, roll his eyes and drunkenly hiss in glee “MANMULES!”. They may have made him feel rebellious and daring, on some cutting edge. In fact, maybe not so much that summer but the next, the look eventually became all the rage.

But despite my being new, I’d now become a viable target for Jeffery One’s acerbic judgement. My honeymoon was over. And after all was said and done, with the foresight that comes to those who plan stringently, Jeffery One was right. It all started with the boots.

WHEN I MET THE JEFFREYS II

Tue, 22 May 2012 18:55:25 -0700

When Summer finally arrived, I was filled with mixed emotions. Naturally I was excited and looked forward to being at the beach amid a small nation of eager men. But I was also nervous about my ability to rise to the social challenge alluded to by my housemates. After all, it was the first time I’d taken a share anywhere let alone on a bright stage with a cast of thousands. I’d also never lived in a house with so many people, people fanatical about some undefined protocol.

The first weekend, I arrived to an empty house with the only sign of life being my roommate Steven’s bag on his bed although he was nowhere to be seen. I set my things down to poke around and see what I could discover. The house was nice enough, consisting of a large common area with a dining table and living room. The kitchen was open to the whole space, separated by an island with bar stools on the side along the dining area. Down a hall off the living room were the three bedrooms all in a row. Steven and I had the first room closest to the main space. The couches and chairs faced a wall of sliding glass doors that looked out over the pool and the whole thing was surrounded by a high wood fence with a gate that opened onto the pedestrian walk that ran the length of The Pines.

I heard the gate open and Steven returned, grocery bags in hand, from the harbor store. “There was nothing to drink.” he explained as he extracted two enormous gallons of booze, mixers. several dozen plastic to-go cups and a tree’s worth of lemons. I thought what the hell, we were there to enjoy ourselves. “I figured we could just keep these in our room.” he stage-whispered while immediately pouring a drink. Apparently he would enjoy himself a lot.

Moments later in walked Jeffreys One and Two balancing what appeared to be a Titanic’s worth of luggage between them. I nervously thought of the lone carry-on sitting on my bed. What, I wondered, could they have possibly brought? I had gloves bigger than their t-shirts. Four or five thousand could easily fit in their suitcases.

Steven quickly attempted to hide his liquor haul in the cabinets but not before Jeffrey One noticed his efforts. “What did you buy?”

“Oh, just some soap” Steven replied while trying to force the cupboard door closed with his hip.

“Good. I’m tired of everyone assuming they can use mine. Clinique doesn’t grow on trees. I know you’re new to all this Hugh, but bring soap.” Jeffrey One pointedly instructed. “He’s new” he announced for good measure just in case one of us there didn’t know.

Jeffrey Two regarded me with a sad look of pity as if my being new was akin to having cancer or losing use of a leg. I glanced to Steven who just rolled his eyes and stood his ground next to the fridge now packed with ice and lemons. I’d soon learn that eye-rolling was one of his two facial expressions. The other was an alcohol induced squint like he was reading an eye chart from two states away.

“Where’s David?” Steven barked loudly while he twirled the ice in his to-go cup.

“He’s at the gym. Isn’t he at the gym?” Jeffrey One asked Jeffrey Two who vigorously nodded.

“He works out a lot.” Jeffrey Two breathlessly added with the hushed tone of someone describing Mother Theresa’s daily routine.

“Oh” I stated “I didn’t know he’d been here already”.

Both Jeffreys looked at me bewildered. “He hasn’t. He went directly from the ferry” Jeffery One begrudgingly explained. Jeffery Two, seeming to think I might be mentally deranged, nervously began pushing things away from the edge of the dining table in case I lost muscle control and started swinging my arms wildly.

“Oh Christ. We’re never gonna meet now.” Steven sighed. He handed me a to-go cup filled with ice, vodka and an entire half a lemon. “Here. You’ll need this.”

Jeffery One disappeared down the hall and after one last glance to assess any sudden moves on my part, Jeffery Two quickly followed. I assume they were going to go set up a Gap Store from their luggage.

I turned back to Steven who had resumed twirling his cup, splashing liquid all over the floor and counter. “What meeting?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes and took a gulp before responding. “We have a house meeting at the beginning of every weekend to decide who does what. I don’t know why the fuck we do it, we always do the same thing.”

“What do you do?”

“I cook.” This surprised me though I was guessing he did it to remain within arm’s reach of the ice and lemons. However after mentally reviewing the other housemates, I suppose it made sense. Too much labor for the Jefferys. David probably just tore raw meat from the bone. Jeffery Three was still sight unseen and for all I knew they slid him bread and water under a door.

I heard a huge slam from the front gate and David walked in, sweaty and red. From the looks of him I thought he might punch one of us but instead he walked to his room, emerging moments later devouring a protein bar. He quickly splayed on the couch.

“SHE’S HERE!” Steven screamed towards the bedrooms. “WE CAN HAVE OUR FUCKING MEETING NOW!”

Jeffery One and Two returned and I noticed they were both wearing new outfits although the difference was merely a change of color. Apparently actually being on The Island required more pastels. Jeffery Two also held a legal pad and pen.

“Are you sweating on the couch? Is he sweaty?” Jeffery One demanded to know. David shrugged his shoulders before finishing his protein bar and tossing the wrapper on the table. Jeffery Two quickly snatched it up and scurried to the kitchen trash, sliding by Steven who was pointedly guarding the fridge.

“Fine. Let’s start.”

Jeffery Two sat on the very edge of the sofa away from David, pen poised and ready to write.

“Ok, who wants to cook?” Jeffery One asked. I assumed this was a hypothetical question since Steven already told me that was traditionally his assignment.

“Oh please, me.” Steven deadpanned, quickly raising his cup and sending ice skittering across the floor. Jeffrey Two immediately wrote something down which I guess was “Steven - cooking”.

“David, what do you want to do?”

“Music” he grunted.

“Perfect!” Jeffrey Two practically squealed. “And tell him please please please just PRETTY STUFF.” Jeffery Two diligently marked the decision on his pad, the stern underlining presumably reserved for “pretty stuff”.

I looked to Steven who informed me “David’s boyfriend is a DJ. Ronnie.”

“He’s really good” Jeffrey One added. “Isn’t he good?”

Jeffrey Two nodded happily. “I love to dance” he sighed while looking to the ceiling and briefly shaking his shoulders.

“Oh girl, release.” Steven blurted out before rolling his eyes and draining his drink.

Jeffrey One continued. “When Jeffrey gets here, he can do bills since he’s a financial executive.” Duly recorded by Jeffery Two.

“What bills are we talking about?” I asked.

Again, with the patience afforded senile aunts, Jeffrey One explained. “The pool cleaner, groceries, electricity. It all adds up you know.” Jeffrey Two almost began to write this list but stopped and shot me a look as if I’d tried to trick him into excess notes.

“Jeffery and I will obviously do the party.”

I expected more explanation but god knows I wasn’t going to ask. The refrigerator door opened and slammed shut before Steven spat out “Oh yes, that fucking party gives us a reason to live.” I could practically hear his eyes rolling this time. I wisely decided to avoid the subject.

“So Hugh, what do you want to do?” Jeffrey One asked and they all looked to me and awaited my response. I had no idea what my choices were. Cooking, music, money, a party… what else was necessary to survive out here on this narrow strip of land in the ocean? What else do gay men possibly need? Just think of something so you seem eager to be part of the house. Anything.

“Never mind. You’re new. He’s new right?” Jeffrey Two seemed to weigh an answer before he took pen to paper.

David rose, scratched his chest and declared he was going to the beach. “We have rounds to make and people to see”, Jeffrey One announced before both Jeffreys headed to their room. They emerged minutes later in yet another outfit, Jeffrey Two still clutching his pad, before heading out the door, around the pool and onto the boardwalk.

Steven was still concocting things in the kitchen so I went and sat outside in a lounge chair where I found Jeffrey Two’s notepad. Along with a list of names and chores were doodles of the sun and an infinite amount of what I’m guessing were seagulls. There at the bottom was my name, spelled “HUE” (which is not uncommon), and two plaintive words “He’s new”. Next to it was a drawing of a lone seagull with the longest, tallest bird legs dangling from it’s primitive little body.

When I Met The Jeffreys

Sun, 20 May 2012 21:28:08 -0700

When I finally realized I truly lived in New York City, about two years after I actually moved there, I also noticed everyone in the city seemed to vanish in the summer. My gym, normally a beehive of puffed gossiping queens, would be empty, weight machines sitting forlorn and neglected. My neighborhood eatery in the heart of Chelsea was free of weekend lines waiting for tables, even for Sunday brunch (!!!). On Saturday night, the disco would be half full with the remaining half populated by dazed patrons huddled together like womenfolk after the men left for war. Eventually I realized everyone left the city’s oppressive heat and stifling malaise to escape to the seaside beauty of the Long Island resort called the Fire Island Pines.

Naturally I was compelled to do the same. So the next spring I scoured numerous notices on the gym’s bulletin board advertising for a housemate. I chose one, an existing group who’d already secured a summer rental but had an open share, called the number and an evening was arranged for us to meet. We apparently went to the same gym du jour, enjoyed seasonal gay migration and used the same bulletin board. How could anything possibly go wrong?

The available share was 1/6th of the total number of housemates, two each in a three bedroom house which also promised a landscaped pool and a central location. They were all full shares so every weekend from approximately Memorial Day through Labor Day would be included (as well as the entire week). It was not cheap but you were effectively renting a place to live for the entire summer.

But not just any place. You would be staying in the premier vacation destination for Urban Homosexuals. The Fire Island Pines were infamous, lauded far and wide and enshrined in such classic gay novels as Dancer From The Dance, a book I had avidly devoured numerous times and which had goaded my decision to move to Manhattan. I was fully expecting to become part of a select coterie of literary archtypes, each and every one more fabulous and witty than the next. I would finally meet these characters at our introductory meeting held in one member’s loft.

When I arrived, I was greeted at the door by a slight short young man (my age) who introduced himself as Jeffrey and who swept me into the apartment and grandly announced I had arrived. Then, with the solemn intonation of a Miss Universe emcee, he proceeded to present each housemate. Obviously Jeffrey saw himself as the ringleader of this clique and apparently all were in agreement as no one interfered with his introductory monologues. He briefly skimmed over himself, as if I should naturally know who he was, and then debuted the second short slight man who had followed behind him. His name was also Jeffrey.

Jeffrey Two, while of similar build as Jeffrey One, was younger and certainly more boyish in the face. “This is Jeffrey” Jeffrey One declared, “He’s so cute. Isn’t he cute?” and then he paused while they all looked to me and waited for my response. And really, what could I say? He wasn’t my type but on the pyramid scale of cuteness and after looking around, yes he was comparatively cute. He was obviously “the cute one”. If kidnappers were to burst into our summer house demanding we surrender the cutest, it’s obvious we would be obliged to point to him. They would then stuff him in a burlap sack, leap away over the fence and at dinner that night we could all wistfully recall how cute he was. Jeffrey One quickly added that Jeffrey Two would obviously be his roomie on The Island lest, I suppose, I was inclined to whisk him away myself.

After Jeffrey Two, I was introduced to David who while also short was the most muscular of the bunch. “He’s built. Isn’t he built?” Jeffrey One declared and therefore I knew he was. “He’s a jock” Jeffrey Two added, his eyes slightly widening and fluttering over David’s torso and arms as if he was afraid David might burst from muscular expansion at any moment. Then he quickly sipped his drink and looked to Jeffrey One who was smiling at David like he was a prize race horse. I was told David’s Fire Island roommate was not there that night, he was apparently some kind of financial executive and his name was, yes, also Jeffrey. I’m notoriously bad at remembering names and was lucky that half of my memorization duties were handled.

Finally I was introduced to Steven who would actually be my roommate on the Island. I was relieved to see Steven was physically nothing like the others and Jeffrey authoritatively declared he worked in fashion (“He’s in fashion. Aren’t you in fashion?”) as the assistant buyer for woman’s handbags at Lord and Taylor. In fact, if I wasn’t mistaken, Steven was also a little drunk. Fine by me. At least I wouldn’t be saddled with the title of “the drunk one”. After Jeffrey One introduced him, Steven laughed rather loudly and blurted out “FUCK, you’re tall!”. I could see Jeffrey One’s eyes narrow as he looked me up and down until he sternly added “Yes, he is tall. Isn’t he tall?” he asked his audience. The others quickly nodded and Jeffrey Two’s cherubic face was filled with fear and awe at the prospect of my head puncturing the ceiling at any moment.

I knew from that moment on I would be known as “the tall one”. Here’s hoping the kidnappers brought an extra large burlap sack.

Jeffrey One then looked me over one last time. “He’s in. Isn’t he in?” It’s a phrase one supposedly aspires to among your peers. How could anything possibly go wrong?

FACEBLOOK

Sat, 19 May 2012 22:32:10 -0700

I appreciate Facebook allowing me to filter my friends so I can have friends who “get my humor” and those who don’t. However it doesn’t work both ways and those who don’t “get me” often have posts on my wall.

Unable to discern who is who, I often reflectively answer whatever is on my addled, acerbic mind to anyone. So my friends who tend to view the world through pristine, happy-go-lucky eyes will often be met with a startling remark from me.

“LAY OFF THE CRACK, WHORE”

There’s usually not a response. In fact, still ignorant of my faux-pas, I may check to see if they’ve deleted my outburst. Not really.

So I’m now basically seen as either witty/sarcastic or irrational/crazy. Which is fine. Facebook should reflect how I’m seen IRL.

PSYCHO KILLER

Sat, 19 May 2012 00:04:00 -0700

I have Tourettes humor.

By which I mean that no matter what the subject, I often immediately go to the Dark Place. This trait is non-prejudiced. Be it any subject - feminist, gay, conservative, liberal, religious, etc. - I will immediately scan and focus on a mock-worthy point.

Fortunately, and unlike actual Tourettes, I have some small ability to control myself. I will look to the source or the “audience” and deduce if they’re able to see the humor and respond accordingly. This does not apply to my own posts where I feel free to express myself and assume my readers, by virtue of their choosing to read me, are aware of my verbal diarrhea. On other’s posts however, my finger will often linger for a moment over the “post” button wondering how my flippant, sometimes juvenile and always impetuous remark will play in the stands.

Thankfully, I’m mostly on the mark. Occasionally I’m not. These instances are rare and I’m always quick to retract and reiterate it’s just me being trite and silly.

I often debate if this is some cheap need to “be liked” but I also admit it’s some urge for control, that the words I write are seen exactly as I intended. Either way, I also see it as part of being one who writes, in whatever form. I live in a world where words are so much of who I now am and like the proper suit or shoes, I want them to reflect my intentions.

And when I read what others have written I often wonder, “What shoes did you choose to wear today?”.

Photo

Thu, 17 May 2012 23:10:57 -0700

darksilenceinsuburbia: Marissa Textor. Useless Struggle....

Thu, 17 May 2012 22:54:26 -0700

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Marissa Textor. Useless Struggle. Graphite on paper, 46” x 35.75”.

http://marissatextor.com/

WEEEEEEEEE!! I LOVE TEQUILA!!