I look at my caller I.D.
I see that it's you.
Even your Sam's Club Calling Cards I have come to recognize. I tremble. I look around to see if you are watching me. There is nothing worse than being caught not taking a call.
My breath changes. My heart rate climbs slightly. Like just before going on stage. Adrenaline, I believe.
I contemplate. Do I have the time to talk? Do I have the time you want? Do I have anything to say? Do you have anything to say? Do I want to listen? Will you listen? Do you care? Do I care?
If I pick up, it's a 23 minute conversation about nothing. It has lasted 21 minutes too long. I have so much to say and fail to say it. I am certain you have so much to say and fail to know it. The phone lines seemed to be coated in a thick, slow moving sludge or syrup. We hang up.
If I don't pick up, weeks go by between calls. Not weeks, months. We both have learned not too try. Try too hard.
If you said all that I needed and wanted to hear, would I call you back? Would it make a difference? Would you feel comfortable calling me more?
If I said all that I needed and wanted you to hear would you pick up when I called? Would you want me to call more? Would I want to call more? Would the syrup and sludge be wiped away?
Ultimately, has anything really changed? 20 years ago, I wouldn't have called you and we lived in the same house. 20 years ago, you only ever called me when coaxed by my mother or the need for something.
Do we know each other? Do we have to know each other? Did we ever know each other? Will we ever know each other?
I owe you a call. Or do you owe me a call? How long would or could we go without a call?
You always were a stranger in my world, and I can't escape this feeling I get everytime a stranger calls.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
The alligator and The crocodile
"See ya later alligator!"
As a boy, this is how I hoped my grandma would say good-bye to me as a kid. Waving from her front porch, I would eagerly wait for this line so that I could reply with...
"After while crocodile!"
I loved it. Simply loved it.
Nine times out of ten, it was how we said good-bye, even when I grew out of it and left her alligator with out a crocodile. If only I could go back and give her all the crocodiles I was too old and too cool to say to Grandma "P" back then.
My grandmother loved puzzles and books. For as long as I can remember, she could tear through 300 pages in a day. She could put together a 5,000 piece puzzle in less than a typical person's work week. She did all of this, while holding down a daycare center out of her home and a small barber business from her back porch. Bologna sandwiches with tomato soup was a typical lunch at Grandma's. A lunch that I came to loathe and whine about with my brother and mother. A lunch I now eat only when I am alone, and with a sense-memory nostalgia pumping through my veins.
Grandma "P" read all of Jackie Collins' novels. She collected the V.C. Andrews Books. There were Koontz books, King horrors, John Irving classics. Grandma was the type of reader that didn't care. She bought those $3 paperbacks with Fabio on the cover. She would go to the back of K-Mart, where they stocked two pathetic shelves of books, and return with nothing because she had read all they had to offer. I think she belonged to a book-club equivalent to Columbia House.
It is not until this very moment as I type this, that I realize, if not for my grandmother's love of books and reading, I may not have become such a reader myself. Neither of my parents are readers. They never have been. As a matter of fact, there really weren't even any books in my house growing up. Not that I can recall anyway.
But, Grandma "P" had shelves of books. Biographies on politicians like Eisenhower and movie stars like Shirley Maclaine. Romance novels and science fiction tales. The true crime books of Betty Brodrick and other made for TV movie types. Books about God and Jesus. I started reading her books. Some of which I probably shouldn't have read at such a young age. Like, Rosemary's Baby and The Flowers in The Attic. But, no matter, Grandma "P" was my personal librarian. She would finish a book and I would ask if I could read it. This was my desperate attempt at being "grown up" and "smart" just like grandma. I can recall fairly intellectual conversations about the third book in the Flowers in the Attic series being the best, between a 10 year old me and a 56 year old Grandma "P."
Then there were her puzzles. You know the one's I am referring to. The really detailed thousand upon thousand piece puzzles of lighthouses, a farmhouse in the autumn, some deer in the snow filled wilderness. Those puzzles. While all of her grandchildren were still young she didn't have as much time or space to devote to her puzzles. But, when she got older, divorced, and lived alone, those puzzles became her salvation.
I would go to visit her in her apartment, which was in a complex designed for people of retirement or disability age. The halls were filled with crocheted door wreaths, and the smells of coffee, polyester, and medicine. There were card tables set up in the common room with a week long unfinished chess match on one and enormous puzzles on the others. I mean 3' by 3' or bigger. These puzzles were a group effort from the tenants of that floor. In addition, she would have a smaller 500 or 1,000 piece puzzle in her apartment that she would be working on alone. I bought her only one puzzle in her lifetime. It pains me that we didn't frame it. It pains me more, that I can't remember what it was a puzzle of. I do know that she loved it. Even my father commented to me over the phone once, how much everyone liked this puzzle I gave Grandma "P." I do know that I really searched for a hard puzzle. I combed through the puzzles to find a beautiful one. I even remember explaining to Grandma "P" why I chose the one I did. I put thought behind this gift puzzle. But God, why can't I remember what it looked like!! Arrrggghhh! It brings me to tears right now, that I can't remember that puzzle. She talked about that puzzle with me. She truly and genuinely loved it. For reasons I can't recall. I am so sorry. I hate this. I hate my selective memory. I hate getting older. I hate the fog that has been cast over each year of my life as I inch a year farther away. I hate how emotional I am about my grandma after she died, instead of while she was here on earth. I hate where this blog is taking me right now. This was not my intention. I wanted to write a sweet ode to Grandma "P," and yet again, I have made this about me. About, what pain I am experiencing from her loss and my memories.
And to think, this one thought for this blog, came from a corny Golden Girls episode my boyfriend and I watched a few days ago while he was nursing his own winter bug. How gay can you get?
In the episode, Sofia goes down to the boardwalk daily. She sometimes has her lunch there. Sometimes she just people watches. It doesn't matter. She loves the boardwalk and the ocean. There she makes friends with a gentleman her age. They continue to meet there daily. Both have biting senses of humor. They flirt with sarcasm and wit. Sofia eventually gets ribbed by Dorothy and Blanche and Rose about maybe having a "boyfriend." The episode doesn't accurately tell you how much time passes, but you assume some weeks maybe months, they have been meeting on the same bench on the boardwalk. Sofia responds to all the jabs and jokes about "liking" this man by simply stating...
"I never really liked Al like that, even from the start. Naw...Neither of us did. We are friends. Good friends. He was a reason to get up in the morning. And at my age, having just one thing to look forward to can make your entire life feel different."
It was at this point that Nick turns to me on the verge of laughter and says, "are you crying?" I turn to him with tears streaming down my face and snot all over my upper lip and say, "that's almost exactly what my grandma said to me the last day I saw her alive." He didn't laugh. He didn't say a word. He looked away from me. Let me have my moment and we moved on to the next episode.
But, it is true. I went home to Iowa for Christmas 2004 and saw Grandma "P." Her condition had become so critical so fast. She was emaciated, grey colored, and on an oxygen tank. She had Christmas dinner sitting right next to me. She still joked and laughed. Only this time there was more of break between words to allow her some oxygen to speak. My father's live-in girlfriend, asked my grandma to tell me about her boyfriend over at the apartment complex. Grandma "P" chuckled, rolled her eyes, and smacked her lips like she always did. She leaned into me and with quiet confidence said....
"I let yer dad and everyone have their fun with Ernie and me. (BREATH) They love to tease. (BREATH) But, the truth is Chad, (BREATH) Ernie's just my friend. If you saw him, you would see, (BREATH) I am the pretty one in the relationship and that ain't sayin' much. (BREATH)Ernie and me don't see each other that way. (BREATH-COUGH) He likes puzzles and I like puzzles. (BREATH)He's someone to watch T.V. with instead of bein' alone. (BREATH) There ain't much to do up there at the apt, Chad. (BREATH) And most of them women up there done lost their marbles. (BREATH) Him and me still got our minds. (BREATH-COUGH) When you get old it don't take much. (BREATH) He's somethin' to look forward to everyday. That's all. (BREATH-COUGH)"
Again, I can't remember if we parted with our standard alligator and crocodile or not that Christmas night. It feels like she did say "See ya later alligator!" I wished I could remember specifically. I would like to think as an adult, I said "after while crocodile." I should have known I may not see her again. I should have seen that she held on for one more Christmas so that I could see her one last time before her death. I know I said I love you. I know I wrote something really sweet and meaningful in her Christmas card. I know I hugged her fragile and bony body one last time. I hope, I wish, I think, I feel...
I miss you Grandma "P!" I want you to know how much of an impact you had on my life. I want to thank you. Thank you for V.C. Andrews. Thank you for teaching me to cut hair. Thanks for the bologna sandwiches and the tomato soup. Thanks for raising me when my parents had to work to put food on the table. Thanks for the wisdom.
I will
see you later
alligator....
As a boy, this is how I hoped my grandma would say good-bye to me as a kid. Waving from her front porch, I would eagerly wait for this line so that I could reply with...
"After while crocodile!"
I loved it. Simply loved it.
Nine times out of ten, it was how we said good-bye, even when I grew out of it and left her alligator with out a crocodile. If only I could go back and give her all the crocodiles I was too old and too cool to say to Grandma "P" back then.
My grandmother loved puzzles and books. For as long as I can remember, she could tear through 300 pages in a day. She could put together a 5,000 piece puzzle in less than a typical person's work week. She did all of this, while holding down a daycare center out of her home and a small barber business from her back porch. Bologna sandwiches with tomato soup was a typical lunch at Grandma's. A lunch that I came to loathe and whine about with my brother and mother. A lunch I now eat only when I am alone, and with a sense-memory nostalgia pumping through my veins.
Grandma "P" read all of Jackie Collins' novels. She collected the V.C. Andrews Books. There were Koontz books, King horrors, John Irving classics. Grandma was the type of reader that didn't care. She bought those $3 paperbacks with Fabio on the cover. She would go to the back of K-Mart, where they stocked two pathetic shelves of books, and return with nothing because she had read all they had to offer. I think she belonged to a book-club equivalent to Columbia House.
It is not until this very moment as I type this, that I realize, if not for my grandmother's love of books and reading, I may not have become such a reader myself. Neither of my parents are readers. They never have been. As a matter of fact, there really weren't even any books in my house growing up. Not that I can recall anyway.
But, Grandma "P" had shelves of books. Biographies on politicians like Eisenhower and movie stars like Shirley Maclaine. Romance novels and science fiction tales. The true crime books of Betty Brodrick and other made for TV movie types. Books about God and Jesus. I started reading her books. Some of which I probably shouldn't have read at such a young age. Like, Rosemary's Baby and The Flowers in The Attic. But, no matter, Grandma "P" was my personal librarian. She would finish a book and I would ask if I could read it. This was my desperate attempt at being "grown up" and "smart" just like grandma. I can recall fairly intellectual conversations about the third book in the Flowers in the Attic series being the best, between a 10 year old me and a 56 year old Grandma "P."
Then there were her puzzles. You know the one's I am referring to. The really detailed thousand upon thousand piece puzzles of lighthouses, a farmhouse in the autumn, some deer in the snow filled wilderness. Those puzzles. While all of her grandchildren were still young she didn't have as much time or space to devote to her puzzles. But, when she got older, divorced, and lived alone, those puzzles became her salvation.
I would go to visit her in her apartment, which was in a complex designed for people of retirement or disability age. The halls were filled with crocheted door wreaths, and the smells of coffee, polyester, and medicine. There were card tables set up in the common room with a week long unfinished chess match on one and enormous puzzles on the others. I mean 3' by 3' or bigger. These puzzles were a group effort from the tenants of that floor. In addition, she would have a smaller 500 or 1,000 piece puzzle in her apartment that she would be working on alone. I bought her only one puzzle in her lifetime. It pains me that we didn't frame it. It pains me more, that I can't remember what it was a puzzle of. I do know that she loved it. Even my father commented to me over the phone once, how much everyone liked this puzzle I gave Grandma "P." I do know that I really searched for a hard puzzle. I combed through the puzzles to find a beautiful one. I even remember explaining to Grandma "P" why I chose the one I did. I put thought behind this gift puzzle. But God, why can't I remember what it looked like!! Arrrggghhh! It brings me to tears right now, that I can't remember that puzzle. She talked about that puzzle with me. She truly and genuinely loved it. For reasons I can't recall. I am so sorry. I hate this. I hate my selective memory. I hate getting older. I hate the fog that has been cast over each year of my life as I inch a year farther away. I hate how emotional I am about my grandma after she died, instead of while she was here on earth. I hate where this blog is taking me right now. This was not my intention. I wanted to write a sweet ode to Grandma "P," and yet again, I have made this about me. About, what pain I am experiencing from her loss and my memories.
And to think, this one thought for this blog, came from a corny Golden Girls episode my boyfriend and I watched a few days ago while he was nursing his own winter bug. How gay can you get?
In the episode, Sofia goes down to the boardwalk daily. She sometimes has her lunch there. Sometimes she just people watches. It doesn't matter. She loves the boardwalk and the ocean. There she makes friends with a gentleman her age. They continue to meet there daily. Both have biting senses of humor. They flirt with sarcasm and wit. Sofia eventually gets ribbed by Dorothy and Blanche and Rose about maybe having a "boyfriend." The episode doesn't accurately tell you how much time passes, but you assume some weeks maybe months, they have been meeting on the same bench on the boardwalk. Sofia responds to all the jabs and jokes about "liking" this man by simply stating...
"I never really liked Al like that, even from the start. Naw...Neither of us did. We are friends. Good friends. He was a reason to get up in the morning. And at my age, having just one thing to look forward to can make your entire life feel different."
It was at this point that Nick turns to me on the verge of laughter and says, "are you crying?" I turn to him with tears streaming down my face and snot all over my upper lip and say, "that's almost exactly what my grandma said to me the last day I saw her alive." He didn't laugh. He didn't say a word. He looked away from me. Let me have my moment and we moved on to the next episode.
But, it is true. I went home to Iowa for Christmas 2004 and saw Grandma "P." Her condition had become so critical so fast. She was emaciated, grey colored, and on an oxygen tank. She had Christmas dinner sitting right next to me. She still joked and laughed. Only this time there was more of break between words to allow her some oxygen to speak. My father's live-in girlfriend, asked my grandma to tell me about her boyfriend over at the apartment complex. Grandma "P" chuckled, rolled her eyes, and smacked her lips like she always did. She leaned into me and with quiet confidence said....
"I let yer dad and everyone have their fun with Ernie and me. (BREATH) They love to tease. (BREATH) But, the truth is Chad, (BREATH) Ernie's just my friend. If you saw him, you would see, (BREATH) I am the pretty one in the relationship and that ain't sayin' much. (BREATH)Ernie and me don't see each other that way. (BREATH-COUGH) He likes puzzles and I like puzzles. (BREATH)He's someone to watch T.V. with instead of bein' alone. (BREATH) There ain't much to do up there at the apt, Chad. (BREATH) And most of them women up there done lost their marbles. (BREATH) Him and me still got our minds. (BREATH-COUGH) When you get old it don't take much. (BREATH) He's somethin' to look forward to everyday. That's all. (BREATH-COUGH)"
Again, I can't remember if we parted with our standard alligator and crocodile or not that Christmas night. It feels like she did say "See ya later alligator!" I wished I could remember specifically. I would like to think as an adult, I said "after while crocodile." I should have known I may not see her again. I should have seen that she held on for one more Christmas so that I could see her one last time before her death. I know I said I love you. I know I wrote something really sweet and meaningful in her Christmas card. I know I hugged her fragile and bony body one last time. I hope, I wish, I think, I feel...
I miss you Grandma "P!" I want you to know how much of an impact you had on my life. I want to thank you. Thank you for V.C. Andrews. Thank you for teaching me to cut hair. Thanks for the bologna sandwiches and the tomato soup. Thanks for raising me when my parents had to work to put food on the table. Thanks for the wisdom.
I will
see you later
alligator....
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Close Enough
In my tradition of being a tireless promoter of new music and independent artists, I am posting the lyrics to a friends first single from his debut CD, because...well see for yourself.
I have kept my distance.
Independent. On my own.
A superficial witness
with love I'd touch and go.
Could it be
for my own protection
I have only gone halfway?
Could it be
my fear of rejection
drove your love away?
I say don't get too close
protect yourself from love.
It's hard to stay afloat
when you try and you try and you try.
I say don't get too close
protect yourself from love.
Yet, I find it hurts the most
when you try and you try and you try
and you're not close enough.
Crowded room of people
I pretend to know.
I'd rather be a stranger.
I choose to walk alone.
Could it be living on the outside
is much more than I can take?
Honestly,I'd reach for affection
but it only slips away.
I say don't get too close
protect yourself from love.
It's hard to stay afloat
when you try and you try and you try.
I say don't get too close
protect yourself from love.
Yet, I find it hurts the most
when you try and you try and you try
and you're not close enough.
Yeah, I wanna be
close enough.
--The CD is called Late Night VIP by Keo Nozari. You can purchase it on Itunes. Visit his website at
www.keonozari.com
"Close Enough" copyright by Keo Nozari for Keology, ASCAP and Ellis Miah for Miah More Music, BMI.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PERMISSION REQUIRED FOR REPRODUCTION OF LYRICS WHOLE OR PART.
I have kept my distance.
Independent. On my own.
A superficial witness
with love I'd touch and go.
Could it be
for my own protection
I have only gone halfway?
Could it be
my fear of rejection
drove your love away?
I say don't get too close
protect yourself from love.
It's hard to stay afloat
when you try and you try and you try.
I say don't get too close
protect yourself from love.
Yet, I find it hurts the most
when you try and you try and you try
and you're not close enough.
Crowded room of people
I pretend to know.
I'd rather be a stranger.
I choose to walk alone.
Could it be living on the outside
is much more than I can take?
Honestly,I'd reach for affection
but it only slips away.
I say don't get too close
protect yourself from love.
It's hard to stay afloat
when you try and you try and you try.
I say don't get too close
protect yourself from love.
Yet, I find it hurts the most
when you try and you try and you try
and you're not close enough.
Yeah, I wanna be
close enough.
--The CD is called Late Night VIP by Keo Nozari. You can purchase it on Itunes. Visit his website at
www.keonozari.com
"Close Enough" copyright by Keo Nozari for Keology, ASCAP and Ellis Miah for Miah More Music, BMI.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PERMISSION REQUIRED FOR REPRODUCTION OF LYRICS WHOLE OR PART.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
The French Invasion
Joel has been single for--well the amount of time doesn't really matter. What matters is that Joely is okay with this fact and isn't looking for anything. That is, unless a prospect is looking at her.
Joely has made a conscious decision to spend time on herself. Not by herself. Just focusing on all the things we all spend time avoiding. Writing, reading, exercise, health, sanity. When she's finally feeling feisty, confident, self-assured, and certain about her wants and needs she plans to tip-toe quietly back into the game. No, not the game, the field. No,not the field, the pool. NO, the...oh, whatever. She plans to date again at some point when it all falls in place.
The best part of Joely being "single and not looking," is that when we hang out neither of us have a second agenda. I am in a relationship so I look for fun. She's not looking, so when someone really strikes her, it is also for fun.
Recently, after two bottles of wine and a single twist of my arm to stay for one beer, mine and Joel's space and energy was invaded by the French. Olivier was his name. Sooo French. We both had noticed him when he walked in but made no comments about him to each other. Later, I would discover that Joely had noticed and him, and she would discover that I also had. How could you not notice him? Not that he was sexy. No. Not that he was hot. No. It was because he was striking. At approximately 6'4" and a fairly average to lean 195lbs, he had a beautiful mouth and dark features. Thus, striking!
Earlier, when we were just beginning the second bottle of red, a middle-aged short man sat at our communal bar-table. He was having desert. A gorgeous little flourless, chocolate cake drizzled with some sauce and slices of fruit in a bowl that looked like it was made for popcorn. It smelled good, looked good, and did not go unnoticed by Joely or myself.
The second bottle ends, my arm is twisted, the beer arrives and laughter ensues. I can't recall what Joely and I were talking about or laughing about, because we were two bottles in for the evening. But, we were probably talking and/or laughing about life. Because, there are not that many moments of silence between the two of us when we are out together. Then, the French invasion begins. He approaches. Olivier approaches our communal bar-table. Of course, we both stop in mid-conversation. He's striking remember? He sees this lull in the conversation as his opportunity in. He makes a quick reference to some drunk girl on the other side of the bar. This being the reason he moved over to enjoy his desert. A gorgeous little, flourless, chocolate cake drizzled with some sauce and slices of fruit in a bowl that looked liked it was made for popcorn. It smelled good, looked good, and did not go unnoticed. We make reference to his seat being the flourless cake seat. He laughs. We laugh. Bad joke. But with alcohol as a lubricant anything is funnier. He makes solid eye contact with me. He acknowledges my existence and my company. Then, he makes solid eye contact with Joely. He genuinely acknowledges her. I am not quite sure what Joely is thinking. Maybe she finds him attractive? Maybe she wants him to go away? But, I am thinking shoo-fly-shoo. I only have about thirty minutes left of hanging out time. I begin to think that Joel might be interested in Olivier because he is tall and he is paying attention to her. Not that that is all it takes for Joely to like someone, but he is striking and he's outgoing and friendly. Suddenly, the focus shifts. Olivier is all attention on me. He is interested in things. Where I live. Where I work. He is actively listening, smiling, laughing, and tossing out charming phrases to grease the conversation. In those small silences that exist between thoughts and sentences he doesn't stop making strong eye contact. Except to maybe indulge in another bite of his cake. He says he may stop into Therapy Bar, since he has never heard of it (STRAIGHT!), to say hello and have a drink. I don't think that he is interested in me. I don't even think he is gay. I just think he is French. I also think he may be trying to win the girl by winning the friend. Again, the focus shifts. Now, it's is back to Joely. A question. An answer. Another question. A giggle from both parties. Finally an answer. Back to me. This is when I notice one peculiar ambiguous signal about Olivier. His eyes. They aren't bedroom eyes. But they are flirty eyes. The are intense and always burning. They have a motive or a secret behind them. These are the eyes Joely and I are receiving when eye-to-eye. I am not interested in France. I don't enjoy the French Language and my annoyance is bubbling for Olivier. I am too drunk to care. I think to myself..."skip this part." So, after what seemed like ten minutes (3 in actuality), I excused myself to the men's room affording Olivier and Joely a moment alone.
I return. France is paying his tab. This affords Joely and I a few seconds to make knowing eye contact that said a million things in the blink of an eye.
It said...
"do you like him?"
"do you think he's in to me?"
"do you think he's attractive?"
"do you think he's weird?"
"do you think he's gay?"
"do you think he's straight?"
"what do you think?"
and finally...
"whateva! who cares?!"
He returns. He says a proper good-bye. He shakes my hand. He kisses Joely on both cheeks.
So gentlemanly.
So ambiguous.
So metrosexual.
So 2006.
So AGGRAVATING!!!
Sooooo FRENCH!
Joely has made a conscious decision to spend time on herself. Not by herself. Just focusing on all the things we all spend time avoiding. Writing, reading, exercise, health, sanity. When she's finally feeling feisty, confident, self-assured, and certain about her wants and needs she plans to tip-toe quietly back into the game. No, not the game, the field. No,not the field, the pool. NO, the...oh, whatever. She plans to date again at some point when it all falls in place.
The best part of Joely being "single and not looking," is that when we hang out neither of us have a second agenda. I am in a relationship so I look for fun. She's not looking, so when someone really strikes her, it is also for fun.
Recently, after two bottles of wine and a single twist of my arm to stay for one beer, mine and Joel's space and energy was invaded by the French. Olivier was his name. Sooo French. We both had noticed him when he walked in but made no comments about him to each other. Later, I would discover that Joely had noticed and him, and she would discover that I also had. How could you not notice him? Not that he was sexy. No. Not that he was hot. No. It was because he was striking. At approximately 6'4" and a fairly average to lean 195lbs, he had a beautiful mouth and dark features. Thus, striking!
Earlier, when we were just beginning the second bottle of red, a middle-aged short man sat at our communal bar-table. He was having desert. A gorgeous little flourless, chocolate cake drizzled with some sauce and slices of fruit in a bowl that looked like it was made for popcorn. It smelled good, looked good, and did not go unnoticed by Joely or myself.
The second bottle ends, my arm is twisted, the beer arrives and laughter ensues. I can't recall what Joely and I were talking about or laughing about, because we were two bottles in for the evening. But, we were probably talking and/or laughing about life. Because, there are not that many moments of silence between the two of us when we are out together. Then, the French invasion begins. He approaches. Olivier approaches our communal bar-table. Of course, we both stop in mid-conversation. He's striking remember? He sees this lull in the conversation as his opportunity in. He makes a quick reference to some drunk girl on the other side of the bar. This being the reason he moved over to enjoy his desert. A gorgeous little, flourless, chocolate cake drizzled with some sauce and slices of fruit in a bowl that looked liked it was made for popcorn. It smelled good, looked good, and did not go unnoticed. We make reference to his seat being the flourless cake seat. He laughs. We laugh. Bad joke. But with alcohol as a lubricant anything is funnier. He makes solid eye contact with me. He acknowledges my existence and my company. Then, he makes solid eye contact with Joely. He genuinely acknowledges her. I am not quite sure what Joely is thinking. Maybe she finds him attractive? Maybe she wants him to go away? But, I am thinking shoo-fly-shoo. I only have about thirty minutes left of hanging out time. I begin to think that Joel might be interested in Olivier because he is tall and he is paying attention to her. Not that that is all it takes for Joely to like someone, but he is striking and he's outgoing and friendly. Suddenly, the focus shifts. Olivier is all attention on me. He is interested in things. Where I live. Where I work. He is actively listening, smiling, laughing, and tossing out charming phrases to grease the conversation. In those small silences that exist between thoughts and sentences he doesn't stop making strong eye contact. Except to maybe indulge in another bite of his cake. He says he may stop into Therapy Bar, since he has never heard of it (STRAIGHT!), to say hello and have a drink. I don't think that he is interested in me. I don't even think he is gay. I just think he is French. I also think he may be trying to win the girl by winning the friend. Again, the focus shifts. Now, it's is back to Joely. A question. An answer. Another question. A giggle from both parties. Finally an answer. Back to me. This is when I notice one peculiar ambiguous signal about Olivier. His eyes. They aren't bedroom eyes. But they are flirty eyes. The are intense and always burning. They have a motive or a secret behind them. These are the eyes Joely and I are receiving when eye-to-eye. I am not interested in France. I don't enjoy the French Language and my annoyance is bubbling for Olivier. I am too drunk to care. I think to myself..."skip this part." So, after what seemed like ten minutes (3 in actuality), I excused myself to the men's room affording Olivier and Joely a moment alone.
I return. France is paying his tab. This affords Joely and I a few seconds to make knowing eye contact that said a million things in the blink of an eye.
It said...
"do you like him?"
"do you think he's in to me?"
"do you think he's attractive?"
"do you think he's weird?"
"do you think he's gay?"
"do you think he's straight?"
"what do you think?"
and finally...
"whateva! who cares?!"
He returns. He says a proper good-bye. He shakes my hand. He kisses Joely on both cheeks.
So gentlemanly.
So ambiguous.
So metrosexual.
So 2006.
So AGGRAVATING!!!
Sooooo FRENCH!
That did not stop us from discussing him and debating his sexuality for the remainder of our 2nd beer at the bar Bin 71. Yes, we ordered a second. It's the French's fault. Olivier owes us $14. We ordered that beer under the assumption that he had an agenda (with one of us) and we were bound and determined to go broke and get drunk figuring him out.
Salut!
Visit www.mymixedcompany.com to read Joely's take on the French Invasion!
Friday, January 20, 2006
Mama's Boy
I have a confession to make.
I keep lying to my mother.
I keep telling her that I am sending "the new year package o' goodies" tomorrow. I have given her at least three tomorrow's since the dawning of 2006. She is so good about it too. She keeps rationalizing it for me. She explains how busy I am, how crazy my hours are compared to most, and how it sounds like I have been battling a case of the winter sniffles and sleepy acheys. There's no work involved on my part. No excuses to concoct.
The truth is, I have been extreme lazy. I have been selfish. I have been procrastinating, and I don't have all the "goodies" I promised in her "New Year's Package." So, I spent most of today, collecting her gifts from Christmas, making a list of a few more things I should pick up to make the package complete, making out a check for the money I owe her every month(don't ask), and compiling a collection of the perfect songs for a mother from her son to burn to disc.
Old songs or new songs, it did not matter, my memories flooded my mind this afternoon. With every song I evaluated came another memory. With every memory came another idea of the perfect song to put on her mix CD. I began searching the web for songs like "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" by B.J. Thomas, and "I Love The Rainy Nights" by Eddie Rabbitt. My mom is a lover of country music, but I wanted to introduce her to some of the contemporary folk/country/non-commercial stuff in addition to artists and songs I know she would never hear if I didn't select it for her mix CD.
Songs like Dolly Parton's cover of John Lennon's "Imagine." So heartfelt, so simple, and speaks to me, and hopefully my mother, differently coming from a sweet southern woman's voice. This song made me think of my mom's story about watching the Beatles on The Merv Griffin Show (right?) at the Ed Sullivan Theatre on television as a young girl. It made me think of the first time I heard Dolly's song "Me and Little Andy." My mom knew the words to the chorus and would sing along with a smile plastered on her face and laughter begging to boil over the singing.
The song "Over The Rainbow," as sung by Judy Garland directly from the movie The Wizard of Oz! Every November CBS would air The Wizard of Oz, and my mother knew how important it was to me. She would let me record it on to VHS. She would let me sit too close to the television set without begging me to scooch back. I used to think that Judy Garland, or the character of Dorothy rather, was probably what my mother was exactly like when she was 14 years old. In some pictures they did share a resemblance. I used to do my impressions of every character from the movie at family get togethers. Like a windup toy, my mom would show me and my talents off to the rest of the family as I performed quick bits from the Scarecrow, Dorothy, Glinda, The Wicked Witch, and the Lollipop Guild with ease and accuracy.
My mother recently told me to find an authentic version of this song from the movie, because she would like it played at her funeral.
"Both Sides Now" by Joni Mitchell is, unfortunately, a song I discovered on my own. Joni Mitchell is one of only a few legendary artists that my parents did not have playing around the house. But, I think the most recent recording of this classic is a great way for my mother to appreciate Joni's poetry. It's from Joni's 2001-2002 full orchestra recordings of a wonderful selection of her hits. Joni slowed it down. She is backed by a full orchestra. Joni's voice is full of richer tones, darker tones, and an emotionally beaten cadence. She really has looked at love from 'both sides now'. So has my mother, through divorce, dating for the first time in 25 years, living alone for the first time ever, and learning to love her gay son. This song is also used in the film Love Actually, where the character played by Emma Thompson discovers her husband is having an affair, and she has to leave the room to breakdown. I imagine this being painfully similar to how my mother spent some of her last nights with my father.
Other songs my mother has probably never heard but will appreciate include.
"I Ain't Gonna Let You Break My Heart Again" by Bonnie Raitt
"Down to The River to Pray" by Allison Krauss
"Proud of Your Boy" a song written for the lead character in the Disney feature Aladdin. A song that perfectly describes my overwhelming desire to never let my parents down and to always make them overjoyed with pride.
"Home" by Michael Buble
"Rain" by Patty Griffin
And even one of Madonna's newest, "Like it or Not." A song too fitting for a gay son, but perfect for a woman of middle age to finally be coming of age.
I can't begin to describe the emotions and memories that passed through me while compiling the perfect playlist for my mama. It made me think of the times when my mom and I would sit in the kitchen and she would play me cassette tapes full of songs that she recorded from her albums. Songs she desperately wanted to share with me. Songs she desperately wanted someone else to passionately love and connect with as well.
The dishes would all be done. The smell of "johnnie marzetti" (ghoulash) would still be lingering in the air mixed with the scent of Palmolive dishwashing soap. The overhead light would be off, but the light above the sink and oven would remain. That was our ambiance. We would pull the "ghetto blaster" down from top of the microwave oven. The microwave was the size of big screen console television set. The "ghetto blaster" was exactly that--a GHETTO BLASTER! It looked like the boombox used in the movie Breakin'. And with generic wavy potato chips and Anderson Ericsson french onion dip, we would listen to Karen Carpenter, Brenda Lee, Linda Ronstadt, Olivia Newton-John, Lee Greenwood, Diana Ross, Neil Diamond, Loretta Lynn, the list goes on. I liked them all because my mom liked them. I used to get annoyed when she would snap at me to shut up and listen to the words to some song by Barbara Mandrell. I didn't want to listen to the words. I just wanted to talk to my mom and have the music be the background. Thank god she did that. My love and appreciation for music and it's lyrics comes directly from my mother's influence. She is a lyric woman. She can connect with a lyric better than anyone. The more spelled out it is, the more direct punch it throws her.
As I sat at my computer hunting through Itunes, Limewire, and my CD wallets, I recognized and acknowledged something within myself. I am my mother's son. The songs I listen to and connect with are in the same vain as the ones my mother did 20 years ago. She heard pain in those songs in the kitchen. She heard struggle. She heard truth. She heard love. She heard reality. That is exactly what I cling to when discovering a new song or artist, only I don't have a son to pass it on to. I, unfortunately, force my boyfriend through very short versions of what my mother and I did. I am sure I have even made some of my friends sit through one of my diatribes on why a certain song makes so much sense. Thank goodness for unconditional love.
My mother and I are so alike it's amazing. Everytime I go home, she has a few new songs she needs me to listen to. And although I have developed my own tastes and may not like the song for myself, I realize what it means to her. I also realize that I do the same thing. Three years ago we sat up laughing till we cried as I went through what remains of her vynl collection and recorded some songs by holding up a small boombox recorder to the huge speaker of her ancient turntable. We laughed because we had to be so silent in order to try and record the songs without background noise. It was so redneck and down-homey we would burst out in hysterics. I now have some audio documentation of this celebrated Christmas.
Music of the heart. Music of the heartland.
The only thing I can't believe is that it took me nearly 29 years to make such an obvious discovery about my mother and I.
I am my mother's son. Fully and completely.
A mama's boy and proud of it.
I love you mom!
I keep lying to my mother.
I keep telling her that I am sending "the new year package o' goodies" tomorrow. I have given her at least three tomorrow's since the dawning of 2006. She is so good about it too. She keeps rationalizing it for me. She explains how busy I am, how crazy my hours are compared to most, and how it sounds like I have been battling a case of the winter sniffles and sleepy acheys. There's no work involved on my part. No excuses to concoct.
The truth is, I have been extreme lazy. I have been selfish. I have been procrastinating, and I don't have all the "goodies" I promised in her "New Year's Package." So, I spent most of today, collecting her gifts from Christmas, making a list of a few more things I should pick up to make the package complete, making out a check for the money I owe her every month(don't ask), and compiling a collection of the perfect songs for a mother from her son to burn to disc.
Old songs or new songs, it did not matter, my memories flooded my mind this afternoon. With every song I evaluated came another memory. With every memory came another idea of the perfect song to put on her mix CD. I began searching the web for songs like "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" by B.J. Thomas, and "I Love The Rainy Nights" by Eddie Rabbitt. My mom is a lover of country music, but I wanted to introduce her to some of the contemporary folk/country/non-commercial stuff in addition to artists and songs I know she would never hear if I didn't select it for her mix CD.
Songs like Dolly Parton's cover of John Lennon's "Imagine." So heartfelt, so simple, and speaks to me, and hopefully my mother, differently coming from a sweet southern woman's voice. This song made me think of my mom's story about watching the Beatles on The Merv Griffin Show (right?) at the Ed Sullivan Theatre on television as a young girl. It made me think of the first time I heard Dolly's song "Me and Little Andy." My mom knew the words to the chorus and would sing along with a smile plastered on her face and laughter begging to boil over the singing.
The song "Over The Rainbow," as sung by Judy Garland directly from the movie The Wizard of Oz! Every November CBS would air The Wizard of Oz, and my mother knew how important it was to me. She would let me record it on to VHS. She would let me sit too close to the television set without begging me to scooch back. I used to think that Judy Garland, or the character of Dorothy rather, was probably what my mother was exactly like when she was 14 years old. In some pictures they did share a resemblance. I used to do my impressions of every character from the movie at family get togethers. Like a windup toy, my mom would show me and my talents off to the rest of the family as I performed quick bits from the Scarecrow, Dorothy, Glinda, The Wicked Witch, and the Lollipop Guild with ease and accuracy.
My mother recently told me to find an authentic version of this song from the movie, because she would like it played at her funeral.
"Both Sides Now" by Joni Mitchell is, unfortunately, a song I discovered on my own. Joni Mitchell is one of only a few legendary artists that my parents did not have playing around the house. But, I think the most recent recording of this classic is a great way for my mother to appreciate Joni's poetry. It's from Joni's 2001-2002 full orchestra recordings of a wonderful selection of her hits. Joni slowed it down. She is backed by a full orchestra. Joni's voice is full of richer tones, darker tones, and an emotionally beaten cadence. She really has looked at love from 'both sides now'. So has my mother, through divorce, dating for the first time in 25 years, living alone for the first time ever, and learning to love her gay son. This song is also used in the film Love Actually, where the character played by Emma Thompson discovers her husband is having an affair, and she has to leave the room to breakdown. I imagine this being painfully similar to how my mother spent some of her last nights with my father.
Other songs my mother has probably never heard but will appreciate include.
"I Ain't Gonna Let You Break My Heart Again" by Bonnie Raitt
"Down to The River to Pray" by Allison Krauss
"Proud of Your Boy" a song written for the lead character in the Disney feature Aladdin. A song that perfectly describes my overwhelming desire to never let my parents down and to always make them overjoyed with pride.
"Home" by Michael Buble
"Rain" by Patty Griffin
And even one of Madonna's newest, "Like it or Not." A song too fitting for a gay son, but perfect for a woman of middle age to finally be coming of age.
I can't begin to describe the emotions and memories that passed through me while compiling the perfect playlist for my mama. It made me think of the times when my mom and I would sit in the kitchen and she would play me cassette tapes full of songs that she recorded from her albums. Songs she desperately wanted to share with me. Songs she desperately wanted someone else to passionately love and connect with as well.
The dishes would all be done. The smell of "johnnie marzetti" (ghoulash) would still be lingering in the air mixed with the scent of Palmolive dishwashing soap. The overhead light would be off, but the light above the sink and oven would remain. That was our ambiance. We would pull the "ghetto blaster" down from top of the microwave oven. The microwave was the size of big screen console television set. The "ghetto blaster" was exactly that--a GHETTO BLASTER! It looked like the boombox used in the movie Breakin'. And with generic wavy potato chips and Anderson Ericsson french onion dip, we would listen to Karen Carpenter, Brenda Lee, Linda Ronstadt, Olivia Newton-John, Lee Greenwood, Diana Ross, Neil Diamond, Loretta Lynn, the list goes on. I liked them all because my mom liked them. I used to get annoyed when she would snap at me to shut up and listen to the words to some song by Barbara Mandrell. I didn't want to listen to the words. I just wanted to talk to my mom and have the music be the background. Thank god she did that. My love and appreciation for music and it's lyrics comes directly from my mother's influence. She is a lyric woman. She can connect with a lyric better than anyone. The more spelled out it is, the more direct punch it throws her.
As I sat at my computer hunting through Itunes, Limewire, and my CD wallets, I recognized and acknowledged something within myself. I am my mother's son. The songs I listen to and connect with are in the same vain as the ones my mother did 20 years ago. She heard pain in those songs in the kitchen. She heard struggle. She heard truth. She heard love. She heard reality. That is exactly what I cling to when discovering a new song or artist, only I don't have a son to pass it on to. I, unfortunately, force my boyfriend through very short versions of what my mother and I did. I am sure I have even made some of my friends sit through one of my diatribes on why a certain song makes so much sense. Thank goodness for unconditional love.
My mother and I are so alike it's amazing. Everytime I go home, she has a few new songs she needs me to listen to. And although I have developed my own tastes and may not like the song for myself, I realize what it means to her. I also realize that I do the same thing. Three years ago we sat up laughing till we cried as I went through what remains of her vynl collection and recorded some songs by holding up a small boombox recorder to the huge speaker of her ancient turntable. We laughed because we had to be so silent in order to try and record the songs without background noise. It was so redneck and down-homey we would burst out in hysterics. I now have some audio documentation of this celebrated Christmas.
Music of the heart. Music of the heartland.
The only thing I can't believe is that it took me nearly 29 years to make such an obvious discovery about my mother and I.
I am my mother's son. Fully and completely.
A mama's boy and proud of it.
I love you mom!
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Personal Manager
A guy walks into a bar. He is striking. Not attractive. He is striking because he tries to hard. Hair that belonged to one of the Jackson Brother's post Jackson 5. He thinks he is something special. He thinks he deserves something. Maybe once or twice he has been paid to be photographed. Maybe once he appeared on a reality show. Short lived reality show. Short appearance on that show. Maybe the manager wouldn't have even know this until pointed out to him.
The manager has seen this guy in the bar before. The manager has no personal feelings (positive or negative) towards this guy. The manager hears the cries of his staff when they complain, moan, bitch about the poor patronage of this "special" guy. Past appearances by this guy at the bar have ended in drama. Trouble. Financial issues. Superior attitudes. Ignorance. Disrespect.
This night the guy had only walked into the bar three minutes ago. Claimed ownership of two large booths. Order 3 bottles of wine. Not from a waiter but from the bar. The tab was $96. The tip was $4. Yes, $4.
$4....Dollars!!!!!!
The manager sees the shock in his bartender's face and the fire brewing inside his waiter. The waiter more pissed off that they are sitting in his section and ordering from the bar. The manager investigates. Takes the credit cared slip to the table where guy is sitting.
The manager proceeds to politely explain to guy (in private) that the establishment and the staff have continually experienced various issues with him and the groups of people he brings in. This including the $4 tip he just left. The guy attempts to explain how the tip is sufficient. The manager containing his anger and laughter decides to set up some guidelines for the evening. This includes encouraging the guy and his party to order from waiter not the bar if they choose to continue to enjoy the two large booths they have for the free show that will be presented later. Another guideline includes paying in cash as they order per order. NO TABS. NO CREDIT CARDS.
This guy who walked into a bar thinking he is someone special, says to the manager, and I quote.....
"I am not talking to you, let me get my personal manager and you can talk through him."
The manager is thinking ("personal manager???" not personal assistant? who is he, Paris Hilton's black cousin?")
The manager says..."It's not your personal manager I have a problem with. I don't know why I need to speak with your personal manager, this is the way things are proceeding tonight and there is no more need for discussion."
The guy..."Because I told you to."
The manager....Because you what?"
The guy....(with a 'talk to the hand' gesture) "No more! Talk to my personal manager!"
Someone please inform the manager what exactly is a personal manager? Someone please explain why they may be needed? At all hours of the day? On your birthday at a bar with six other friends? What are the duties and responsibilities of a personal manager?
More importantly, where can one get a personal manager and what is the going rate?
The manager has seen this guy in the bar before. The manager has no personal feelings (positive or negative) towards this guy. The manager hears the cries of his staff when they complain, moan, bitch about the poor patronage of this "special" guy. Past appearances by this guy at the bar have ended in drama. Trouble. Financial issues. Superior attitudes. Ignorance. Disrespect.
This night the guy had only walked into the bar three minutes ago. Claimed ownership of two large booths. Order 3 bottles of wine. Not from a waiter but from the bar. The tab was $96. The tip was $4. Yes, $4.
$4....Dollars!!!!!!
The manager sees the shock in his bartender's face and the fire brewing inside his waiter. The waiter more pissed off that they are sitting in his section and ordering from the bar. The manager investigates. Takes the credit cared slip to the table where guy is sitting.
The manager proceeds to politely explain to guy (in private) that the establishment and the staff have continually experienced various issues with him and the groups of people he brings in. This including the $4 tip he just left. The guy attempts to explain how the tip is sufficient. The manager containing his anger and laughter decides to set up some guidelines for the evening. This includes encouraging the guy and his party to order from waiter not the bar if they choose to continue to enjoy the two large booths they have for the free show that will be presented later. Another guideline includes paying in cash as they order per order. NO TABS. NO CREDIT CARDS.
This guy who walked into a bar thinking he is someone special, says to the manager, and I quote.....
"I am not talking to you, let me get my personal manager and you can talk through him."
The manager is thinking ("personal manager???" not personal assistant? who is he, Paris Hilton's black cousin?")
The manager says..."It's not your personal manager I have a problem with. I don't know why I need to speak with your personal manager, this is the way things are proceeding tonight and there is no more need for discussion."
The guy..."Because I told you to."
The manager....Because you what?"
The guy....(with a 'talk to the hand' gesture) "No more! Talk to my personal manager!"
Someone please inform the manager what exactly is a personal manager? Someone please explain why they may be needed? At all hours of the day? On your birthday at a bar with six other friends? What are the duties and responsibilities of a personal manager?
More importantly, where can one get a personal manager and what is the going rate?
Friday, January 13, 2006
The Moment I said it...
The moment I uttered the words, I knew I had changed. IT had changed. THIS had changed. Because, what I was feeling/thinking/experiencing left the moment I put it out there in words, I now feel a sense of loss.
Loss for the feeling. For the moment of blissful ignorance. For the moment before I said it. The moment before it was out there for the taking.
While on the phone, 9 times out of 10, one of the first questions asked is..."How are you?"
The responses are...
"Fine."
"Okay."
"Good."
"Well."
I recently responded with, "GRRRREAT!" (yes, a lot like Tony the Tiger)
But, just before I growled my 'great", I hesitated. I stumbled. I stuttered with, "I'm o'...ahhh...grrrrrreat!"
Soon thereafter, a matter of minutes I believe, I did not feel grrreat anymore. This is not to say I felt anything bad or negative. I just didn't feel as strong of a feeling of greatness as I had prior to declaring it.
My soul made me stutter and stumble before declaring my state. My soul knew that the true rush of the genuine "greatness" I was feeling would soon dissipate. My soul tried to keep me in that moment.
I desperately want to hang on to the feeling I was languishing in before I declared it. Better yet, I am trying not to mourn the loss of that moment before I said it. I am a mourner. I am trying to change that. Even more still, I am trying to let my soul guide me.
I received recognition in my workplace for a job well done. Gratitude was shown to me in many forms. I left my workplace elated, confused, wild, reckless, lifted, laughing, and proud. I picked up the phone and the moment I said it-- things shifted.
I know what I am saying makes no sense. Not to you. Not to me even. But, somewhere within myself, I know exactly what I am feeling and thinking. It is just fleeting from the moment I said it....
Loss for the feeling. For the moment of blissful ignorance. For the moment before I said it. The moment before it was out there for the taking.
While on the phone, 9 times out of 10, one of the first questions asked is..."How are you?"
The responses are...
"Fine."
"Okay."
"Good."
"Well."
I recently responded with, "GRRRREAT!" (yes, a lot like Tony the Tiger)
But, just before I growled my 'great", I hesitated. I stumbled. I stuttered with, "I'm o'...ahhh...grrrrrreat!"
Soon thereafter, a matter of minutes I believe, I did not feel grrreat anymore. This is not to say I felt anything bad or negative. I just didn't feel as strong of a feeling of greatness as I had prior to declaring it.
My soul made me stutter and stumble before declaring my state. My soul knew that the true rush of the genuine "greatness" I was feeling would soon dissipate. My soul tried to keep me in that moment.
I desperately want to hang on to the feeling I was languishing in before I declared it. Better yet, I am trying not to mourn the loss of that moment before I said it. I am a mourner. I am trying to change that. Even more still, I am trying to let my soul guide me.
I received recognition in my workplace for a job well done. Gratitude was shown to me in many forms. I left my workplace elated, confused, wild, reckless, lifted, laughing, and proud. I picked up the phone and the moment I said it-- things shifted.
I know what I am saying makes no sense. Not to you. Not to me even. But, somewhere within myself, I know exactly what I am feeling and thinking. It is just fleeting from the moment I said it....
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
"Girl" Crazy. . .
Any given night at any given gay bar.
GAY #1--"Girl, waaz'up?"
GAY #2--"Nada mucho. You look fierce! So glad you called me. I was just sitting at home pacing the floor from the bump I did after the gym. Soooo bored."
G#!1--"Honey, please. Tonight is the booze bustin' ball baring night at the slip-n-slide lounge. It's all the rage. DJ Macho Camacho is spinning."
G#2--"OHMIGOD! That bitch takes it home. She knows how to last! I, like, totally forgot about Mondays being the new Fridays. Thank god I did a bump girl and not a whole line. And praise the queen that Hector, that bitch, was still awake at noon when I text her for new supply."
G#1--"Have no fear queer, that girl never sleeps. At least not at her own apt. She's either up up and away or whoring with some other girl from the day before."
G#2--"Read her, girl. Read it!"
G#1--"AL'right? Shiiit! You know her. She crazy-wild and shit! But, I love her."
G#2--"That's right, girl! Gotta love her!"
G#1--"Wanna bounce?"
G#2--"Girl, give me one hot minute to say hi to my girls. Tonight, Miss. Thang is bartending, I can't be in this place and not check with her. I'll meet you out front. Get a taxi too, cuz this girl's feet is tired. 3 hours cardio, bitch! WOOORRKK!"
With the exception of "bitch" and maybe a few "queens", the words 'girl', 'sister', 'she', and 'her', are obscenely over used in the gay community. I know that I have used them before. I try not too, and I have rationalized that I only use them when I am making fun of those who do, or to placate someone and fit it in around one who is over using them. It was then pointed out to me, by a heterosexual female, that the homosexual use and or adoption of these gender specific words could really be a step back. It could be that the one's who appear to be "having it all" in the gay community; the ones Girlin' and Twirlin' it up and using these words the most, are really the one's holding us back.
Moreover, the use of the words in mixed company; mixed social groups rather, should be unacceptable. (Unless for major emphasis in a joke or telling of a story, then anything goes for a laugh!)
Non-gay people can't use fag. Men shouldn't be using cunt. Non-black people can not use N----r. AND, gay people shouldn't be able to use "SHE!" Take it back girls. Real girls with real vaginas that is.
In the constant struggle for acceptance and equality (in any gender/racial/sexuality group) we are always ultimately divided. Those who bring us down. Those who work to raise us up.
Of course, this is not news to most anyone reading this. Right, girls?
GAY #1--"Girl, waaz'up?"
GAY #2--"Nada mucho. You look fierce! So glad you called me. I was just sitting at home pacing the floor from the bump I did after the gym. Soooo bored."
G#!1--"Honey, please. Tonight is the booze bustin' ball baring night at the slip-n-slide lounge. It's all the rage. DJ Macho Camacho is spinning."
G#2--"OHMIGOD! That bitch takes it home. She knows how to last! I, like, totally forgot about Mondays being the new Fridays. Thank god I did a bump girl and not a whole line. And praise the queen that Hector, that bitch, was still awake at noon when I text her for new supply."
G#1--"Have no fear queer, that girl never sleeps. At least not at her own apt. She's either up up and away or whoring with some other girl from the day before."
G#2--"Read her, girl. Read it!"
G#1--"AL'right? Shiiit! You know her. She crazy-wild and shit! But, I love her."
G#2--"That's right, girl! Gotta love her!"
G#1--"Wanna bounce?"
G#2--"Girl, give me one hot minute to say hi to my girls. Tonight, Miss. Thang is bartending, I can't be in this place and not check with her. I'll meet you out front. Get a taxi too, cuz this girl's feet is tired. 3 hours cardio, bitch! WOOORRKK!"
With the exception of "bitch" and maybe a few "queens", the words 'girl', 'sister', 'she', and 'her', are obscenely over used in the gay community. I know that I have used them before. I try not too, and I have rationalized that I only use them when I am making fun of those who do, or to placate someone and fit it in around one who is over using them. It was then pointed out to me, by a heterosexual female, that the homosexual use and or adoption of these gender specific words could really be a step back. It could be that the one's who appear to be "having it all" in the gay community; the ones Girlin' and Twirlin' it up and using these words the most, are really the one's holding us back.
Moreover, the use of the words in mixed company; mixed social groups rather, should be unacceptable. (Unless for major emphasis in a joke or telling of a story, then anything goes for a laugh!)
Non-gay people can't use fag. Men shouldn't be using cunt. Non-black people can not use N----r. AND, gay people shouldn't be able to use "SHE!" Take it back girls. Real girls with real vaginas that is.
In the constant struggle for acceptance and equality (in any gender/racial/sexuality group) we are always ultimately divided. Those who bring us down. Those who work to raise us up.
Of course, this is not news to most anyone reading this. Right, girls?
Friday, January 06, 2006
The Media
Vanity Fair will be releasing their latest issue with Lindsay Lohan on the cover in a bikini. The article will be confessions of a teenage superstar. Lindsay "opening up" about her drug use and eating disorder and self image.
In another magazine, already on the stands. Lindsay is also in a bikini. But in this zine, you can learn about Lindsay's diet secrets and how you too can look great in a bikini.
She has an eating disorder and a drug problem. There's her secret.
I was going to expound on this topic. But by the time I got to this sentence I was too tired and disgusted with this country to go on.
How can you be dying of addictions and disorders and still make the best dressed list in all the rags?
Starve. Binge and purge. Use drugs.
In another magazine, already on the stands. Lindsay is also in a bikini. But in this zine, you can learn about Lindsay's diet secrets and how you too can look great in a bikini.
She has an eating disorder and a drug problem. There's her secret.
I was going to expound on this topic. But by the time I got to this sentence I was too tired and disgusted with this country to go on.
How can you be dying of addictions and disorders and still make the best dressed list in all the rags?
Starve. Binge and purge. Use drugs.
Will you light my candle?
I am a go-go-go kinda guy. Always have been. Probably always will be. I frequently go about my day with 3 hours and 45 minutes of sleep. I thrive on my packed schedule. I fuel up on having to be in three places at once. I may be the fastest walker in NYC. I function better under pressure. Work hard. Play hard. The phrase is..."burn the candle at both ends."
My candle's out.
After two weeks of working everyday at Therapy(12 hour shifts), five full days at Playwrights Horizons, two shifts at the Bikram studio, two meetings, three interviews, New Year's Eve party planning, housing guests in our apartment for two nights, and two nights of cocktail-ing thrown into the mix, my candle went out today around 1:11pm.
I was supposed to be at Playwrights Horizons' front desk at 10:00am. Instead, I was on the phone with the front desk at 1:00pm. apologizing for my embarrassing irresponsibility. I scraped up the remains of my pride and dignity and scrambled to work. In my hustle and bustle to beat the traffic at the northeast corner of 9th Avenue and 43rd Street, I realized I might not make it across the street before the UPS truck hit me, and I had to step back to the curb. It was in this moment, this pause forced upon me, that I took a deep breath. It was in the release of this breath that I blew my candle out. I looked down shaking my head with shame, anger, and embarrassment, and there in the guttered curb was a candle. Seriously!? It couldn't have been more serendipitous, cosmic, or whatever! It was one of those spirally, blue and white, little birthday candles. I giggled to myself. Then I laughed. OUT LOUD! I must have looked like a crazy person. Especially after I reached down and picked up the candle. I carried the candle one block to the Southeast corner of 42nd and 9th. It was there that I tossed the candle underhanded into the middle of the moving traffic. I waited. People were trying to see what I was looking at. It took only a few cars passing until finally one of them ran over it. That candle died.
I looked up, began to cross 9th Avenue, stopped, turned around and (since I was already late) walked into Dunkin' Donuts for a delicious, heaping, helping of hazelnut coffee. I was going to need the caffeine to get me going again. It only took one sip of the soothing elixir for me to feel the fire of a new candle starting to burn. Only this candle is burning at one end. For now at least.
Was the candle in the street a sign? Probably. Was it a sign to slow down? Maybe. Was it a sign to stop burning at both ends? Possibly.
I see it as a sign to take pause. I will always burn the candle at both ends. It will burn out. I will light another and another. Again and again. This will be my life. All I need to remember to do is to take pause every now and then. Pause for purpose. Pause for practicality. Pause for perspective.
Oh, and for coffee.
My candle's out.
After two weeks of working everyday at Therapy(12 hour shifts), five full days at Playwrights Horizons, two shifts at the Bikram studio, two meetings, three interviews, New Year's Eve party planning, housing guests in our apartment for two nights, and two nights of cocktail-ing thrown into the mix, my candle went out today around 1:11pm.
I was supposed to be at Playwrights Horizons' front desk at 10:00am. Instead, I was on the phone with the front desk at 1:00pm. apologizing for my embarrassing irresponsibility. I scraped up the remains of my pride and dignity and scrambled to work. In my hustle and bustle to beat the traffic at the northeast corner of 9th Avenue and 43rd Street, I realized I might not make it across the street before the UPS truck hit me, and I had to step back to the curb. It was in this moment, this pause forced upon me, that I took a deep breath. It was in the release of this breath that I blew my candle out. I looked down shaking my head with shame, anger, and embarrassment, and there in the guttered curb was a candle. Seriously!? It couldn't have been more serendipitous, cosmic, or whatever! It was one of those spirally, blue and white, little birthday candles. I giggled to myself. Then I laughed. OUT LOUD! I must have looked like a crazy person. Especially after I reached down and picked up the candle. I carried the candle one block to the Southeast corner of 42nd and 9th. It was there that I tossed the candle underhanded into the middle of the moving traffic. I waited. People were trying to see what I was looking at. It took only a few cars passing until finally one of them ran over it. That candle died.
I looked up, began to cross 9th Avenue, stopped, turned around and (since I was already late) walked into Dunkin' Donuts for a delicious, heaping, helping of hazelnut coffee. I was going to need the caffeine to get me going again. It only took one sip of the soothing elixir for me to feel the fire of a new candle starting to burn. Only this candle is burning at one end. For now at least.
Was the candle in the street a sign? Probably. Was it a sign to slow down? Maybe. Was it a sign to stop burning at both ends? Possibly.
I see it as a sign to take pause. I will always burn the candle at both ends. It will burn out. I will light another and another. Again and again. This will be my life. All I need to remember to do is to take pause every now and then. Pause for purpose. Pause for practicality. Pause for perspective.
Oh, and for coffee.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
The way we were...
I spent Christmas Day alone this year.
Not a big deal. I was prepared to do so. I had the week before Christmas off from work. I had a lovely three days in Montauk (Dec19-21), where I got to live fully and completely in my Clementine state. I spent two days with my boyfriend, eating, drinking, shopping, and exchanging gifts until he had to leave to his family early, early Christmas morning. I also had the company of a small Jack Russell terrier named Diesel who I visited three times on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The only thing I did not have was my mommy.
I have missed Christmas about three times in my life. But, I always had an alternate plan and my mother's brown paper package tied up with string under my tree. She would send the package more than a week before Christmas. It would always arrive just days before the big day. I would never open it until Christmas Day. This would be my replacement for the lack of a mommy. The gifts inside the package would be individually wrapped and would bear her signature labels. Each one with a different "to:" and "from:" Her own bit of creativity. She has been doing this for as long as I could read. Things like..."To: Chaddy Boy From: The Mama." Or, "To: Son No. 1 From: #1 Mom." They make my eyes roll with giggles. I love it. Inside, there would also be a batch of No-Bake Cookies. My favorite since first grade. Not to mention the newspaper articles. Surely you know of what I speak?
This year, unfortunately, the United States Postal Service failed us. Although, my devoted mother sent the package with ample time, insured it, and paid for priority delivery service, alas no package for moi on Christ's Birthday! This, of course, angered and saddened my mom. It didn't hit me until late Christmas night, sitting with my glass of pinot noir and torturing myself with deeply emotional movies. (Another Clem moment) I longed for the gooey goodness of a No-Bake Cookie. I ached for those ridiculous gift tagisms. I wanted my mommy.
One week later, after one failed attempt by the post office, I waited in that long line of people who missed their packages, retrieved my mama's goodie box and rushed home to tear it open. What I found was a terrific assortment of gifts I had on my wish list, a nice check for a decent chunk o' change, the No-Bakes, the clippings, and two VHS tapes. One labeled, Chad and Cody Young. The other labeled, Grandpa Harvey Tapes. On these VHS tapes, my mother had transferred some of our salvaged silent reel to reel footage from when I was 1-6 years old. The footage was fast, clipped, poorly edited and slightly rough in texture and tracking, but nonetheless priceless.
It contained clips of my brother trying to take his first steps, The Christmas when I got my E.T. doll, our trip to Dallas, TX, and me pulling my brother around in a red wagon. I sat there in my New York apartment, at 28 years old, in silence, in dim light, watching the way we were. My mother's bad perm. Her arms were so skinny then. My beautiful hair with no fly-aways. How f#*!ing adorable my brother was as a baby. My Grandma who has since passed. All my Aunts and Uncles who have since divorced. The clothes. The underoos. As I watched these silent documentaries of my past, I saw all this joy that I don't always remember associating with these particular memories. The trip to Dallas involved a lot of yelling, screaming, and crying during the long drive down. One family of four staying with another family of four wasn't fun. Pulling my brother around in the red wagon was a direction taken from my father, with his aggressive control of what should and should not be filmed. The footage I now own, is of our visit to the Dallas Ranch and me and my cousin Misty peddling away on our Big Wheels. This footage I now own is of my lazy, chubby brother being hauled around by a smiling, waving, "put on a face for the camera" older brother. These were the happy times. I could go on. But, my point is made. This video archive of some of my childhood is not the way we were. However silent the movie memories may be I can still hear that silent sadness underneath all that visual joy. However, the upside is that the silent reel-to-reel camera has succeed in allowing me to pull these tapes out on occasion and only have a visual memory. Whether or not this is a good or bad thing, doesn't matter. I can experience these memories in silence and remember only the joy of a Big Wheel, or of Santa's delivery, or of seeing the ranch from the show Dallas. I can look back at the way we were.
Not a big deal. I was prepared to do so. I had the week before Christmas off from work. I had a lovely three days in Montauk (Dec19-21), where I got to live fully and completely in my Clementine state. I spent two days with my boyfriend, eating, drinking, shopping, and exchanging gifts until he had to leave to his family early, early Christmas morning. I also had the company of a small Jack Russell terrier named Diesel who I visited three times on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The only thing I did not have was my mommy.
I have missed Christmas about three times in my life. But, I always had an alternate plan and my mother's brown paper package tied up with string under my tree. She would send the package more than a week before Christmas. It would always arrive just days before the big day. I would never open it until Christmas Day. This would be my replacement for the lack of a mommy. The gifts inside the package would be individually wrapped and would bear her signature labels. Each one with a different "to:" and "from:" Her own bit of creativity. She has been doing this for as long as I could read. Things like..."To: Chaddy Boy From: The Mama." Or, "To: Son No. 1 From: #1 Mom." They make my eyes roll with giggles. I love it. Inside, there would also be a batch of No-Bake Cookies. My favorite since first grade. Not to mention the newspaper articles. Surely you know of what I speak?
This year, unfortunately, the United States Postal Service failed us. Although, my devoted mother sent the package with ample time, insured it, and paid for priority delivery service, alas no package for moi on Christ's Birthday! This, of course, angered and saddened my mom. It didn't hit me until late Christmas night, sitting with my glass of pinot noir and torturing myself with deeply emotional movies. (Another Clem moment) I longed for the gooey goodness of a No-Bake Cookie. I ached for those ridiculous gift tagisms. I wanted my mommy.
One week later, after one failed attempt by the post office, I waited in that long line of people who missed their packages, retrieved my mama's goodie box and rushed home to tear it open. What I found was a terrific assortment of gifts I had on my wish list, a nice check for a decent chunk o' change, the No-Bakes, the clippings, and two VHS tapes. One labeled, Chad and Cody Young. The other labeled, Grandpa Harvey Tapes. On these VHS tapes, my mother had transferred some of our salvaged silent reel to reel footage from when I was 1-6 years old. The footage was fast, clipped, poorly edited and slightly rough in texture and tracking, but nonetheless priceless.
It contained clips of my brother trying to take his first steps, The Christmas when I got my E.T. doll, our trip to Dallas, TX, and me pulling my brother around in a red wagon. I sat there in my New York apartment, at 28 years old, in silence, in dim light, watching the way we were. My mother's bad perm. Her arms were so skinny then. My beautiful hair with no fly-aways. How f#*!ing adorable my brother was as a baby. My Grandma who has since passed. All my Aunts and Uncles who have since divorced. The clothes. The underoos. As I watched these silent documentaries of my past, I saw all this joy that I don't always remember associating with these particular memories. The trip to Dallas involved a lot of yelling, screaming, and crying during the long drive down. One family of four staying with another family of four wasn't fun. Pulling my brother around in the red wagon was a direction taken from my father, with his aggressive control of what should and should not be filmed. The footage I now own, is of our visit to the Dallas Ranch and me and my cousin Misty peddling away on our Big Wheels. This footage I now own is of my lazy, chubby brother being hauled around by a smiling, waving, "put on a face for the camera" older brother. These were the happy times. I could go on. But, my point is made. This video archive of some of my childhood is not the way we were. However silent the movie memories may be I can still hear that silent sadness underneath all that visual joy. However, the upside is that the silent reel-to-reel camera has succeed in allowing me to pull these tapes out on occasion and only have a visual memory. Whether or not this is a good or bad thing, doesn't matter. I can experience these memories in silence and remember only the joy of a Big Wheel, or of Santa's delivery, or of seeing the ranch from the show Dallas. I can look back at the way we were.
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