I always thought of San Francisco as the place where miners came to discover their pots of gold.
Beautiful terrain and scenery, glorious food, mild climate and access to excess made the city attractive to everyone. An embarrassment of riches in the land of plenty. Plenty of milk and a bit of honey. Everything pretty, everyone educated, creative and hip but bored...forever craving the new.
After four days of being awake (and after I'd lost my job, my friends and my looks) it became clear that enough was enough. Bartenders saw me coming and they knew what to expect. Pretty, ugly, pretty, ugly, back and forth, over and over. No longer could I keep up appearances or press my luck.
At the time it was 'in' to be 'strung out' and a few bars in the Mission made this mandatory. Elliott Smith, Palace Brothers, American Music Club and the Red House Painters were on every playlist. The dress code was cowboy shirts and dirty Sambas while Herradura margaritas were the libations of choice.
At the psych ward at San Francisco General Hospital, I was informed that my best friend Roy was found unconscious (naked, dirty and wet, underneath a parked car) not far from his spotless apartment in Hayes Valley. I'd fly to John Wayne Airport in Orange County a week or so later. While life was spiralling downward when I met Roy I wouldn't blame him for that.
Although I'd managed to keep a job at a swishy trattoria downtown I was basically homeless. Sleeping in the backseats of open cars and fishing food from trashcans in Golden Gate Park was my dingy little secret. Roy was not aware of the exact nature of my destitution. No one was. Roy had pretty things in his ground floor studio... how he afforded them was anybody's guess.
Nag Champa incense burned daily while British exotica played inaudibly from some hidden boombox in the background. Years before the silliness of feng shui he'd been a fan of all things Eastern after one of his heroes, Boy George, kicked heroin and travelled to India to find himself.
The best days in the world were thrift store shopping with Roy. Roy was thrift.
Re-purposing and refinishing something was his gift and he found beauty in things most had thrown away including people. Nursed back to health and emerging like butterflies from a chrysalis, boys stole from him or, far worse, were terrible gossips. It was Roy who discarded. I was not a butterfly, social or fluttering.
Occassionally, he'd "entertain" and everyone welcomed an invite with rue.
Entertainment meant inviting some hapless adolescent over, the preparation of some healthy vegetarian meal, rancorous sex and then the dismissal of any trick who'd invaded his pristine sanctuary. No one spent the night unless you weren't sleeping. After a session, Roy spent the remainder of the week scrubbing, dusting, cleansing, atoning.
Fuelled by some unseen fear and paranoia, the apartment was dimly lit, shades drawn and kept, as they say, 'speed freak clean'. I believed him when he said he was being followed and when he shared startlingly real sleep- deprived declarations that we were being watched. Whenever Roy heard from you, even though invariably he didn't have a phone, he'd ask, in the most endearing way, "Where U been, girl? I've been a nervous wreck!" and he wasn't joking.
We used to call his apartment Shady Acres.
Roy and I fell out and I never saw or heard from him again. His one and only ex- to my knowledge said he'd been in contact with him. Was he in San Jose...San Francisco...was he doing hair...or ill...?
The details are sketchy.
So were we.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
What About Bob?
"More than anything I have this sense that I'm a veteran of a war that is difficult to discuss with people who haven't been there".Robert Downey Jr.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Friday The 13th, 10 Years Ago
So on Friday I had this dream that I was at a dinner party, yammering away and really had to use the restroom but the person I was yammering away with, wouldn’t give me the “out”. Somehow, the entire dream was about me, trying to make it to the bathroom, clamping my legs, the whole bit. When I finally made it to the can, I pissed blood. It was so graphic and real-seeming that I woke up, like you do when you have a nightmare, just before whatever bad shit that’s going to happen, happens.
Work was normal.
We stripped the seventh floor halls in preparation for next week’s redux. The walls of the seventh floor were painted Valentine’s Day pink overnight and striped with various colors of gaffer’s tape, in several thicknesses and widths, including even brown but not black. The pattern was quite similar to Paul Smith. Just another ingenious decorator shortcut for which Bergdorf Goodman is famous. I partnered that day with Schneider, this guy who used to intern but is now on the job whom I instantly liked.
Several summers ago, Schneider was the talk of the freelancers. He once wore these see-through track pants last spring that clearly outlined his sizable package. After some background digging on his origins no one could figure out why he had to work at all. He lived with his parents in a duplex on Riverside Drive. He was working for a month until he returned to Carnegie Mellon where he’d enter a senior. Schneider has since graduated and adjusted himself and his look.
Schneider and I kept the thinnest strips of the leftover red tape from our project so we could ‘Prada-fy’ our clothing. Tim covered his phone with strips. We put strips on the back of our shoes and shirts and I put two long strips down my nylon flesh- colored (not my flesh) pants which completely transformed them. Now they had become instantly desirable luxe items and a testament to our style, our gall and the absurdity of the business we were in. I wore my new haute couture slacks all the way home and people really stared on the L train, which in NYC is unheard of, since most folks couldn’t be bothered to notice who’s wearing what at least not vocally.
That morning the gas went out in our flat which had never happened since we'd lived there in Williamsburg. There was basically nothing to cook so the mister and me had greasy takeout the whole weekend. It was a drag not be able to make a grilled cheese sandwich or take a shower (since we both had weekend plans and many things to do) but we dealt. I do so like anything delivered, however.
Saturday was my former boss, Boc’s, softball game in Alphabet City. Boc told me that she and her girls were nervous about this actual Olympic pitcher on the opposing team and that it would be great fun if I came to cheer Boc’s team on.
The week before, her team won and it was great because I got to debut my new bicycle, Peewee Herman style. The week before that, I brought Herschel Walker, my now- deceased Chihuahua, who wasn’t feeling well and they lost. This time I got to hang out with Boc and her girlfriend, Maebell’s teammates, their respective partners and their friends. It was sweet!
Later Boc told me that she was really nervous about her girlfriend, Maebell’s ex, who evidently, hadn’t moved on. Maebell was really cute and I could see why the first wife might have had a problem giving Maebell up. Still, it was uncomfortable. Luckily there were no catfights…or was that lucky?
Anyway, I got to the softball field at 16th and C by FDR and there was no one there. I missed the game which I later learned they’d played half a block up. Boc’s team lost again but she had gotten a triple play! I really liked that stretch of the FDR so it was nice to putz around there for kicks.
That evening, my pal Ken, invited us to see his friend, Ross’s gay revue, at the Pourhouse, which is aptly named. We had a nice time, John and me as a couple. Our buddy and John's erstwhile work colleague, Ken was late but we met some of Ross’s people and had some drinks. I left before Kenny’s pal, Lance performed,but as I waited in the corridor for the bathroom, Lance was in man drag a la Elvis. I guess he was trying to stay in character because he was acting like I hadn’t just met him 10 minutes ago. I’m lucky I left according to Ken but I did get to see gender illusionist Lisa Jackson. She was heartfelt and was flirting with John which was cute.
I ducked out to hit my co-worker Rachel’s show in Greenpoint. By the time I got to the 15 Bulls Show, the art show, which ended at 9 turned into the party, which was marvelous. The works were expertly curated and naturally the music was bumpin’. I hadn’t been to a show in a while where I wanted to buy all of the work. Behaving like Peggy Guggenheim, I felt sleek in all black as I’d already re-Pradafied my DKNY polyester pants.
Rachel consoled me when a little while (and many Jamesons later), what had happened in my dream basically happened at her rooftop party. This woman wouldn’t let me get away from her in the kitchen. This time I didn’t have to go to the bathroom at all but I just lied because she drove me crazy. Rachel said she didn’t know her and had been avoiding this chick too, about which, we had a good laugh and bonded. I left after 1 am pretty hammered, which probably had something to do with the nasty spill I took on my bike, about four blocks away, in front of the Pencil Factory. I could have been killed because like an idiot I wasn’t wearing a helmet and, given my disastrous history with anything with wheels, I should have known better.
After brushing myself off and trembling, I stumbled into the bar in search of bandages and a bit of sympathy and, well, scotch. I was bloody drunk literally so the guy behind the bar wouldn’t serve me. I couldn’t remember if I’d asked him for anything but I was a sad mess for sure and couldn’t recall if the LA type bartender/owner had asked me to leave. I was never one to miss last call so it was especially irritating.
I was about to cry like you sometimes do when you’re shitfaced. I locked my bike up across the street and with a heavy dose of pathos and tragedy I walked home. McCloskey, John’s pal from work, told me I had stripped the ball bearings on my bike in the steering column which rendered my handlebars inoperable and undoubtedly threw me from the bike. McCloskey came to my rescue Sunday and fixed my bike enough for he and I to walk it to my place.
I wouldn’t get to the new MoMA QNS because the gash on my leg had bled through my clothes and I was very sore. Somehow, the whole spectacle - my injuries, the drag queens, the lesbians, the blood, the drinks, the pet Chihuahua, the tape, the scarring- made the weekend extraordinary. It was Friday the 13th and being that my name is Jason explained a lot.
Work was normal.
We stripped the seventh floor halls in preparation for next week’s redux. The walls of the seventh floor were painted Valentine’s Day pink overnight and striped with various colors of gaffer’s tape, in several thicknesses and widths, including even brown but not black. The pattern was quite similar to Paul Smith. Just another ingenious decorator shortcut for which Bergdorf Goodman is famous. I partnered that day with Schneider, this guy who used to intern but is now on the job whom I instantly liked.
Several summers ago, Schneider was the talk of the freelancers. He once wore these see-through track pants last spring that clearly outlined his sizable package. After some background digging on his origins no one could figure out why he had to work at all. He lived with his parents in a duplex on Riverside Drive. He was working for a month until he returned to Carnegie Mellon where he’d enter a senior. Schneider has since graduated and adjusted himself and his look.
Schneider and I kept the thinnest strips of the leftover red tape from our project so we could ‘Prada-fy’ our clothing. Tim covered his phone with strips. We put strips on the back of our shoes and shirts and I put two long strips down my nylon flesh- colored (not my flesh) pants which completely transformed them. Now they had become instantly desirable luxe items and a testament to our style, our gall and the absurdity of the business we were in. I wore my new haute couture slacks all the way home and people really stared on the L train, which in NYC is unheard of, since most folks couldn’t be bothered to notice who’s wearing what at least not vocally.
That morning the gas went out in our flat which had never happened since we'd lived there in Williamsburg. There was basically nothing to cook so the mister and me had greasy takeout the whole weekend. It was a drag not be able to make a grilled cheese sandwich or take a shower (since we both had weekend plans and many things to do) but we dealt. I do so like anything delivered, however.
Saturday was my former boss, Boc’s, softball game in Alphabet City. Boc told me that she and her girls were nervous about this actual Olympic pitcher on the opposing team and that it would be great fun if I came to cheer Boc’s team on.
The week before, her team won and it was great because I got to debut my new bicycle, Peewee Herman style. The week before that, I brought Herschel Walker, my now- deceased Chihuahua, who wasn’t feeling well and they lost. This time I got to hang out with Boc and her girlfriend, Maebell’s teammates, their respective partners and their friends. It was sweet!
Later Boc told me that she was really nervous about her girlfriend, Maebell’s ex, who evidently, hadn’t moved on. Maebell was really cute and I could see why the first wife might have had a problem giving Maebell up. Still, it was uncomfortable. Luckily there were no catfights…or was that lucky?
Anyway, I got to the softball field at 16th and C by FDR and there was no one there. I missed the game which I later learned they’d played half a block up. Boc’s team lost again but she had gotten a triple play! I really liked that stretch of the FDR so it was nice to putz around there for kicks.
That evening, my pal Ken, invited us to see his friend, Ross’s gay revue, at the Pourhouse, which is aptly named. We had a nice time, John and me as a couple. Our buddy and John's erstwhile work colleague, Ken was late but we met some of Ross’s people and had some drinks. I left before Kenny’s pal, Lance performed,but as I waited in the corridor for the bathroom, Lance was in man drag a la Elvis. I guess he was trying to stay in character because he was acting like I hadn’t just met him 10 minutes ago. I’m lucky I left according to Ken but I did get to see gender illusionist Lisa Jackson. She was heartfelt and was flirting with John which was cute.
I ducked out to hit my co-worker Rachel’s show in Greenpoint. By the time I got to the 15 Bulls Show, the art show, which ended at 9 turned into the party, which was marvelous. The works were expertly curated and naturally the music was bumpin’. I hadn’t been to a show in a while where I wanted to buy all of the work. Behaving like Peggy Guggenheim, I felt sleek in all black as I’d already re-Pradafied my DKNY polyester pants.
Rachel consoled me when a little while (and many Jamesons later), what had happened in my dream basically happened at her rooftop party. This woman wouldn’t let me get away from her in the kitchen. This time I didn’t have to go to the bathroom at all but I just lied because she drove me crazy. Rachel said she didn’t know her and had been avoiding this chick too, about which, we had a good laugh and bonded. I left after 1 am pretty hammered, which probably had something to do with the nasty spill I took on my bike, about four blocks away, in front of the Pencil Factory. I could have been killed because like an idiot I wasn’t wearing a helmet and, given my disastrous history with anything with wheels, I should have known better.
After brushing myself off and trembling, I stumbled into the bar in search of bandages and a bit of sympathy and, well, scotch. I was bloody drunk literally so the guy behind the bar wouldn’t serve me. I couldn’t remember if I’d asked him for anything but I was a sad mess for sure and couldn’t recall if the LA type bartender/owner had asked me to leave. I was never one to miss last call so it was especially irritating.
I was about to cry like you sometimes do when you’re shitfaced. I locked my bike up across the street and with a heavy dose of pathos and tragedy I walked home. McCloskey, John’s pal from work, told me I had stripped the ball bearings on my bike in the steering column which rendered my handlebars inoperable and undoubtedly threw me from the bike. McCloskey came to my rescue Sunday and fixed my bike enough for he and I to walk it to my place.
I wouldn’t get to the new MoMA QNS because the gash on my leg had bled through my clothes and I was very sore. Somehow, the whole spectacle - my injuries, the drag queens, the lesbians, the blood, the drinks, the pet Chihuahua, the tape, the scarring- made the weekend extraordinary. It was Friday the 13th and being that my name is Jason explained a lot.
Striped Icebergs
Icebergs in Lake Michigan sometimes have stripes, formed by layers of snow, that react to different conditions.
Blue stripes are often created when a crevice in the ice sheet fills up with melted water and freezes so quickly that no bubbles form.
When an iceberg falls into the lake, a layer of water can freeze to the underside. If this is rich in algae, it can form a green stripe.
Brown, black and yellow lines are caused by sediment, picked up when the ice sheet grinds downhill towards the lake. The water froze the instant the wave broke through the ice.
That's what it is like in Lake Michigan where it has been some of the coldest weather in decades. Water freezes the instant it comes in contact with the air. The temperature of the water is already some degrees below freezing. Just look at how the wave froze in mid-air...
Nature is truly awesome. Global warming is not so awesome but it's affects are phenomenal.
Blue stripes are often created when a crevice in the ice sheet fills up with melted water and freezes so quickly that no bubbles form.
When an iceberg falls into the lake, a layer of water can freeze to the underside. If this is rich in algae, it can form a green stripe.
Brown, black and yellow lines are caused by sediment, picked up when the ice sheet grinds downhill towards the lake. The water froze the instant the wave broke through the ice.
That's what it is like in Lake Michigan where it has been some of the coldest weather in decades. Water freezes the instant it comes in contact with the air. The temperature of the water is already some degrees below freezing. Just look at how the wave froze in mid-air...
Nature is truly awesome. Global warming is not so awesome but it's affects are phenomenal.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Amy
At fifteen I had a girlfriend in high school named Amy. She wore pigtails, was fair; an actress and wore men's pajamas and shoes, with no socks, to school. Amy dyed her hair beet red, smoked Camel Lights like a chimney and revealed stories of how she was in the movie 'Coyote Ugly'. I never cared if her stories were true or untrue until later. She was a pretty good actress since I believed she loved me.
I forced myself to be in love with Amy because having a girlfriend was how I sought to legitimize myself. I'm not sure she was intellectual and the fact that we were an interracial couple didn't matter to her. She was a Taurus like my Mom and I was definitely attracted to her style and her irreverence. My best friend, Lisa, took Amy under her wing and Lisa's acceptance confirmed that Amy was cool. I learned a lot about 'cool' from the both of them. I'd only began to learn about women.
After what seemed like months but was likely just weeks of dating, the time came for me and my girlfriend to do it. Everyone thought it was improbable since I was clearly a homo but then everyone thought Amy was a dyke so we made sense in a way. What did we know about dating or gender roles or sex? We were desperate teens. At least I was.
We fucked in the shower because I had seen that in a movie and I thought that that was cool. Amy was vocal and I was inexperienced so her moans made it seem like we were in porn. At fourteen every girl has a great body and I was happy to be naked, soapy and wet with her. I don't remember if we used a condom but I guess we must have since there was no shortage of awkward fumbling.
The sex was over pretty quickly and I do recall wondering if we had made love or just screwed and would I know the difference someday. Many years later she would reveal that I was one of her first...what did that mean? I really liked going down on Amy but our sex was pretty vanilla. We were better as friends and were still the cool kids at school. I graduated from high school while she went elsewhere so we didn't see one another much so we drifted apart.
Amy's father came over to my house one day looking for her some time before we broke up. I'd never met him and and didn't know how he knew where I lived but he seemed really worried so we set off to find her in his pick up truck. We checked Cafe Med and Au Coquelet in Berkeley which was where Amy and I went to loiter, drink coffee and smoke when we cut class but she wasn't there. My sort of girlfriend's Dad didn't say much in the car but I was listening.
We drove around town until nightfall and finally ended up at my old buddy Jeff' house in Piedmont. I started wondering how often Amy went missing and if she ran away a lot. Jeff's Mom was in the kitchen and said Jeff wasn't feeling well but I could go up and see him in his bedroom in the attic which I did. Amy's Dad sat and chitchatted with her while I wondered how stoned Jeff was. Jeff was in bed with the covers up to his head and his usual sheepish look on his face. No fifteen year old boy is in bed at 7pm.
"Hey dude. Have you seen Amy? Her Dad's here. He's worried about her".
Jeff didn't look sick but he did look baked.
" No, dude. I' m sick".
"Hmm. Okay".
I lingered for a second and glared at Jeff in his huge poster bed thinking it strange that a 6' 3" teenager with the flu was completely covered and in bed. I never thought of Jeff as intellectual either and I was right.
Years later at a Bruno's in the Mission I ran into Amy. Seeing her again in pigtails drinking Cosmos, as a mother of two boys and divorced it struck me how long I'd held onto the benign memory of her purity and her deceit. She still looked sexy but it was as though we'd just met and were role playing.
That day so many years ago I was told by Jeff that she had been giving him a blow job under the bed covers when I walked in looking for her. In order for her lie to remain intact she remained motionless and tried not to chuckle when I told my " friend" how worried I was about her. Amy and me weren't exclusive but the code between bros and my affection for them both disappeared that night.
I forced myself to be in love with Amy because having a girlfriend was how I sought to legitimize myself. I'm not sure she was intellectual and the fact that we were an interracial couple didn't matter to her. She was a Taurus like my Mom and I was definitely attracted to her style and her irreverence. My best friend, Lisa, took Amy under her wing and Lisa's acceptance confirmed that Amy was cool. I learned a lot about 'cool' from the both of them. I'd only began to learn about women.
After what seemed like months but was likely just weeks of dating, the time came for me and my girlfriend to do it. Everyone thought it was improbable since I was clearly a homo but then everyone thought Amy was a dyke so we made sense in a way. What did we know about dating or gender roles or sex? We were desperate teens. At least I was.
We fucked in the shower because I had seen that in a movie and I thought that that was cool. Amy was vocal and I was inexperienced so her moans made it seem like we were in porn. At fourteen every girl has a great body and I was happy to be naked, soapy and wet with her. I don't remember if we used a condom but I guess we must have since there was no shortage of awkward fumbling.
The sex was over pretty quickly and I do recall wondering if we had made love or just screwed and would I know the difference someday. Many years later she would reveal that I was one of her first...what did that mean? I really liked going down on Amy but our sex was pretty vanilla. We were better as friends and were still the cool kids at school. I graduated from high school while she went elsewhere so we didn't see one another much so we drifted apart.
Amy's father came over to my house one day looking for her some time before we broke up. I'd never met him and and didn't know how he knew where I lived but he seemed really worried so we set off to find her in his pick up truck. We checked Cafe Med and Au Coquelet in Berkeley which was where Amy and I went to loiter, drink coffee and smoke when we cut class but she wasn't there. My sort of girlfriend's Dad didn't say much in the car but I was listening.
We drove around town until nightfall and finally ended up at my old buddy Jeff' house in Piedmont. I started wondering how often Amy went missing and if she ran away a lot. Jeff's Mom was in the kitchen and said Jeff wasn't feeling well but I could go up and see him in his bedroom in the attic which I did. Amy's Dad sat and chitchatted with her while I wondered how stoned Jeff was. Jeff was in bed with the covers up to his head and his usual sheepish look on his face. No fifteen year old boy is in bed at 7pm.
"Hey dude. Have you seen Amy? Her Dad's here. He's worried about her".
Jeff didn't look sick but he did look baked.
" No, dude. I' m sick".
"Hmm. Okay".
I lingered for a second and glared at Jeff in his huge poster bed thinking it strange that a 6' 3" teenager with the flu was completely covered and in bed. I never thought of Jeff as intellectual either and I was right.
Years later at a Bruno's in the Mission I ran into Amy. Seeing her again in pigtails drinking Cosmos, as a mother of two boys and divorced it struck me how long I'd held onto the benign memory of her purity and her deceit. She still looked sexy but it was as though we'd just met and were role playing.
That day so many years ago I was told by Jeff that she had been giving him a blow job under the bed covers when I walked in looking for her. In order for her lie to remain intact she remained motionless and tried not to chuckle when I told my " friend" how worried I was about her. Amy and me weren't exclusive but the code between bros and my affection for them both disappeared that night.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Fortune # 1-10 June 2010
A well-aimed spear is worth three.
Soon life will become more interesting.
Don't ever slam a door; you might want to come back.
You simplify your life in many ways and find great rewards.
Good things are being said about you.
While times may seem difficult, your future forecasts a quick turnaround.
You are the flexible person in your present situation.
You are magnetic in your bearing.
It is never a shame to learn from others.
If the world seems cold, kindle a fire to warm it
A moment
Ice cream
HORSE
North
Cook
Skating
Soy milk
Violet
Pumpkin
Eggplant
20, 35, 14, 45, 39, 19
31, 18, 17, 4, 47, 41
29, 17, 42, 43, 16 ,5
56, 20, 41, 9, 29, 37
47, 14, 28, 36, 7, 32
20, 35, 14, 45, 39, 19
14, 49, 46, 16, 51, 12
18, 27, 29, 31, 42, 6
56, 20, 41, 9, 29, 37
55, 12, 47, 28, 44, 50
Soon life will become more interesting.
Don't ever slam a door; you might want to come back.
You simplify your life in many ways and find great rewards.
Good things are being said about you.
While times may seem difficult, your future forecasts a quick turnaround.
You are the flexible person in your present situation.
You are magnetic in your bearing.
It is never a shame to learn from others.
If the world seems cold, kindle a fire to warm it
A moment
Ice cream
HORSE
North
Cook
Skating
Soy milk
Violet
Pumpkin
Eggplant
20, 35, 14, 45, 39, 19
31, 18, 17, 4, 47, 41
29, 17, 42, 43, 16 ,5
56, 20, 41, 9, 29, 37
47, 14, 28, 36, 7, 32
20, 35, 14, 45, 39, 19
14, 49, 46, 16, 51, 12
18, 27, 29, 31, 42, 6
56, 20, 41, 9, 29, 37
55, 12, 47, 28, 44, 50
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Just Add, "...in bed".
Five years ago, when I moved to Virginia from New York, I began collecting things.
I'd never been a collector or a nester. I'd lived my life with the idea that the key to happiness was one without attachments...without things. Sharing a small Brooklyn apartment with a boyfriend and a dog necessitated economy in every acquisition as well as intelligent planning and organization. But once I had a place of my own I began amassing cds which became an addiction several hundred discs later.
When my Mom, Patricia, died, I inherited her antique bed, books, stacks and stacks of Architectural Digest, lamps, some of her cookware, a few of her garments, art, her tchotchkes and mementos of every sort. Symbolically as Mom thought about her will and decided how her belongings were to be allocated I began collecting bird's nests when I found one lying on the sidewalk near her house.
On one birthday, my Mom's eldest sister, Rosemary, gave me a nest from Caspari, with little speckled eggs made of chocolate. A colleague of mine, Melissa, brought two nests back from a trip to San Francisco as a thank you gift one of which was formed from mud and bits of plastic. I don't know what I did to deserve them but I have four nests now.
Coffee table books became the next nest. I was the buyer for them at my store for a while. I don't have the space in my place for a coffee table and I don't have a living room but I dig art books. Most are just there for decoration. I have a coffee table. I have coffee. I have books. They make me happy in ways I'm not aware of, like little trips waiting to be taken, little lessons waiting to be learned.
Other things tried to be the next big collectible thing in my world. DVDs had reached their zenith but for awhile we were hot and heavy. Snooky's, the pawn shop downtown, had a deal- 6 dvds for $20- and for a bit I turned addict into a verb.
Then I sought to build the classic stereo system after I bought a 70's Phillips turntable and vinyl was back. I would need a house for that since I wanted to hide the speakers in the wall. Snow globes from places that didn't get snow was next but that meant getting people to collect them for me.
Once I had issues storing or displaying my collections I stopped collecting. My friend Monique and her man went to flea markets every weekend and bought great things to add to their apartment in San Francisco. Monique's advice was if you love it you'll find a place for it but I couldn't hang.
In the 3 years I've lived in my apartment I have saved my pennies in a pickle jar on my bookcase and when it gets full I will roll those suckers, cash them in and start all over again. One thing I have been inadvertently collecting and didn't realize until I started this blog (and is my largest collection to date) is fortunes. I'm a bachelor living alone in a one bedroom bungalow and when you live alone you order a lot of Chinese takeout. I never knew what I wanted this blog to be about but most blogs have a theme, a gimmick and mine didn't have one.
Now mine will.
I'd never been a collector or a nester. I'd lived my life with the idea that the key to happiness was one without attachments...without things. Sharing a small Brooklyn apartment with a boyfriend and a dog necessitated economy in every acquisition as well as intelligent planning and organization. But once I had a place of my own I began amassing cds which became an addiction several hundred discs later.
When my Mom, Patricia, died, I inherited her antique bed, books, stacks and stacks of Architectural Digest, lamps, some of her cookware, a few of her garments, art, her tchotchkes and mementos of every sort. Symbolically as Mom thought about her will and decided how her belongings were to be allocated I began collecting bird's nests when I found one lying on the sidewalk near her house.
On one birthday, my Mom's eldest sister, Rosemary, gave me a nest from Caspari, with little speckled eggs made of chocolate. A colleague of mine, Melissa, brought two nests back from a trip to San Francisco as a thank you gift one of which was formed from mud and bits of plastic. I don't know what I did to deserve them but I have four nests now.
Coffee table books became the next nest. I was the buyer for them at my store for a while. I don't have the space in my place for a coffee table and I don't have a living room but I dig art books. Most are just there for decoration. I have a coffee table. I have coffee. I have books. They make me happy in ways I'm not aware of, like little trips waiting to be taken, little lessons waiting to be learned.
Other things tried to be the next big collectible thing in my world. DVDs had reached their zenith but for awhile we were hot and heavy. Snooky's, the pawn shop downtown, had a deal- 6 dvds for $20- and for a bit I turned addict into a verb.
Then I sought to build the classic stereo system after I bought a 70's Phillips turntable and vinyl was back. I would need a house for that since I wanted to hide the speakers in the wall. Snow globes from places that didn't get snow was next but that meant getting people to collect them for me.
Once I had issues storing or displaying my collections I stopped collecting. My friend Monique and her man went to flea markets every weekend and bought great things to add to their apartment in San Francisco. Monique's advice was if you love it you'll find a place for it but I couldn't hang.
In the 3 years I've lived in my apartment I have saved my pennies in a pickle jar on my bookcase and when it gets full I will roll those suckers, cash them in and start all over again. One thing I have been inadvertently collecting and didn't realize until I started this blog (and is my largest collection to date) is fortunes. I'm a bachelor living alone in a one bedroom bungalow and when you live alone you order a lot of Chinese takeout. I never knew what I wanted this blog to be about but most blogs have a theme, a gimmick and mine didn't have one.
Now mine will.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wallace
'13 Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird' by
Wallace Stevens
1
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
2
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
3
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
4
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
5
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
6
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
7
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
8
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
9
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge of one of many circles.
10
At the sight of the blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
11
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
12
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
13
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar- limbs.
Wallace Stevens
1
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
2
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
3
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
4
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
5
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
6
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
7
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
8
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
9
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge of one of many circles.
10
At the sight of the blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
11
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
12
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
13
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar- limbs.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Dandelion
Doing crystal was fun.
You could stay up for days at a time, convince yourself you were having deeply intellectual conversations, rapidly lose weight, fool yourself you were getting shit done, drink like a sponge and lie and steal with remarkable success. Oh, and the lists were legendary.
Being “spun” was exciting. The sense of sheer and absolute power, numbness and the ultra sensitivity that first “bump” evoked was outrageous in every sense of the word. The world was, for a moment, perfectly still and finally, everything was a possibility. What I loved most about being “tweaked” was that everyone around me knew, that it was obvious that I was 'on something'.
The insipid chatting, the surreal places you’d end up, the hours you didn’t keep and the people you slept with when you were high. Three in the morning was my afternoon. I loved being awake when the sun rose but not for it’s serenity and color but because I had defied the laws of my anatomy, pushing myself to the edge, burning the candle until there was nothing left of me but the wick. I didn’t know who or what I was and wanted to die. I thought I’d do speed, starve myself, drown myself with liquor and, eventually, merge with the infinite. I wanted to hit “rock” bottom and I thought methamphetamine was the the most punk rock way to do it.
There’s nothing interesting about being strung out. Anyone who was remarkable did it years ago to much more theatrical and iconic effect. I just wanted to be liked and I was… I think… but back then it was for all of the wrong reasons.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
In the ‘90’s it was hip to do “rails” with close and not- so- close friends- at parties, bars- during the Simpsons- whenever and wherever. Crank lasted way longer than blow so, in effect, everyday was the weekend. I spent a lot of time walking around, trying to be exhausted enough to sleep but mostly searching for a place to rest, being essentially homeless. I carried a change of clothing (including shoes, and inexplicably, moisturizer) in my bag, always ready to crash a party and pick up stakes, of which I had none. I deliberately drove my friends away with blackouts or ‘episodes’, of which I remembered little. For the most part folks dug having me around. I wasn’t the life of the party- I was the party.
I had this hidden place in Golden Gate Park where I would stow stuff I needed like Crest, Band-Aids and small testers of cologne but I never went to a shelter or told anyone how I lived. In the morning I would go to the library, brush my teeth, wash my face, change clothes, look at want-ads (for jobs I was in no shape to apply for) devour back issues of Vanity Fair and later, in Washington Square Park, I’d sob puddles of tears, glistening down my hollow cheeks. I maintained this charade for months, sleeping in abandoned cars, riding the bus, living on Jim Beam, cigarettes, bagels, Mountain Dew and candy bars. I had family and friends in the area ( my Mom lived on Nob Hill!) yet I still felt like I had nowhere to go.
During that time I thought a great deal about theology, creationism, the Big Bang theory, reincarnation, cremation, and what I thought must surely have been the cirrhosis of my liver and tooth decay. I found the concept of manipulating my own mortality fascinating. I’d attempted suicide once when I was sixteen by swallowing a liter of SA8, a laundry detergent and an Amway product. I took myself so seriously then. Pretty pathetic, really.
I began volunteering with a non-profit HIV services organization in 1996 after eleven people I knew died. I volunteered at the Names Project, Community Thrift Store and finally the AIDSRide and began to sense the power in doing good and the presence of something greater than me and it wasn’t powder or partying anymore. Maybe it was God or the universe. I don’t know. A sense of purpose and direction began to form in my life. I learned to smile again somehow and the right people noticed. I realized that the only thing that made me feel whole was doing for others and that is when I decided to quit crank for good. This is also when my crackbuddy, Roy and I clashed.
My friend, Monique, had a plan for me to ship out with her to Southern California to do an interior installation job for a company affiliated with Urban Outfitters. Anyway, it was great money, they put you up in a semi- fancy apartment (unfortunately in Long Beach, where I got a jaywalking ticket) where you lived dorm- style with other creatives and worked everyday until the job was done. It was just what I needed.
Shortly before I escaped to Santa Monica, I bunked with the newly single Roy and had agreed to pay a portion of his rent in Hayes Valley. I needed to dry out- to detox from the months of drugging- with my friends in Oakland. This was my chance to make something of my lame existence and I wasn’t going to screw it up. So I gave Roy a couple hundred dollars (at that point I was working) and left for a long weekend with my friends Renne and Devin, seemingly the only stable people I had in my life then. For a few days we played Scrabble, went shopping, ate cheeseburgers and watched movies, and, when no one was around, I cried. It was the calmest I had felt in months and I was thankful to have them in my life.
When I returned to the city from the East Bay, I checked my voicemail to find eight successively irate messages from my Mom on my service. She was pleading with me to call her, that she was told something terrible had happened to me and that she needed desperately to reach me. I finally called her and she was relieved to learn I was alive but still pissed!
The story goes:
The night I gave Roy the rent money, he went out and got a speedball and began three straight days of serious partying. He literally went nuts and was so paranoid that he’d convinced himself that I was being held at gunpoint on the roof of my mother’s Nob Hill apartment. I told him I was going to Oakland to chill out but he’d forgotten and apparently not knowing where I was had freaked him out.
I had never known Roy to shoot up let alone do smack but when I told this story to some other folks they were not surprised but shocked- that I was so naive- that I hadn’t seen this coming. Roy didn’t drink or at least I’d never seen him do so which I thought was the coolest! Sharp, observant and protective I always thought of Roy as strong; infallible.
The cops told my Mom that they had received calls from payphones every 20 minutes from Roy as he made his way to Stockton Street where my Mom lived across from the world- class Ritz Carlton Hotel. With her fabulous apartment (with views of the Transamerica Building, Coit Tower and the newly built Marriott clearly visible from her living room) there was scarcely a reason for her to leave home. Mom was never one for visitors and if you just dropped by without calling there was no way she would buzz you up.
Like most Taureans (and like Roy) she was big on protocol and preparation when it came to guests and I wondered why there wasn’t a doorman in her building. I always felt like a prole squatting at her place, when I got up enough nerve to call her, desperate for a place to stay and a bite to eat.
After an hour of increasingly manic and frightening calls to the police, Roy arrived at her place and begged to be let in. I don’t know WHAT he told her but she buzzed him up and served him tea and they smoked a jay because he seemed rattled. Roy then left for God knows where and my Mom made the first of the calls she made to try to find me and share his story which must have been a doozy.
What we didn’t know was that the Rolling Stones AND President Clinton were both shacked up at the posh hotel across the street. There were battalions of Secret Service, cop cars, limousines and armed gunmen on three sides of Mom’s place. Heads of state and movie stars were common on her block but Clinton and the Stones made it a breeding ground for groupies and paparazzi.
It was supposed to be a secret that Clinton was there but Keith Richards was a bigger draw than Dollar Bill so there were fans lumbering around hoping for a glance at the fossil himself. Naturally when the SFPD heard that someone was being held at gunpoint on the roof across the street from where the president was staying, the S.W.A.T. team stormed my Mom’s apartment looking for Uzis and closed circuit tv and nearly gave my very private, somewhat fragile Mom a coronary! They found nothing of the sort but questioned her for an hour while they literally scaled the building. Mom was pretty cool about it but I was sorrier than I had ever been about anything and now I was royally pissed off at Roy.
I found Roy after a day of searching at his old haunts (dealers, thrift and record stores) on the psych ward of SF General Hospital. He looked horrible, was mildly sedated and had obviously been crying. Roy was my best friend but what he did or rather what I’d allowed to happen to us was the last straw for me. It was okay to get fucked up when we were together but to involve my mother in crackhead bullshit like that was for me unforgivable. I know now that Mom was a comfort to him and if only for a moment the mother he never had and maybe he felt deserted. I should have supported him when he needed me most. But I didn’t need him the way that he needed me.
I don’t know what happened to Roy, what became of his life or if he’s still drawing breath but I think of us as dandelion. Lonesome dandelion on a hill, the last ones left standing after a cruel summer in San Francisco. Instead of making a wish and blowing it out you let it sway in the breeze.
Like wildflowers and former lovers.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
I'm A Stitch
There is a picture of me from the Seventies one day that was in the seventies.
I’m about 4 years old and as cute as can be in a tiny yellow party outfit. Tiny yellow shirt, tiny yellow shorts, teensy white socks and little yellow Keds. I was adorable with bushy eyebrows and a gap-toothed grimace. A cousin, Jeanette, is also in the snapshot towering over me. I’m holding an orange lollipop and crying. Her outfit isn’t as cute and she was teasing me. The photo illustrates this.
Aunt Rosalie’s house. At one point my grandfather, Douglas the second lived there, then my uncle-in-law,
Vaughn, I guess. But Aunt Rosalie took it over and re-everything’d the place and there I was, on summer vacation, in Paterson, New Jersey, sobbing.
Aunt Rosalie covered the furniture in plastic with plastic-lined walkways throughout the house. Rosalie was rich, strict and loud so everything had to be just so. She did a gorgeous job restoring the place to its shiny original perfection and I remember thinking the house was grand because it had a finished attic and basement. Each floor was shiny and varnished and while we kids already knew, we were told ahead of arrival to watch it. So we took off our shoes.
Hidden passageways and secret staircases within this vast playground of a house made it ideal for 'hide & seek'. One staircase went from the attic to the kitchen, on the ground floor. Another from the mezzanine to the foyer was steep and if you weren’t careful you could fall down and bust your head open at a bottom door which was always left closed. We were like wild animals, running up and down those stairs and me and my cousins Kevin, Kyle and Uncle Michael were enjoying a ruthless game of 'You're It'.
It was a humid Saturday afternoon and every relative I'd ever known was at Aunt Rosalie’s place, drinkin’, smokin’, laughin’, cookin’ and carrying on. The smell of ribs, links, barbeque chicken and burgers was intoxicating but our focus was on sugar, specifically candy and desserts. Ornery children were always hyped up on candy. Now ‘n’ Laters, Sweet Tarts, Twizzlers, Jolly Ranchers, Rollos- this was the currency of first graders and we were flush!
I don’t recall how it all happened exactly, playing tag that afternoon, on what would otherwise have been a prison sentence. By then, Mom had moved us to California and this was one of the last occasions I'd visit to the East Coast again before my late teens. I wasn’t the most gregarious of kids but I was having the most fun I had had since our arrival finally playing with other kids my age.
Our homebase was the entrance door which was actually two doors. The outside door was part glass and
aluminum and on the inside a screened door. I was clocking about sixty miles an hour barreling down the plastic-coated but carpeted front stairs. Simultaneously, a cousin- was it Kevin?- emerged stealthily to add me to his list of detainees, rightfully winning the game. On my way to the door, I slipped on the slick parquet floor and went flying like Superman through the screen door and then the glass door, causing a terrible crash. I hadn’t made it entirely through the threshold of the door and was caught in it before the crush of family came to see what all the commotion was about. My cousins, the first on the scene, stood motionless, suspended in time, unable to believe the spectacle. They knew I was in trouble. I was semi-conscious.
I remember laying on the freshly painted grey porch looking up at the blurry face of my Aunt Lulu. I smiled at her and her face was reassuring. I looked around me but could only really see my arm, a sea of flesh and blood. It looked like grits and ketchup. Later I would sustain 72 stitches, on my right arm, forehead and on my knee.
I remember being taken to Barnard Hospital the same hospital I was born a few years earlier, in a Country Squire station wagon and that’s all. Swollen and looking like Frankenstein, I awoke to pale yellow powdered scrambled eggs, applesauce, toast, juice, and the Jetsons on the overhead television. Groggy and disoriented, I was told of what had happened, that nothing was broken and soon I’d be returning home.
I’m about 4 years old and as cute as can be in a tiny yellow party outfit. Tiny yellow shirt, tiny yellow shorts, teensy white socks and little yellow Keds. I was adorable with bushy eyebrows and a gap-toothed grimace. A cousin, Jeanette, is also in the snapshot towering over me. I’m holding an orange lollipop and crying. Her outfit isn’t as cute and she was teasing me. The photo illustrates this.
Aunt Rosalie’s house. At one point my grandfather, Douglas the second lived there, then my uncle-in-law,
Vaughn, I guess. But Aunt Rosalie took it over and re-everything’d the place and there I was, on summer vacation, in Paterson, New Jersey, sobbing.
Aunt Rosalie covered the furniture in plastic with plastic-lined walkways throughout the house. Rosalie was rich, strict and loud so everything had to be just so. She did a gorgeous job restoring the place to its shiny original perfection and I remember thinking the house was grand because it had a finished attic and basement. Each floor was shiny and varnished and while we kids already knew, we were told ahead of arrival to watch it. So we took off our shoes.
Hidden passageways and secret staircases within this vast playground of a house made it ideal for 'hide & seek'. One staircase went from the attic to the kitchen, on the ground floor. Another from the mezzanine to the foyer was steep and if you weren’t careful you could fall down and bust your head open at a bottom door which was always left closed. We were like wild animals, running up and down those stairs and me and my cousins Kevin, Kyle and Uncle Michael were enjoying a ruthless game of 'You're It'.
It was a humid Saturday afternoon and every relative I'd ever known was at Aunt Rosalie’s place, drinkin’, smokin’, laughin’, cookin’ and carrying on. The smell of ribs, links, barbeque chicken and burgers was intoxicating but our focus was on sugar, specifically candy and desserts. Ornery children were always hyped up on candy. Now ‘n’ Laters, Sweet Tarts, Twizzlers, Jolly Ranchers, Rollos- this was the currency of first graders and we were flush!
I don’t recall how it all happened exactly, playing tag that afternoon, on what would otherwise have been a prison sentence. By then, Mom had moved us to California and this was one of the last occasions I'd visit to the East Coast again before my late teens. I wasn’t the most gregarious of kids but I was having the most fun I had had since our arrival finally playing with other kids my age.
Our homebase was the entrance door which was actually two doors. The outside door was part glass and
aluminum and on the inside a screened door. I was clocking about sixty miles an hour barreling down the plastic-coated but carpeted front stairs. Simultaneously, a cousin- was it Kevin?- emerged stealthily to add me to his list of detainees, rightfully winning the game. On my way to the door, I slipped on the slick parquet floor and went flying like Superman through the screen door and then the glass door, causing a terrible crash. I hadn’t made it entirely through the threshold of the door and was caught in it before the crush of family came to see what all the commotion was about. My cousins, the first on the scene, stood motionless, suspended in time, unable to believe the spectacle. They knew I was in trouble. I was semi-conscious.
I remember laying on the freshly painted grey porch looking up at the blurry face of my Aunt Lulu. I smiled at her and her face was reassuring. I looked around me but could only really see my arm, a sea of flesh and blood. It looked like grits and ketchup. Later I would sustain 72 stitches, on my right arm, forehead and on my knee.
I remember being taken to Barnard Hospital the same hospital I was born a few years earlier, in a Country Squire station wagon and that’s all. Swollen and looking like Frankenstein, I awoke to pale yellow powdered scrambled eggs, applesauce, toast, juice, and the Jetsons on the overhead television. Groggy and disoriented, I was told of what had happened, that nothing was broken and soon I’d be returning home.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
It's Just My Third Nervous Breakdown
Being fired from Barneys was predictable and, in hindsight, probably wouldn’t have worked out. The fringe benefits were nice (and the steady paycheck) but I wasn’t ready and never made any friends there. I never liked the 40- hour work week. In the tiny, visual world of New York, Barney’s was definitely a key to the platinum mine. I can still hear Simon saying, “Fabulous!” in his Etro button- downs.
The high point was being hired and opening the Co-OP store, on the Upper West Side. The low point was when I still had to work after Herschel Walker died and the resignation of my mentor, Tony, the combination of which, quietly ruined me. My life and what little foundation I had at that time were fully shattered and I just couldn’t deal with it. Tony and Herschel Walker were the primary reasons I went to work to begin with.Watching them vanish crushed me. I cried and drank everyday after that until, finally, I left for Virginia, to live with my Mom.
Getting the gig and slaving away at Barneys was like being whisked into the latest clubby hotspot for free and being treated like a VIP. Once you passed all the sharply dressed poseurs waiting in line, the paparazzi, security, and had your first sip of Veuve Cliquot, everything afterwards was dulled by comparison. After all is said and then, so easily done, it’s just a fashion show, really.
In addition to Herschel Walker’s death, I also had to handle my living situation and process the end of my relationship of five years with my partner, John.
I left John for a vacation to Oregon, July 4th weekend, and it was tense. We were barely speaking to one another and I told myself and John that this would be the best thing for both of us. That someday we’d look back and realize our break-up was for the best, then laugh nervously and change the subject. It seemed like bullshit then and while it sucked to be without him it was the right thing to do, which I rarely enjoy doing. When I returned, John had moved out, to Bushwick.
I kept our apartment, thinking I’d rent out the bedroom to someone and I’d take the living room of our now desolate, railroad apartment. I’d placed the ad on Craigslist and John shored up the details, sweet guy that he is. It seemed silly for us both to vacate such a comparatively inexpensive top- floor, 4 -room, Brooklyn apartment, with a view of the river, next to the park (and the train) so I thought I’d pay cheaper rent and give up having my own room.
I found a great roommate called Summer but it quickly became clear that I’d only grow more miserable staying in the place I’d shared with John for 3 years. Lorimer Street came to represent only failure and a hardwood-floored souvenir of both terrific and horrific memories for me.
I had to get the fuck out.
Around that time is when I began hanging out with John’s friend, Emily. I ’d met Emily a handful of times, both with and without John. She was a neighbor of my pal Diego’s friend, Martin. I had been to her sister Anna’s cabin, upstate. Anna and me never hit it off but Emily and I clicked. Anna’s younger sister had recently returned after a year or so in Chile as a filmmaker and Anna got Emily ad gruntwork at a high-profile advertising firm her big sister worked for in Manhattan.
Whipsmart, reflective, winsome and kind of goofy, Emily dazzled me by playing the saxophone on the water. We’d had a couple of dinners and discussed among other things my break-up with John and her largely unfulfilling work as a video editor. The discussions we shared made me feel like I wasn’t alone and one evening the conversation about becoming roommates came up and I thought wow… great!
Emily had lived for 6 years at the top of a 5th -floor walk-up, off Bedford Avenue (in the heart of Williamsburg) with a hermit-like roommate from Chile named Karim, a warm, goodlooking Latin waiter (and a father) with a wife and family back in the Caribbean or some shit.
Her 2 bedroom flat’s rent was $690 and rent-controlled. Split three ways it was roughly $300 a month for everything and I felt I couldn’t pass that up even though the floorplan dilemma I dealt with at 732 was the same. With rent that cheap we could afford cable and a flat screen TV (with my discount at Sony) and in a few months we’d all be sitting pretty with our new impressive jobs. And, with Emily, I had a new friend, who needed my interior design experience and energy to revamp what I realize now, was the lair of someone mentally unstable. But she had a plan.
We threw out tons of useless shit, revamped the kitchen, painted the three rooms, and built shelves for some much needed storage. The place was transformed and it took us hundreds of dollars and hours of labor to set it up but the place looked great and I was happy to call it home. I learned what things would be like the first week I actually slept at the apartment.
Playing the drums for hours late at night. Paint spills and trash, littering the landing, stairs and kitchen. Arguments with the super about trash and recycling. Constant piles of refuse and eviction papers because of two months of overdue rent. Cat litter, cockroaches, constant, useless questions and neediness. We’d have huge fucking arguments because I needed to sleep but she needed advice about her very recent boyfriend, Stan, and why he hadn’t called.
Things began crumbling when Emily lost her job and Stan dumped her after a month. She also refused to take her meds…I learned that Emily was a depressive and bi-polar which wasn’t the end of the world. This was NYC! Big deal and, really, who wasn't?
I came home from work one night to find Emily hysterical and crying. She said Herschel Walker was dead.
She had taken my dog for a walk without a leash, put him down to get a burrito, a Rottweiler charged at him and, terrified, he ran into the street and was struck and killed instantly, on Bedford Avenue, during rush hour traffic. I forgave her because she seemed truly sorry and I empathized with her. I sensed her tremendous guilt. Herschel Walker was three years old and extraordinary.
About a two weeks later I came home to find a bag of Herschel Walker’s sweaters and began sobbing. I was still waiting for the vet to release his ashes to me and, up until that point, had kept my shit together, for the most part. Emily entered my room and said, “You know what, your crying about Herschel is getting really annoying. I get it. He’s dead, get over it, move on.”
Gallons of bourbon later on, I learned that my Mom was in the hospital, a message which had been left days earlier and Emily failed to mention to me. That signaled the end of my tenancy there and the end of our friendship. That night I threw some clothes in a bag, my pictures and letters and told Emily, “I wish you well, Emily, but I hope I never see you again” and I left. I’d been in the apartment a total of 9 days.
I stayed with my friends and family until the days after President Bush’s re-election primaries. I left everything else at the apartment and told her to keep it or sell it. My movies, music, stereo, TV, VCR, my microwave, my bed —-none of that meant anything to me without Herschel.
I left for Virginia on the 5th of November, right on schedule, in preparation for my fourth and, hopefully, final nervous breakdown. Nineteen seems like a lot.
The high point was being hired and opening the Co-OP store, on the Upper West Side. The low point was when I still had to work after Herschel Walker died and the resignation of my mentor, Tony, the combination of which, quietly ruined me. My life and what little foundation I had at that time were fully shattered and I just couldn’t deal with it. Tony and Herschel Walker were the primary reasons I went to work to begin with.Watching them vanish crushed me. I cried and drank everyday after that until, finally, I left for Virginia, to live with my Mom.
Getting the gig and slaving away at Barneys was like being whisked into the latest clubby hotspot for free and being treated like a VIP. Once you passed all the sharply dressed poseurs waiting in line, the paparazzi, security, and had your first sip of Veuve Cliquot, everything afterwards was dulled by comparison. After all is said and then, so easily done, it’s just a fashion show, really.
In addition to Herschel Walker’s death, I also had to handle my living situation and process the end of my relationship of five years with my partner, John.
I left John for a vacation to Oregon, July 4th weekend, and it was tense. We were barely speaking to one another and I told myself and John that this would be the best thing for both of us. That someday we’d look back and realize our break-up was for the best, then laugh nervously and change the subject. It seemed like bullshit then and while it sucked to be without him it was the right thing to do, which I rarely enjoy doing. When I returned, John had moved out, to Bushwick.
I kept our apartment, thinking I’d rent out the bedroom to someone and I’d take the living room of our now desolate, railroad apartment. I’d placed the ad on Craigslist and John shored up the details, sweet guy that he is. It seemed silly for us both to vacate such a comparatively inexpensive top- floor, 4 -room, Brooklyn apartment, with a view of the river, next to the park (and the train) so I thought I’d pay cheaper rent and give up having my own room.
I found a great roommate called Summer but it quickly became clear that I’d only grow more miserable staying in the place I’d shared with John for 3 years. Lorimer Street came to represent only failure and a hardwood-floored souvenir of both terrific and horrific memories for me.
I had to get the fuck out.
Around that time is when I began hanging out with John’s friend, Emily. I ’d met Emily a handful of times, both with and without John. She was a neighbor of my pal Diego’s friend, Martin. I had been to her sister Anna’s cabin, upstate. Anna and me never hit it off but Emily and I clicked. Anna’s younger sister had recently returned after a year or so in Chile as a filmmaker and Anna got Emily ad gruntwork at a high-profile advertising firm her big sister worked for in Manhattan.
Whipsmart, reflective, winsome and kind of goofy, Emily dazzled me by playing the saxophone on the water. We’d had a couple of dinners and discussed among other things my break-up with John and her largely unfulfilling work as a video editor. The discussions we shared made me feel like I wasn’t alone and one evening the conversation about becoming roommates came up and I thought wow… great!
Emily had lived for 6 years at the top of a 5th -floor walk-up, off Bedford Avenue (in the heart of Williamsburg) with a hermit-like roommate from Chile named Karim, a warm, goodlooking Latin waiter (and a father) with a wife and family back in the Caribbean or some shit.
Her 2 bedroom flat’s rent was $690 and rent-controlled. Split three ways it was roughly $300 a month for everything and I felt I couldn’t pass that up even though the floorplan dilemma I dealt with at 732 was the same. With rent that cheap we could afford cable and a flat screen TV (with my discount at Sony) and in a few months we’d all be sitting pretty with our new impressive jobs. And, with Emily, I had a new friend, who needed my interior design experience and energy to revamp what I realize now, was the lair of someone mentally unstable. But she had a plan.
We threw out tons of useless shit, revamped the kitchen, painted the three rooms, and built shelves for some much needed storage. The place was transformed and it took us hundreds of dollars and hours of labor to set it up but the place looked great and I was happy to call it home. I learned what things would be like the first week I actually slept at the apartment.
Playing the drums for hours late at night. Paint spills and trash, littering the landing, stairs and kitchen. Arguments with the super about trash and recycling. Constant piles of refuse and eviction papers because of two months of overdue rent. Cat litter, cockroaches, constant, useless questions and neediness. We’d have huge fucking arguments because I needed to sleep but she needed advice about her very recent boyfriend, Stan, and why he hadn’t called.
Things began crumbling when Emily lost her job and Stan dumped her after a month. She also refused to take her meds…I learned that Emily was a depressive and bi-polar which wasn’t the end of the world. This was NYC! Big deal and, really, who wasn't?
I came home from work one night to find Emily hysterical and crying. She said Herschel Walker was dead.
She had taken my dog for a walk without a leash, put him down to get a burrito, a Rottweiler charged at him and, terrified, he ran into the street and was struck and killed instantly, on Bedford Avenue, during rush hour traffic. I forgave her because she seemed truly sorry and I empathized with her. I sensed her tremendous guilt. Herschel Walker was three years old and extraordinary.
About a two weeks later I came home to find a bag of Herschel Walker’s sweaters and began sobbing. I was still waiting for the vet to release his ashes to me and, up until that point, had kept my shit together, for the most part. Emily entered my room and said, “You know what, your crying about Herschel is getting really annoying. I get it. He’s dead, get over it, move on.”
Gallons of bourbon later on, I learned that my Mom was in the hospital, a message which had been left days earlier and Emily failed to mention to me. That signaled the end of my tenancy there and the end of our friendship. That night I threw some clothes in a bag, my pictures and letters and told Emily, “I wish you well, Emily, but I hope I never see you again” and I left. I’d been in the apartment a total of 9 days.
I stayed with my friends and family until the days after President Bush’s re-election primaries. I left everything else at the apartment and told her to keep it or sell it. My movies, music, stereo, TV, VCR, my microwave, my bed —-none of that meant anything to me without Herschel.
I left for Virginia on the 5th of November, right on schedule, in preparation for my fourth and, hopefully, final nervous breakdown. Nineteen seems like a lot.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Gleek
According to Webster’s, the term “gleek” is defined as: To scoff or jest…. I understand the term to define what happens when you’re speaking to someone and a squirt of saliva escapes from your mouth. Not a British card game played with 44 cards…
When I was five, I’d often hole up in my room and read the dictionary to find words to use in conversations with my adult friends. Just as often, I wouldn’t know what the words meant but used them nonetheless to appear more mature. I couldn’t wait to be a grown up, talk about grown up stuff and do all the things that grown-ups do.
In grammar school I got skipped from fourth to fifth grade and placed in an advanced reading course and asked to say, spell and then define words like lugubrious and exorbitant. The principal would discretely take myself, Annette Chan (it was ALWAYS Annette Chan) and a few others out of class twice a week (like someone in your family had died) then usher us into a dark room we’d never known existed. School groomed me early on to think I was special and that special was good.
I had one real friend at the Frank C. Havens School in Piedmont, California. It was the early 80’s and my mother, Patricia, had just eloped with my stepfather, Mark and moved us from the flat but interesting Lake Merritt area in Oakland to the fabulous 312 Scenic Avenue, in the hills of Piedmont, with its labyrinthine roads and spectacular views of the Bay Area. I was used to shedding schools and the friends I’d made there but Piedmont was a rarefied world and I had a lot to learn about the social strata. I mean, I’d never worn two polo shirts at a time before. I needed someone to show me the ropes and that someone was Jon.
Jon and I hung out at his place after school exhausted from tether-ball and “extreme” foursquare. Sarcasm and confusion brought us together and made us feel better about being weird outcasts at school.
We’d power through our homework, drink Dr Pepper, see how far we could gleek or pop a loogie, trash all the jocks at school, smoke “roaches” scored from his sister’s weed stash and then listen to Beethoven’s Fifth from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack with which we were both utterly obsessed. Jon would let me borrow his terrycloth shirts and in exchange I’d do his chores. We were close and when we were together felt less awkward and safe, a feeling I’d chase after forever.
Jon and me talked about girls and lied about what we’d done with them. Sometimes we simulated the sex we hadn’t had with pillows or pretended we were girls, cupped our chests (like we had boobs) and moaned in our underwear. It was all quite innocent and normal but having sex with someone- anyone- was our goal since we were certain everyone else had and they were popular. Our school would be hosting its annual end-of-the-year talent show soon and we were both determined to win it by doing The Hustle and enter sixth grade as winners.
We made our outfits and practiced for days fantasizing about how popular we’d be once we won, how everyone would would worship us and how we’d be fighting off hot babes with sticks. I don’t even remember what the grand prize was for winning or if there even was one. I wanted to win but really I just wanted to be alone with Jon and wasn’t entirely sure why. I didn’t think it was weird to have a crush on a boy. He was cute and made me laugh and when I thought crazy shit and told him he said, “Ohmigod, me too”.
Surprisingly, we lost the talent show to these rich kids whose dad was friends with the rock promoter, Bill Graham. They scored authentic costumes, wigs, makeup and a fully functional band setup (although they lipsynched to a cassette) for their raucous performance of Kiss’ “Love Gun”. Dry ice, lights, minor pyrotechnics, groupies- the whole bit. Tight, professional, glam and theatrical they literally blew everyone in the auditorium’s mind. It was the first of many times that year that me and everyone else used the word “rad” to describe it when, in retrospect “gay” would have been more accurate. After that summer Jon and me were now, historically, “losers” and stopped hanging out. Ironically we lost because we weren’t being ourselves but who we wanted to be: macho, but sensitive John Travolta in a pristine white three- piece suit and boots.
In sixth grade at Piedmont Middle School (PMS) my homeroom teacher was Mr. Bartley who looked like Gene Hackman. He had a hairy chest and wore garish polyester shirts with big lapels and tight Sansabelt slacks. Mr. Bartley would sit on the front of his desk with his meaty hands close to his business and anyone who didn’t do their homework had to stay after class and write an essay on why they hadn’t. It was always the dumb jocks who got detention…
In detention, Mr. B would clasp the tips of his fingers together and squeeze his hands, in a pulsating pyramid while he stared at you, grinning slyly. Occasionally he’d say something like, “I expected more from you,________” or “You know,_________this could all have been avoided if you shared more in class”. In the bottom drawer of his desk Mr. B kept a large wooden paddle with holes which he’d use to discipline the rebels when they were “bad”. I never saw him spank anyone but there were stories and no one wanted to be alone with him.
I thought Mr Bartley liked me because I used words like ‘intrinsic’ and listened to him intently when he spoke. I’d stay after class to ask him pointless questions about assignments and he’d scoff and squeeze my leg close to my crotch and tell me “secrets” (like how there was no Mrs. Bartley even though he wore a gold wedding band).Ultimately I ”connected the dots”, found a creepy new friend and now credit him with giving me the courage to be myself and take risks. I had a new crush!
I was popular at PMS because I was cheeky, Black and lived above Highland Avenue in the hills, all of which gave me inalienable status. Slam books were big and everyone different or poor was picked on secretly (but on record) by the wealthy and perfect.
You’d sign in with your initials or a symbol (stars, smiley faces, an exclamation point, a number, a dick, etc.) then answered the veiled queries of the insecure like: Who is the cutest boy/prettiest girl in school, the biggest dyke/homo, ”parkie” (loser, drug addict, spaz), who you most wanted to screw and so on which you then secretly passed all over school. By eighth grade we’d discovered Atari, underage drinking, trigonometry and ”third base” but in the sixth grade you had all the time in the world to care about what everyone thought of you. To have a slam book passed to you was considered an honor. Not filling it out was social hara kiri.
From reading the slam book I deduced that the right girls (Ceceleigh and Kristi) thought I was cute and that they all unanimously thought that me and transfer student Ranelle Dunham would make a nice couple. She already had a bit of a mustache…if only she wore a white, three -piece suit.
The slam book also led to a conversation with my new girl friends Cece and Kris about how I should “totally” run for Commissioner of Publicity since (in jest) we’d sort of come up with student body president-elect Warren Heffelfinger’s campaign slogan, “Vote for The Finger. HEFFELFINGER!” So I ran and me & The Finger won.
By a landslide.
When I was five, I’d often hole up in my room and read the dictionary to find words to use in conversations with my adult friends. Just as often, I wouldn’t know what the words meant but used them nonetheless to appear more mature. I couldn’t wait to be a grown up, talk about grown up stuff and do all the things that grown-ups do.
In grammar school I got skipped from fourth to fifth grade and placed in an advanced reading course and asked to say, spell and then define words like lugubrious and exorbitant. The principal would discretely take myself, Annette Chan (it was ALWAYS Annette Chan) and a few others out of class twice a week (like someone in your family had died) then usher us into a dark room we’d never known existed. School groomed me early on to think I was special and that special was good.
I had one real friend at the Frank C. Havens School in Piedmont, California. It was the early 80’s and my mother, Patricia, had just eloped with my stepfather, Mark and moved us from the flat but interesting Lake Merritt area in Oakland to the fabulous 312 Scenic Avenue, in the hills of Piedmont, with its labyrinthine roads and spectacular views of the Bay Area. I was used to shedding schools and the friends I’d made there but Piedmont was a rarefied world and I had a lot to learn about the social strata. I mean, I’d never worn two polo shirts at a time before. I needed someone to show me the ropes and that someone was Jon.
Jon and I hung out at his place after school exhausted from tether-ball and “extreme” foursquare. Sarcasm and confusion brought us together and made us feel better about being weird outcasts at school.
We’d power through our homework, drink Dr Pepper, see how far we could gleek or pop a loogie, trash all the jocks at school, smoke “roaches” scored from his sister’s weed stash and then listen to Beethoven’s Fifth from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack with which we were both utterly obsessed. Jon would let me borrow his terrycloth shirts and in exchange I’d do his chores. We were close and when we were together felt less awkward and safe, a feeling I’d chase after forever.
Jon and me talked about girls and lied about what we’d done with them. Sometimes we simulated the sex we hadn’t had with pillows or pretended we were girls, cupped our chests (like we had boobs) and moaned in our underwear. It was all quite innocent and normal but having sex with someone- anyone- was our goal since we were certain everyone else had and they were popular. Our school would be hosting its annual end-of-the-year talent show soon and we were both determined to win it by doing The Hustle and enter sixth grade as winners.
We made our outfits and practiced for days fantasizing about how popular we’d be once we won, how everyone would would worship us and how we’d be fighting off hot babes with sticks. I don’t even remember what the grand prize was for winning or if there even was one. I wanted to win but really I just wanted to be alone with Jon and wasn’t entirely sure why. I didn’t think it was weird to have a crush on a boy. He was cute and made me laugh and when I thought crazy shit and told him he said, “Ohmigod, me too”.
Surprisingly, we lost the talent show to these rich kids whose dad was friends with the rock promoter, Bill Graham. They scored authentic costumes, wigs, makeup and a fully functional band setup (although they lipsynched to a cassette) for their raucous performance of Kiss’ “Love Gun”. Dry ice, lights, minor pyrotechnics, groupies- the whole bit. Tight, professional, glam and theatrical they literally blew everyone in the auditorium’s mind. It was the first of many times that year that me and everyone else used the word “rad” to describe it when, in retrospect “gay” would have been more accurate. After that summer Jon and me were now, historically, “losers” and stopped hanging out. Ironically we lost because we weren’t being ourselves but who we wanted to be: macho, but sensitive John Travolta in a pristine white three- piece suit and boots.
In sixth grade at Piedmont Middle School (PMS) my homeroom teacher was Mr. Bartley who looked like Gene Hackman. He had a hairy chest and wore garish polyester shirts with big lapels and tight Sansabelt slacks. Mr. Bartley would sit on the front of his desk with his meaty hands close to his business and anyone who didn’t do their homework had to stay after class and write an essay on why they hadn’t. It was always the dumb jocks who got detention…
In detention, Mr. B would clasp the tips of his fingers together and squeeze his hands, in a pulsating pyramid while he stared at you, grinning slyly. Occasionally he’d say something like, “I expected more from you,________” or “You know,_________this could all have been avoided if you shared more in class”. In the bottom drawer of his desk Mr. B kept a large wooden paddle with holes which he’d use to discipline the rebels when they were “bad”. I never saw him spank anyone but there were stories and no one wanted to be alone with him.
I thought Mr Bartley liked me because I used words like ‘intrinsic’ and listened to him intently when he spoke. I’d stay after class to ask him pointless questions about assignments and he’d scoff and squeeze my leg close to my crotch and tell me “secrets” (like how there was no Mrs. Bartley even though he wore a gold wedding band).Ultimately I ”connected the dots”, found a creepy new friend and now credit him with giving me the courage to be myself and take risks. I had a new crush!
I was popular at PMS because I was cheeky, Black and lived above Highland Avenue in the hills, all of which gave me inalienable status. Slam books were big and everyone different or poor was picked on secretly (but on record) by the wealthy and perfect.
You’d sign in with your initials or a symbol (stars, smiley faces, an exclamation point, a number, a dick, etc.) then answered the veiled queries of the insecure like: Who is the cutest boy/prettiest girl in school, the biggest dyke/homo, ”parkie” (loser, drug addict, spaz), who you most wanted to screw and so on which you then secretly passed all over school. By eighth grade we’d discovered Atari, underage drinking, trigonometry and ”third base” but in the sixth grade you had all the time in the world to care about what everyone thought of you. To have a slam book passed to you was considered an honor. Not filling it out was social hara kiri.
From reading the slam book I deduced that the right girls (Ceceleigh and Kristi) thought I was cute and that they all unanimously thought that me and transfer student Ranelle Dunham would make a nice couple. She already had a bit of a mustache…if only she wore a white, three -piece suit.
The slam book also led to a conversation with my new girl friends Cece and Kris about how I should “totally” run for Commissioner of Publicity since (in jest) we’d sort of come up with student body president-elect Warren Heffelfinger’s campaign slogan, “Vote for The Finger. HEFFELFINGER!” So I ran and me & The Finger won.
By a landslide.
What I Don't Know Is Immeasurable
In the 1400’s, a law was set forth that a man was not allowed to beat his wife with a stick thicker than his thumb. Hence we have “the rule of thumb”.
Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was called “Gentlemen Only…Ladies Forbidden”…and thus the word golf entered into the English language.
The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
Every day more money is printed for the board game, Monopoly, than the US Treasury.
Men can read smaller print than women; Women can hear better.
Originally, Coca-Cola was green.
It is impossible to lick your elbow.
The State with the highest percentage of people who walk to work is Alaska.
The percentage of Africa that is wilderness: 28%.
The percentage of North America that is wilderness: 38%.
The cost of raising a medium-size dog to age eleven: $6,400.
The average number of people airborne over the US any given hour: 61,000.
Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.
The first novel ever written on a typewriter was Tom Sawyer.
The San Francisco Cable Cars are the only mobile National Monuments.
Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history;
Spades - King David
Hearts - Charlemagne
Clubs - Alexander, the Great
Diamonds - Julius Caesar
111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321
If a statue in the park of a person on a horse has both front legs in the air, the person died in battle. If the horse has one front leg in the air, the person died as a result of wounds received in battle. If the horse has
all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes.
Only two people signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4th; John Hancock and Charles Thompson. Most of the rest signed on August 2 and the last signature wasn’t added until 5 years later.
Half of all Americans live within 50 miles of their birthplace.
Q. Most boat owners name their boats. What is the most popular boat name requested?
A. Obsession.
Q. If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to go until you would find the letter “A”?
A. One thousand.
Q. What do bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers, and laser printers all have in common?
A. All were invented by women.
Q. What is the only food that doesn’t spoil?
A. Honey.
Q. On which day are there more collect calls made than on any other day of the year?
A. Father’s Day.
In the time of Shakespeare, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes, the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase……… “goodnight, sleep tight.”
It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago, that for a month after the wedding, the bride’s father would supply his son-in-law with all he mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the ‘honey month’ which we know today as the honeymoon.
In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts… So in old England, when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them “Mind your pints and quarts, and settle down.” It’s where we get the phrase “Mind your P’s and Q’s”.
Many years ago in England, pub frequenters had a whistle, baked into the rim or handle of their ceramic cups. When they needed a refill, they used the whistle to get some service. “Wet your whistle” is the phrase inspired by this practice.
Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was called “Gentlemen Only…Ladies Forbidden”…and thus the word golf entered into the English language.
The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
Every day more money is printed for the board game, Monopoly, than the US Treasury.
Men can read smaller print than women; Women can hear better.
Originally, Coca-Cola was green.
It is impossible to lick your elbow.
The State with the highest percentage of people who walk to work is Alaska.
The percentage of Africa that is wilderness: 28%.
The percentage of North America that is wilderness: 38%.
The cost of raising a medium-size dog to age eleven: $6,400.
The average number of people airborne over the US any given hour: 61,000.
Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.
The first novel ever written on a typewriter was Tom Sawyer.
The San Francisco Cable Cars are the only mobile National Monuments.
Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history;
Spades - King David
Hearts - Charlemagne
Clubs - Alexander, the Great
Diamonds - Julius Caesar
111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321
If a statue in the park of a person on a horse has both front legs in the air, the person died in battle. If the horse has one front leg in the air, the person died as a result of wounds received in battle. If the horse has
all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes.
Only two people signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4th; John Hancock and Charles Thompson. Most of the rest signed on August 2 and the last signature wasn’t added until 5 years later.
Half of all Americans live within 50 miles of their birthplace.
Q. Most boat owners name their boats. What is the most popular boat name requested?
A. Obsession.
Q. If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to go until you would find the letter “A”?
A. One thousand.
Q. What do bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers, and laser printers all have in common?
A. All were invented by women.
Q. What is the only food that doesn’t spoil?
A. Honey.
Q. On which day are there more collect calls made than on any other day of the year?
A. Father’s Day.
In the time of Shakespeare, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes, the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase……… “goodnight, sleep tight.”
It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago, that for a month after the wedding, the bride’s father would supply his son-in-law with all he mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the ‘honey month’ which we know today as the honeymoon.
In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts… So in old England, when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them “Mind your pints and quarts, and settle down.” It’s where we get the phrase “Mind your P’s and Q’s”.
Many years ago in England, pub frequenters had a whistle, baked into the rim or handle of their ceramic cups. When they needed a refill, they used the whistle to get some service. “Wet your whistle” is the phrase inspired by this practice.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Zodiacal
CAPRICORN
The Go-Getter (Dec 22 - Jan 19) Patient and wise. Practical and rigid. Ambitious. Tends to be good-looking. Humorous and funny. Can be a bit shy and reserved. Often pessimistic. Capricorns tend to act before they think and can be unfriendly at times. Hold grudges. Like competition. Get what they want.
AQUARIUS
The Sweetheart (Jan 20 - Feb 18) Optimistic and honest. Sweet personality. Very independent. Inventive and intelligent. Friendly and loyal. Can seem unemotional. Can be a bit rebellious. Very stubborn, but original and unique. Attractive on the inside and out. Eccentric personality.
PISCES
The Dreamer (Feb 19 - Mar 20) Generous, kind, and thoughtful. Very creative and imaginative. May become secretive and vague. Tends to be overly-sensitive. Doesn’t like details. Dreamy and unrealistic. Sympathetic and loving. Kind. Unselfish. Good kisser. Beautiful.
ARIES
The Daredevil (Mar 21 - April 19) Energetic. Adventurous and spontaneous. Confident and enthusiastic. Fun. Loves a challenge. EXTREMELY impatient. Sometimes selfish. Short fused…easily angered. Lively, passionate, and sharp wit. Outgoing. Loses interest quickly - easily bored. Egotistical. Courageous and assertive. Tends to be physical and athletic.
TAURUS
The Enduring One (April 20 - May 20) Charming but aggressive. Can come off as boring, but they are not. Hard workers. Warm-hearted. Strong, has endurance. Solid beings that are stable and secure in their ways. Not looking for shortcuts. Take pride in their beauty. Patient and reliable. Make great friends and give good advice. Loving and kind. Loves hard - passionate. Express themselves emotionally. Prone to ferocious temper-tantrums. Determined. Indulge themselves often. Very generous.
GEMINI
The Chatterbox (May 21 - June 20) Adaptable but need to express themselves. Argumentative and outspoken. Enjoy change. Versatile. Busy, sometimes nervous and tense. Gossips. May seem superficial or inconsistent. Beautiful physically and mentally.
CANCER
The Protector (June 21 - July 22) Moody, emotional. May be shy. Very loving and caring. Pretty/handsome. Excellent partners for life. Protective. Inventive and imaginative. Cautious. Touchy-feely kind of person. Needs love from others. Easily hurt, but sympathetic.
LEO
The Boss (July 23 - Aug 22) Very organized. Need order in their lives - likes being in control. Like boundaries. Tend to take over everything. Bossy. Like to help others. Social and outgoing. Extroverted. Generous, warm-hearted. Sensitive. Creative energy. Full of themselves. Loving. Doing the right thing is important to Leos. Attractive.
VIRGO
The Perfectionist (Aug 23 - Sept 22) Dominant in relationships. Conservative. Always wants the last word. Argumentative. Worries. Very smart. Dislikes noise and chaos. Eager. Hardworking. Loyal. Beautiful. Easy to talk to. Hard to please. Harsh. Practical and very fussy. Often shy. Pessimistic.
LIBRA
The Harmonizer (Sept 23 - Oct 22) Nice to everyone they meet. Can’t make up their mind. Have own unique appeal. Creative, energetic, and very social. Hates to be alone. Peaceful, generous…very loving and beautiful. Flirtatious. Give in too easily. Procrastinators. Very gullible.
SCORPIO
The Intense One (Oct 23 - Nov 21)Very energetic. Intelligent. Can be jealous and/or possessive. Hardworking. Great kisser. Can become obsessive or secretive. Holds grudges. Attractive. Determined. Loves being in long relationships. Talkative. Romantic. Can be very centered at times. Passionate and emotional.
SAGITTARIUS
The Happy-Go-Lucky One (Nov 22 - Dec 21) Good-natured optimist. Doesn’t want to grow up (Peter Pan Syndrome). Indulges self. Boastful. Likes luxuries and gambling. Social and outgoing. Doesn’t like responsibilities. Often fantasizes. Impatient. Fun to be around. Having lots of friends. Flirtatious. Doesn’t like rules. Sometimes hypocritical. Dislikes being confined - tight spaces or even tight clothes. Doesn’t like being doubted. Beautiful inside and out.
The Go-Getter (Dec 22 - Jan 19) Patient and wise. Practical and rigid. Ambitious. Tends to be good-looking. Humorous and funny. Can be a bit shy and reserved. Often pessimistic. Capricorns tend to act before they think and can be unfriendly at times. Hold grudges. Like competition. Get what they want.
AQUARIUS
The Sweetheart (Jan 20 - Feb 18) Optimistic and honest. Sweet personality. Very independent. Inventive and intelligent. Friendly and loyal. Can seem unemotional. Can be a bit rebellious. Very stubborn, but original and unique. Attractive on the inside and out. Eccentric personality.
PISCES
The Dreamer (Feb 19 - Mar 20) Generous, kind, and thoughtful. Very creative and imaginative. May become secretive and vague. Tends to be overly-sensitive. Doesn’t like details. Dreamy and unrealistic. Sympathetic and loving. Kind. Unselfish. Good kisser. Beautiful.
ARIES
The Daredevil (Mar 21 - April 19) Energetic. Adventurous and spontaneous. Confident and enthusiastic. Fun. Loves a challenge. EXTREMELY impatient. Sometimes selfish. Short fused…easily angered. Lively, passionate, and sharp wit. Outgoing. Loses interest quickly - easily bored. Egotistical. Courageous and assertive. Tends to be physical and athletic.
TAURUS
The Enduring One (April 20 - May 20) Charming but aggressive. Can come off as boring, but they are not. Hard workers. Warm-hearted. Strong, has endurance. Solid beings that are stable and secure in their ways. Not looking for shortcuts. Take pride in their beauty. Patient and reliable. Make great friends and give good advice. Loving and kind. Loves hard - passionate. Express themselves emotionally. Prone to ferocious temper-tantrums. Determined. Indulge themselves often. Very generous.
GEMINI
The Chatterbox (May 21 - June 20) Adaptable but need to express themselves. Argumentative and outspoken. Enjoy change. Versatile. Busy, sometimes nervous and tense. Gossips. May seem superficial or inconsistent. Beautiful physically and mentally.
CANCER
The Protector (June 21 - July 22) Moody, emotional. May be shy. Very loving and caring. Pretty/handsome. Excellent partners for life. Protective. Inventive and imaginative. Cautious. Touchy-feely kind of person. Needs love from others. Easily hurt, but sympathetic.
LEO
The Boss (July 23 - Aug 22) Very organized. Need order in their lives - likes being in control. Like boundaries. Tend to take over everything. Bossy. Like to help others. Social and outgoing. Extroverted. Generous, warm-hearted. Sensitive. Creative energy. Full of themselves. Loving. Doing the right thing is important to Leos. Attractive.
VIRGO
The Perfectionist (Aug 23 - Sept 22) Dominant in relationships. Conservative. Always wants the last word. Argumentative. Worries. Very smart. Dislikes noise and chaos. Eager. Hardworking. Loyal. Beautiful. Easy to talk to. Hard to please. Harsh. Practical and very fussy. Often shy. Pessimistic.
LIBRA
The Harmonizer (Sept 23 - Oct 22) Nice to everyone they meet. Can’t make up their mind. Have own unique appeal. Creative, energetic, and very social. Hates to be alone. Peaceful, generous…very loving and beautiful. Flirtatious. Give in too easily. Procrastinators. Very gullible.
SCORPIO
The Intense One (Oct 23 - Nov 21)Very energetic. Intelligent. Can be jealous and/or possessive. Hardworking. Great kisser. Can become obsessive or secretive. Holds grudges. Attractive. Determined. Loves being in long relationships. Talkative. Romantic. Can be very centered at times. Passionate and emotional.
SAGITTARIUS
The Happy-Go-Lucky One (Nov 22 - Dec 21) Good-natured optimist. Doesn’t want to grow up (Peter Pan Syndrome). Indulges self. Boastful. Likes luxuries and gambling. Social and outgoing. Doesn’t like responsibilities. Often fantasizes. Impatient. Fun to be around. Having lots of friends. Flirtatious. Doesn’t like rules. Sometimes hypocritical. Dislikes being confined - tight spaces or even tight clothes. Doesn’t like being doubted. Beautiful inside and out.
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