Went to wrong airport.
Scrutinized at security.
Flight delayed.
Missed connection.
Left package with gifts in overhead.
Waited 30+ minutes on hold to talk to Delta's lost & found. They will call me if they find it.
Everyone tells me it could have been worse.
It's good to be here, nevertheless
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Holiday Humbug Harumph
Via email, from me to my mother:
Would you prefer something that smelled like Lavender or Lemon & Coriander?
Her reply:
No
My reply:
What do you mean no? That wasn't an option. It either or b.
She wrote back:
Still no
Would you prefer something that smelled like Lavender or Lemon & Coriander?
Her reply:
No
My reply:
What do you mean no? That wasn't an option. It either or b.
She wrote back:
Still no
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
It's Nice to Be Noticed
craigslist.org >> Missed Connections >> M4M
Date: 2008-11-30, 3:19PM EST
i was leaving the gym as you were headed in (about 2pm)
you: taller than i am, dark hair, red Coney Island tee shirt. possibly the hottest guy i have ever seen me: 5'11, dark brown hair, brown jacket, rushing out the door
if there is a chance your the type of person that reads these things any of it sounds familiar shoot me an email.
Date: 2008-11-30, 3:19PM EST
i was leaving the gym as you were headed in (about 2pm)
you: taller than i am, dark hair, red Coney Island tee shirt. possibly the hottest guy i have ever seen me: 5'11, dark brown hair, brown jacket, rushing out the door
if there is a chance your the type of person that reads these things any of it sounds familiar shoot me an email.
* * * * *
I am the type of person who reads these things.
That Saturday I had worn my "I Survived the Coney Island Cyclone" T-shirt that I had slept in the night before. A constellation of red splotches formed a mini-dipper across the right side of my face. (The effort to pop some pimples had left me worse off.) My hair looked good. I had gone to bed with Khiel's Drawing Paste on my forehead and the residue that got into my hair and made it look thicker.
When I shared the posting with my husband Mark, I pointed out that I am "possibly the hottest guy (this guy had) ever seen."
"I know that already. Why do you think I married you?"
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Overheard at the Rally Against H8
If it had rained, we might have skipped it. But by the time I got to my friend Clive's apartment, he had to agree: "The weather is too agreeable not to protest."
So we took 1 train down to City Hall and joined the Protest Against Proposition 8. Whiteknot.org organized several thousand gays around the country to simultaneously to protest the hangover after the revitalizing victory of Barack Obama.
We emerged from the subway, disoriented by police barricades. Volunteers instantly rescued us: "Walk ahead four blocks and cross."
"Thank you," I replied. I turned to Clive,"This is all post-Obama. In a week, they managed all this with protesters and volunteers and all by using Facebook."
We meandered our way across the street and into the crowd as people shouted into bullhorns indecipherable objections and waves of cheers swept along the crowd like a random wave. The police had siphoned us into a sliver of the sidewalk. Somewhere there was a focal point with speakers but we could neither make out their words or see them whatsoever.
We stopped and let the crowd parade by us.
Two young men stopped in front of us, happy to have found each other. (This scene would replay itself over-and-over with different casts for the next hour.)
"Oh my god," said one young gay to the other. "High School Musical 3. You. Are. Going. To. Love it!"
"Seriously?!"
"Totally! It's the best of the series."
"Thank god."
Clive laced his arm through mine and smiled.
He let go and took out his camera, trying to capture the homemade signs. It's one of the major bonuses of a gay protest, particularly in New York. There were the obvious "No H8" or "Separate is Not Equal." But better than that were the "Always a Bridesmaid, never a bride (by law)" and "Gay is the New Black" and "Hate Makes Baby Jesus Cry."
I hadn't gone to a protest since the RNC appropriated New York for their convention. The last time I volunteered for a presidential candidate, it was for Michael Dukakis, but I somehow ended up Richmond performing menial work for the candidate Obama.
I'm not dedicated or reliable when it comes to activism, but the ground has shifted and there is an opportunity for change. The rain had stopped that afternoon, clearing the way for our tenuous resolve.
So we took 1 train down to City Hall and joined the Protest Against Proposition 8. Whiteknot.org organized several thousand gays around the country to simultaneously to protest the hangover after the revitalizing victory of Barack Obama.
We emerged from the subway, disoriented by police barricades. Volunteers instantly rescued us: "Walk ahead four blocks and cross."
"Thank you," I replied. I turned to Clive,"This is all post-Obama. In a week, they managed all this with protesters and volunteers and all by using Facebook."
We meandered our way across the street and into the crowd as people shouted into bullhorns indecipherable objections and waves of cheers swept along the crowd like a random wave. The police had siphoned us into a sliver of the sidewalk. Somewhere there was a focal point with speakers but we could neither make out their words or see them whatsoever.
We stopped and let the crowd parade by us.
Two young men stopped in front of us, happy to have found each other. (This scene would replay itself over-and-over with different casts for the next hour.)
"Oh my god," said one young gay to the other. "High School Musical 3. You. Are. Going. To. Love it!"
"Seriously?!"
"Totally! It's the best of the series."
"Thank god."
Clive laced his arm through mine and smiled.
He let go and took out his camera, trying to capture the homemade signs. It's one of the major bonuses of a gay protest, particularly in New York. There were the obvious "No H8" or "Separate is Not Equal." But better than that were the "Always a Bridesmaid, never a bride (by law)" and "Gay is the New Black" and "Hate Makes Baby Jesus Cry."
I hadn't gone to a protest since the RNC appropriated New York for their convention. The last time I volunteered for a presidential candidate, it was for Michael Dukakis, but I somehow ended up Richmond performing menial work for the candidate Obama.
I'm not dedicated or reliable when it comes to activism, but the ground has shifted and there is an opportunity for change. The rain had stopped that afternoon, clearing the way for our tenuous resolve.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
An Ark without a Sail (Moscow, August 1998)
The Moscow River passed before me so still and dark that it almost appeared motionless, as it stretched out in either direction. The office building was so close to the water edge that, looking out from a conference room window, I easily fell into the illusion that it was floating on top of its filthy waters.
Every time I looked out at the river, even for a moment, it lulled me into an inertia that felt particularly Russian. Perhaps it was the way the water darkly reflected the late-summer’s perpetual twilight. It anestitized the mind and imagination. The sun would not set till at least ten o’clock tonight, which made the day seem unending.
My work day had finished. From that conference room, I taught Russian attorneys and their secretaries, who worked for an American law firm, how to use Microsoft Word and email. I had come to Moscow three weeks before – in late July, after working my way through the Firm’s offices in Singapore and then Istanbul. It was my eighth month abroad.
I knew the curriculum by heart, and also every potential question my “students” would ask and my responses to them. That left lots of space in my mind to contemplate where to eat dinner, or what sights to see at the weekend, or to stare out the window.
On the opposite, and almost distant-seeming, shore I could see a Russian Orthodox church topped with baby-blue onion domes flanked by rows and rows of plain cement Soviet-style housing blocks. To me, this represented the tension of modern Russia, as a beautiful imperial-style church tried to coexist with those ugly relicts of Soviet utility.
Year before I had become fascinated Russia’s constant aching turmoil, to its almost absurdly poetic struggle. This attraction led me to study its history and language throughout high school, and then college. So to live and work in Russia, even for just four weeks, fulfilled a latent wish of mine.
Still I felt burned out, tired of computers and training, so bored repeating the same lessons every day, so I keep looking out the window at the Moscow River and writing email.
My friend and co-trainer Karen sat in the conference room adjacent to mine. I sent her an email:
“I am drowning in the Moscow River.
Are you ready to leave?”
Every time I looked out at the river, even for a moment, it lulled me into an inertia that felt particularly Russian. Perhaps it was the way the water darkly reflected the late-summer’s perpetual twilight. It anestitized the mind and imagination. The sun would not set till at least ten o’clock tonight, which made the day seem unending.
My work day had finished. From that conference room, I taught Russian attorneys and their secretaries, who worked for an American law firm, how to use Microsoft Word and email. I had come to Moscow three weeks before – in late July, after working my way through the Firm’s offices in Singapore and then Istanbul. It was my eighth month abroad.
I knew the curriculum by heart, and also every potential question my “students” would ask and my responses to them. That left lots of space in my mind to contemplate where to eat dinner, or what sights to see at the weekend, or to stare out the window.
On the opposite, and almost distant-seeming, shore I could see a Russian Orthodox church topped with baby-blue onion domes flanked by rows and rows of plain cement Soviet-style housing blocks. To me, this represented the tension of modern Russia, as a beautiful imperial-style church tried to coexist with those ugly relicts of Soviet utility.
Year before I had become fascinated Russia’s constant aching turmoil, to its almost absurdly poetic struggle. This attraction led me to study its history and language throughout high school, and then college. So to live and work in Russia, even for just four weeks, fulfilled a latent wish of mine.
Still I felt burned out, tired of computers and training, so bored repeating the same lessons every day, so I keep looking out the window at the Moscow River and writing email.
My friend and co-trainer Karen sat in the conference room adjacent to mine. I sent her an email:
“I am drowning in the Moscow River.
Are you ready to leave?”
(To read the rest, click here.)
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Staycation - Oct 6-10, 2008
This week I...
...went to Housing Works twice,
saw "The Duchess,"
went to the gym five times,
shopped at Sahadi's twice,
stocked up at Costco,
waited for FedEx to deliver thirty pounds of ground chicken,
waited for the contractor to examine the water damaged ceiling,
fasted while watching Exodus,
shook visibly while watching "An American Crime" and couldn't lose a feeling of dread the rest of the day,
fast-forwarded through Lifetime's Coco Chanel telefilm so I could watch Shirley MacLaine's parts,
cleaned out the cedar chest and took it to transported it to my brother-in-law's apartment in East Williamsburg,
finished digitizing the LP "Gone With the Wind modestly sung and played by the creator of its words and music Harold Rome" - bought via eBay,
digitized another eBay win - the LP "Gigi - Songs from the Motion Picture" as sung my Tony Martin and Gogi Grant,
went with Mark to buy his coveted iPhone (and lost him to it for the week),
had drinks with my friend Andy (at Musical Mondays at Splash) after not seeing him for almost two years,
helped my friend Evan celebrate his 40th birthday at his champagne party,
and said goodbye to [title of show] at it's third to last performance.
At the end of this week there were still stacks of books unread, a DVR full of movies captured from TCM, and many movies missed that I had intended to see.
My parents tell me they will never retire because "what would we do all day?"
...went to Housing Works twice,
saw "The Duchess,"
went to the gym five times,
shopped at Sahadi's twice,
stocked up at Costco,
waited for FedEx to deliver thirty pounds of ground chicken,
waited for the contractor to examine the water damaged ceiling,
fasted while watching Exodus,
shook visibly while watching "An American Crime" and couldn't lose a feeling of dread the rest of the day,
fast-forwarded through Lifetime's Coco Chanel telefilm so I could watch Shirley MacLaine's parts,
cleaned out the cedar chest and took it to transported it to my brother-in-law's apartment in East Williamsburg,
finished digitizing the LP "Gone With the Wind modestly sung and played by the creator of its words and music Harold Rome" - bought via eBay,
digitized another eBay win - the LP "Gigi - Songs from the Motion Picture" as sung my Tony Martin and Gogi Grant,
went with Mark to buy his coveted iPhone (and lost him to it for the week),
had drinks with my friend Andy (at Musical Mondays at Splash) after not seeing him for almost two years,
helped my friend Evan celebrate his 40th birthday at his champagne party,
and said goodbye to [title of show] at it's third to last performance.
At the end of this week there were still stacks of books unread, a DVR full of movies captured from TCM, and many movies missed that I had intended to see.
My parents tell me they will never retire because "what would we do all day?"
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Reconstruction (Warsaw: Late Winter/Early Spring 1997)
Krzysztof sat next to me in the waiting area of the Okęcie International Airport. We had said almost nothing to each other all morning and well into the early afternoon. His English was as good as my Polish. That might have been frustrating except that we hadn’t been saying much to each other for almost two months.
The terminal had morphed into a purgatory after the first two or three hours of aimless waiting. My flight back to New York had been delayed by a spontaneous luggage handlers' strike.
Well, that’s Solidarity for you, I thought.
From the airport public address system, I heard “Nowe Jork.” Krzysztof tilted his head towards the broadcast in an expression that was both hyper alert and furiously concentrated. I looked at him, searching his reaction for good news. His face became apologetic, and that told me that my status had not changed. I offered a small smile to thank him for the effort.
I'd met Krzysztof at the Kozla Pub. I picked him out of the crowd because he looked like someone else, someone I was missing very much.
It had been the 1st of March, my third week in Warsaw. I was a young man, 27 years old, outside the USA for the first time in my life. The Kozla, unmarked except for a single lantern above the door, nestled into a row of 18th century looking, brick artisan houses in the Stare Miasto, or the “Old Town.” It was a misnomer to call the town "old," as it had been rebuilt from the rubble that was Warsaw at the end of World War II. The Poles used whatever money they could raise to make it as an exact replica of itself, as it once had been. Unlike the rest of the city, it presented an old European, fairy tale charm. Every cobble stone on the very dark and quiet street was a reproduction.
The door to Kozla opened into a shocking orange foyer followed by a curved staircase down into the basement. Handsome men squeezed up and out while others replaced them below. The “Grease Megamix” played loudly as I walked down the stairs and through the flirting crowd to the bar.
That was when I saw a ghost. Or I thought I so. Almost as a reflex, I reached out and grabbed onto his forearm.
(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)
The terminal had morphed into a purgatory after the first two or three hours of aimless waiting. My flight back to New York had been delayed by a spontaneous luggage handlers' strike.
Well, that’s Solidarity for you, I thought.
From the airport public address system, I heard “Nowe Jork.” Krzysztof tilted his head towards the broadcast in an expression that was both hyper alert and furiously concentrated. I looked at him, searching his reaction for good news. His face became apologetic, and that told me that my status had not changed. I offered a small smile to thank him for the effort.
I'd met Krzysztof at the Kozla Pub. I picked him out of the crowd because he looked like someone else, someone I was missing very much.
It had been the 1st of March, my third week in Warsaw. I was a young man, 27 years old, outside the USA for the first time in my life. The Kozla, unmarked except for a single lantern above the door, nestled into a row of 18th century looking, brick artisan houses in the Stare Miasto, or the “Old Town.” It was a misnomer to call the town "old," as it had been rebuilt from the rubble that was Warsaw at the end of World War II. The Poles used whatever money they could raise to make it as an exact replica of itself, as it once had been. Unlike the rest of the city, it presented an old European, fairy tale charm. Every cobble stone on the very dark and quiet street was a reproduction.
The door to Kozla opened into a shocking orange foyer followed by a curved staircase down into the basement. Handsome men squeezed up and out while others replaced them below. The “Grease Megamix” played loudly as I walked down the stairs and through the flirting crowd to the bar.
That was when I saw a ghost. Or I thought I so. Almost as a reflex, I reached out and grabbed onto his forearm.
(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Do I Look Better in the Dark?
He danced in front of me, for me.
I liked his white belt the most. As he swayed and slithered in front of me, I kept looking back to the belt. I should get a white belt. Except then I'd need white shoes. We've just crossed midnight into Labor Day, so is that okay.
He had a beautiful compact torso. He was shirtless. The white belt held up form fitting blue jeans. His skin was the color of coffee with cream. I reached out and felt his chest - smooth and soft - and let my hands slide down his sides, landing on his hips.
He leaned forward and maybe said something. It was so dark I couldn't guarantee that his lips had moved. The music drowned out any sound.
"What?" I asked and leaned my ear towards his mouth.
"How old are you?" He never stopped moving his hips.
"Thirty-eight."
"Per-fect."
I liked his white belt the most. As he swayed and slithered in front of me, I kept looking back to the belt. I should get a white belt. Except then I'd need white shoes. We've just crossed midnight into Labor Day, so is that okay.
He had a beautiful compact torso. He was shirtless. The white belt held up form fitting blue jeans. His skin was the color of coffee with cream. I reached out and felt his chest - smooth and soft - and let my hands slide down his sides, landing on his hips.
He leaned forward and maybe said something. It was so dark I couldn't guarantee that his lips had moved. The music drowned out any sound.
"What?" I asked and leaned my ear towards his mouth.
"How old are you?" He never stopped moving his hips.
"Thirty-eight."
"Per-fect."
Friday, August 1, 2008
Eclipse
I passed my husband in the hallway, of our apartment. I had just returned from a week spent in Plantation, Florida, as Motorola, studying Six Sigma. He was leaving to meet his brother and his brother's boyfriend in Syracuse.
I will rendezvous with him there, after midnight tonight.
He has a cousin who has graduated from something, so his entire family is meeting there - mother, brothers, cousins, aunts, and such. It's the type of thing you sign up for unknowing when you pledge you marriage vows.
We will return Sunday.
I will rendezvous with him there, after midnight tonight.
He has a cousin who has graduated from something, so his entire family is meeting there - mother, brothers, cousins, aunts, and such. It's the type of thing you sign up for unknowing when you pledge you marriage vows.
We will return Sunday.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Quotable
"Give me a bottle of Bourbon and a half a chicken and I'll conquer the world!"
I don't know where I picked up this quote but it did manage to type it out after I heard.
Truer words were never ever spoken!
I don't know where I picked up this quote but it did manage to type it out after I heard.
Truer words were never ever spoken!
Saturday, July 12, 2008
THE BOTTOM LINE - a coda
Betty Buckley had stood ten feet away from my seat at the small theater in in Irving, Texas. I watched her in profile, singing "Over You" and I was. Over him.
That feeling came upon me in an instant.
James had sat next to me after his initial, jaw dropping shock. I had been better prepared. God bless the Internet.
James's current boyfriend/partner was of the accompanist of Ms. Buckley - Mr. Seth Rudetsky. I had known that. His column on Playbill.com had told me so. God bless the Internet.
I hadn't known I would end up sitting on stage.
That very week I had been visiting my sister and 3-year old niece in Plano, TX, which is the same thing as Dallas to those who don't live there. I had found out about Ms. Buckley's All Broadway, All Request show from Seth's column on Playbill.com. It was sold out by the time I determined to go. The box office had told me to come and present myself. That's how I ended up in the extra seats placed onstage. That's where James found me, just before the show.
My request, inked on a slip of paper had tipped him off. Who else could have matched "David Robinson from Brooklyn, NY" who wanted to hear Betty sing "I Remember How Those Boys Could Dance" from "Carrie - The Musical." When he came onto the stage to take one of the extra seats he found me. There was gap next to me that James's filled with a chair.
He reminded me, "You took me to see Betty for the first time. At that place by NYU."
"The Bottom Line? Did I drag you there?"
Betty Buckley used to perform sets there and I would drag anyone, everyone there. If you were dating me from 1992-2002, you went.
All of the rancor I had collected and could still resurrect from the village of the damned and dumped, evaporated in the face of James, innocuous and harmless. As Betty sang "Over You" I remembered repeating that track over-and-over 12 years ago. That when Michael called me to tell me he had AIDS. That he would die. And he would. He did.
"Over You." Yes for James. Not for Michael.
James provided closure in a minute, in an instant. Seeing him, talking to him, dissipated the worst. Water flowed under the bridge and shattered it. Talking to him I regretted nothing. We would have become a terrible couple. With Michael, I'll never know. I can speculate, but speculation is a guess that never trusts its own instincts.
James apologized after the show. He walked me out to my car, my sister's car.
I said, "Please don't." After a breakup everyone is guilty, everyone is to blame. Still it's beautiful to get that when you've been dumped. So I got that. Chapter closed.
So I said, "Look. Everybody gets a turn. Sometimes you're the jerk. And sometimes you're the one getting jerked upon."
He accepted that completely imperfect summary. Two hugs and we separated.
That feeling came upon me in an instant.
James had sat next to me after his initial, jaw dropping shock. I had been better prepared. God bless the Internet.
James's current boyfriend/partner was of the accompanist of Ms. Buckley - Mr. Seth Rudetsky. I had known that. His column on Playbill.com had told me so. God bless the Internet.
I hadn't known I would end up sitting on stage.
That very week I had been visiting my sister and 3-year old niece in Plano, TX, which is the same thing as Dallas to those who don't live there. I had found out about Ms. Buckley's All Broadway, All Request show from Seth's column on Playbill.com. It was sold out by the time I determined to go. The box office had told me to come and present myself. That's how I ended up in the extra seats placed onstage. That's where James found me, just before the show.
My request, inked on a slip of paper had tipped him off. Who else could have matched "David Robinson from Brooklyn, NY" who wanted to hear Betty sing "I Remember How Those Boys Could Dance" from "Carrie - The Musical." When he came onto the stage to take one of the extra seats he found me. There was gap next to me that James's filled with a chair.
He reminded me, "You took me to see Betty for the first time. At that place by NYU."
"The Bottom Line? Did I drag you there?"
Betty Buckley used to perform sets there and I would drag anyone, everyone there. If you were dating me from 1992-2002, you went.
All of the rancor I had collected and could still resurrect from the village of the damned and dumped, evaporated in the face of James, innocuous and harmless. As Betty sang "Over You" I remembered repeating that track over-and-over 12 years ago. That when Michael called me to tell me he had AIDS. That he would die. And he would. He did.
"Over You." Yes for James. Not for Michael.
James provided closure in a minute, in an instant. Seeing him, talking to him, dissipated the worst. Water flowed under the bridge and shattered it. Talking to him I regretted nothing. We would have become a terrible couple. With Michael, I'll never know. I can speculate, but speculation is a guess that never trusts its own instincts.
James apologized after the show. He walked me out to my car, my sister's car.
I said, "Please don't." After a breakup everyone is guilty, everyone is to blame. Still it's beautiful to get that when you've been dumped. So I got that. Chapter closed.
So I said, "Look. Everybody gets a turn. Sometimes you're the jerk. And sometimes you're the one getting jerked upon."
He accepted that completely imperfect summary. Two hugs and we separated.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Contraband
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia:
April 15, 1999
At dusk on Thursday, the call to prayer began. It's wailing chant permeated into my hotel room, declaring the end of the week and the start of another Muslim Sabbath in the Kingdom.Alone on the bed, I sat tucked into the corner of my dorm-like room, and waited. It felt respectful, although I didn’t know when the prayer would end.
Forty-five minutes passed and that seemed good enough. I went to the window and closed the curtains, and then turned to the desk built into the wall and started my laptop. It whirred as it awakened, starting very slowly. I opened a drawer in the desk and took out a small candle. It wasn’t the correct candle for the prayer, but it didn’t much matter. I was a novice anyway, an aspiring convert to Judaism.
Then I got up and crossed the room, turned off all the lights except a small desk lamp. That and the glow from the computer screen helped me find my way back. Sitting in front of the computer I double-clicked the illicit document.
I started to read softly, not really afraid, but aware that what I was doing was illegal.
“Yeetgadal v' yeetkadash sh'mey rabbah”
(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Wafting in from the Streets of San Francisco
I can hear the theme from The Godfather from a solo saxophone is coming in through the window of my hotel room . It's rare that you can open a window in a hotel, or any window above the 2nd floor.
"Extra" or the "Insider"? I can't decide and I don't know the number for the channels so I scroll forward through the channels until I get one or the other, re-starting the rotation at each commercial interruption.
USA Today and an empty wrapper from peanut M&M's litter the empty side of my king size bed. I'm working my way through a half bottle of Clos du Bois merlot from the mini-bar.
Billy Bush is a douche.
Who is playing that music? Now it's "Memories" from Cats. No. Wait. It's the theme from the Godfather again. Or something like that.
Will Britney Spears get nominated for an Emmy? Stay tuned.
"Extra" or the "Insider"? I can't decide and I don't know the number for the channels so I scroll forward through the channels until I get one or the other, re-starting the rotation at each commercial interruption.
USA Today and an empty wrapper from peanut M&M's litter the empty side of my king size bed. I'm working my way through a half bottle of Clos du Bois merlot from the mini-bar.
Billy Bush is a douche.
Who is playing that music? Now it's "Memories" from Cats. No. Wait. It's the theme from the Godfather again. Or something like that.
Will Britney Spears get nominated for an Emmy? Stay tuned.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
3 Years Later
I met my husband Mark three years ago yesterday - June 7, 2005.
"I can't believe you remembered!"
Outlook remembers for me and reminds every year, 2 days in advance.
"You pushed me up against a dirty bathroom wall at The Phoenix!" He never leaves out "dirty" when he retells it.
"You liked it." That's my part when telling that anecdote.
I gave him his present, wrapped up in plain brown paper.
He laughed at it, like the laughing came from his toes out the top of his head.
"I love it!" He held it up - a DVD - and read out loud the title: "Paging Dr. Finger. It's exactly what I wanted."
I came up behind him as we looked at the cover.
"Do you think that's real?" I asked.
He scrutinized the photo for a moment. "Maybe. But he's a small guy."
"I can't believe you remembered!"
Outlook remembers for me and reminds every year, 2 days in advance.
"You pushed me up against a dirty bathroom wall at The Phoenix!" He never leaves out "dirty" when he retells it.
"You liked it." That's my part when telling that anecdote.
I gave him his present, wrapped up in plain brown paper.
He laughed at it, like the laughing came from his toes out the top of his head.
"I love it!" He held it up - a DVD - and read out loud the title: "Paging Dr. Finger. It's exactly what I wanted."
I came up behind him as we looked at the cover.
"Do you think that's real?" I asked.
He scrutinized the photo for a moment. "Maybe. But he's a small guy."
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Stop Worrying Where You're Going
Seeing the 'Sunday in the Park with George' revival at Studio 54 last week - and specifically the song 'Move On', reminded me of a story I wrote 10 years ago. Taking another look at it now gave me a chance to see myself younger - not just in the facts of the story per se, but some of the unabashed phrases. See for yourself. This is vintage. As a fun fact, I performed this story at a Queer Stories reading, dressed as a 6'3" man in Little Orphan Annie drag - from red 'fro to red dress to shiny black shoes!
(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)
The Sun Will Come Out
I was walking my lamb “Cole” as I did every afternoon. I had named my lamb after Cole Porter. I was fifteen years old. Cole and I were walking through the deserted grounds of the Maricopa County Fair in Phoenix, Arizona. The ferris wheel stood still as the carnival rides sleep late into the afternoon. The sunset was still hours away as were the lights and the laughter and the screams. The Fairgrounds had opened at noon, but only the agricultural contestants and livestock were found before dusk.
I was a boy with his lamb surrounded by silent giants. We hadn’t passed a single person during our walk today. We were on our way back to the show tent when I spotted her. I had heard her before I saw her. In a cement band shell at a considerable distance a wee moppet in a red dress with a head full of red brown curls sang out with alarming clarity and volume. There were at least thirty rows of benches in front of the band shell, yet there wasn’t one person in the audience. In fact, I couldn’t see anyone else, anywhere else. There wasn’t even an accompanist. It was just me, Cole, and Little Orphan Annie.
“Tomorrow! . . Tomorrow! . . I love ya tomorrow!” she yodeled. Cole and I stopped and stared for a moment ...
I was walking my lamb “Cole” as I did every afternoon. I had named my lamb after Cole Porter. I was fifteen years old. Cole and I were walking through the deserted grounds of the Maricopa County Fair in Phoenix, Arizona. The ferris wheel stood still as the carnival rides sleep late into the afternoon. The sunset was still hours away as were the lights and the laughter and the screams. The Fairgrounds had opened at noon, but only the agricultural contestants and livestock were found before dusk.
I was a boy with his lamb surrounded by silent giants. We hadn’t passed a single person during our walk today. We were on our way back to the show tent when I spotted her. I had heard her before I saw her. In a cement band shell at a considerable distance a wee moppet in a red dress with a head full of red brown curls sang out with alarming clarity and volume. There were at least thirty rows of benches in front of the band shell, yet there wasn’t one person in the audience. In fact, I couldn’t see anyone else, anywhere else. There wasn’t even an accompanist. It was just me, Cole, and Little Orphan Annie.
“Tomorrow! . . Tomorrow! . . I love ya tomorrow!” she yodeled. Cole and I stopped and stared for a moment ...
(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Pest Control?
"Goddammit! She's back!"
Mark ran to the balcony doors, swung it open and shooed away the mama pigeon who had made a nest in our herb garden.
"I admire her tenacity," I said, although that wasn't supportive.
Mark had just thrown away the two eggs she's been sitting upon all week and hardly moved. Her dedication has been remarkable. We debated the termination of the unborn this morning as we walked aisles of Home Depot, looking for - and finding - a plastic owl. Our neighbor Ed swears the owls will scare away the vermin-with-wings. He got two. Today we got the last one left on the shelves. NY pigeons are tough, renowned for their persistence and disdain for the cars and people around them. A fat pest will fly up and away only a few inches to avoid us and then set back to scavenging or waddling.
"Oh. The other two pigeons are attacking her." He stood at the window providing me the play-by-play. "Now she's back and, jeesh, she's - yes she is - she is sitting herself down, probably to lay another egg. I give up!"
"Let me try."
I went out with a roll of irri-tape, scissors, and a stapler. By the time I added three or four more strips of the halogenic-metal, it looked like a mini-prom. She couldn't come back without walking through it and the light and sound has been designed to irritate the pigeons. Last fall I found a piece built into new nest. Still, there is nothing better, so I try again.
She didn't come back. Perhaps she lost her rumble or the deterrents worked or she had nothing to come back for.
When I came back inside, Mark was sitting on the sofa with his laptop in front of him. He had been searching for a second owl to mail order.
"Hey, look. This one has a bobble-head."
Mark ran to the balcony doors, swung it open and shooed away the mama pigeon who had made a nest in our herb garden.
"I admire her tenacity," I said, although that wasn't supportive.
Mark had just thrown away the two eggs she's been sitting upon all week and hardly moved. Her dedication has been remarkable. We debated the termination of the unborn this morning as we walked aisles of Home Depot, looking for - and finding - a plastic owl. Our neighbor Ed swears the owls will scare away the vermin-with-wings. He got two. Today we got the last one left on the shelves. NY pigeons are tough, renowned for their persistence and disdain for the cars and people around them. A fat pest will fly up and away only a few inches to avoid us and then set back to scavenging or waddling.
"Oh. The other two pigeons are attacking her." He stood at the window providing me the play-by-play. "Now she's back and, jeesh, she's - yes she is - she is sitting herself down, probably to lay another egg. I give up!"
"Let me try."
I went out with a roll of irri-tape, scissors, and a stapler. By the time I added three or four more strips of the halogenic-metal, it looked like a mini-prom. She couldn't come back without walking through it and the light and sound has been designed to irritate the pigeons. Last fall I found a piece built into new nest. Still, there is nothing better, so I try again.
She didn't come back. Perhaps she lost her rumble or the deterrents worked or she had nothing to come back for.
When I came back inside, Mark was sitting on the sofa with his laptop in front of him. He had been searching for a second owl to mail order.
"Hey, look. This one has a bobble-head."
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Reality Call
The towncar pulled up across the street. I put myself into the backset.
"What is your car number?" I asked.
"25"
I took out my wallet and called the dispatcher from my Blackberry.
"Hellohello. New Bell."
"I'm in car 25 going to JFK. I'd like to pay with my credit card."
"You travel too much." Then he laughed. "You travel too much papi."
"It's all for work," I replied.
"It's a living, papi. It's a living."
"What is your car number?" I asked.
"25"
I took out my wallet and called the dispatcher from my Blackberry.
"Hellohello. New Bell."
"I'm in car 25 going to JFK. I'd like to pay with my credit card."
"You travel too much." Then he laughed. "You travel too much papi."
"It's all for work," I replied.
"It's a living, papi. It's a living."
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Barking Hassid
He started barking at our golden retriever as he passed us on the sidewalk.
First we looked at each other, amazed. The Golden barked. She's an old lady and easily provoked. Dogs, anyone wearing a hood, and wheels set her off. I pulled Maddy back while my husband tried to restrain our two other dogs, lest then join in the melee.
"What the f-ck are you doing? Jesus Christ. What the f-ck?" We both shouted back at him.
The man puffed out his chest and spread out his arms in some kind of macho gangsta pose. And he smiled back, self-satisfied.
I cannot imagine in what parallel universe, he seriously thought he could pull off that pose of bravado. He was tall and skinny and pale and covered in a black frock coat to his knees, where the white silk stockings took over. Thick, black rimmed glasses further withdrew his credibility in this stance, but the giant mink sphere on the crown of his head ruined any hope for tough guy posturing.
But he just continued his posing as he backed away from us smiling, as we shouted and herded the dogs away.
I turned to Mark, "Is it a full moon or something?"
First we looked at each other, amazed. The Golden barked. She's an old lady and easily provoked. Dogs, anyone wearing a hood, and wheels set her off. I pulled Maddy back while my husband tried to restrain our two other dogs, lest then join in the melee.
"What the f-ck are you doing? Jesus Christ. What the f-ck?" We both shouted back at him.
The man puffed out his chest and spread out his arms in some kind of macho gangsta pose. And he smiled back, self-satisfied.
I cannot imagine in what parallel universe, he seriously thought he could pull off that pose of bravado. He was tall and skinny and pale and covered in a black frock coat to his knees, where the white silk stockings took over. Thick, black rimmed glasses further withdrew his credibility in this stance, but the giant mink sphere on the crown of his head ruined any hope for tough guy posturing.
But he just continued his posing as he backed away from us smiling, as we shouted and herded the dogs away.
I turned to Mark, "Is it a full moon or something?"
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Old & G(r)ay - NYC, June 2007
I slipped my orthotics into the black boots I used to wear only to sex clubs, put on expensive jeans and a red “vintage” t-shirt with a white Target bullseye. It was a brilliant, sunshiny Sunday in mid-June. The temperature sweltered near ninety, as I left Bed Stuy for Chelsea, taking two subways before hobbling up 8th Avenue to 21st Street and into the Rawhide.
Feeling around at the air like some bad skit, I stumbled into the bar, blinded by pitch darkness: black walls, floors, bar, and stools. The Rawhide goes back 30 years, as do much of the clientele. We come here once a year for the proximity to Folsom East, the kitsch, and cheap drinks.
Clive called out: “Over here.” He emerged from shadow, next to the front window.
“How old do you think he is?” Clive pointed to a man outside.
“A hundred?”
“Not me, sweetheart. Him.” Clive stood up and we kissed hello.
Clive had two more years until turning forty himself. Today he sported an aging rock-a-billy look: black combat boots, white undershirt, red suspenders, with the hair on his head shaved to the length of his facial stubble.
"God bless him," said Clive. His English accent made that sound kind.
The gentleman we were discussing, stood off the curb, pretty far into the street. Scrawny and ridiculous, he was shirtless, with one hand akimbo on his hip, trying to hail a taxi. He had tanned his skin to the color and texture of a football. His ass hung deflated, gently undulating, out the rear of his black leather chaps.
"I hate getting old. Older."
(To read the full story click here.)
Feeling around at the air like some bad skit, I stumbled into the bar, blinded by pitch darkness: black walls, floors, bar, and stools. The Rawhide goes back 30 years, as do much of the clientele. We come here once a year for the proximity to Folsom East, the kitsch, and cheap drinks.
Clive called out: “Over here.” He emerged from shadow, next to the front window.
“How old do you think he is?” Clive pointed to a man outside.
“A hundred?”
“Not me, sweetheart. Him.” Clive stood up and we kissed hello.
Clive had two more years until turning forty himself. Today he sported an aging rock-a-billy look: black combat boots, white undershirt, red suspenders, with the hair on his head shaved to the length of his facial stubble.
"God bless him," said Clive. His English accent made that sound kind.
The gentleman we were discussing, stood off the curb, pretty far into the street. Scrawny and ridiculous, he was shirtless, with one hand akimbo on his hip, trying to hail a taxi. He had tanned his skin to the color and texture of a football. His ass hung deflated, gently undulating, out the rear of his black leather chaps.
"I hate getting old. Older."
(To read the full story click here.)
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Epiphany
Friend: You look tired.
Me: Shit. I don't mind being tired, but I don't like looking tired. I wish I knew of some procedure to get rid of the dark under my eyes.
Friend: There is. It's called 10 days someplace warm, away from your blackberry.
Me: Oh. Right.
Me: Shit. I don't mind being tired, but I don't like looking tired. I wish I knew of some procedure to get rid of the dark under my eyes.
Friend: There is. It's called 10 days someplace warm, away from your blackberry.
Me: Oh. Right.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Deservedly Unsympathetic
“My hand is old!”
“What?” my husband shouted back from our bedroom.
“My hand. It’s old!” I was lying on the sofa with an ice pack on my lower back. My sciatica had been creeping up on me for a week.
“What are you talking about?” He had given up the other room and now looked down at me over the couch, folding a bath towel. I would never have pegged him as someone who liked doing laundry, but then we bought a washer-dryer and I can hardly get him to stop.
“I have liver spots on my hand. I’m thirty-seven years old and I have liver spots.” Small brown spots flecked the part of my hand at nexus of the wrist, thumb and pointing finger.
“You do not have liver spots.”
He took up my hand and flipped it one way and then the other.
“Oh. Yeah. Those are liver spots.” With that he dropped it. “You can get those lasered off.”
That last sentence trailed off as he walked away. His reaction wasn’t unfriendly, just efficient.
“What?” my husband shouted back from our bedroom.
“My hand. It’s old!” I was lying on the sofa with an ice pack on my lower back. My sciatica had been creeping up on me for a week.
“What are you talking about?” He had given up the other room and now looked down at me over the couch, folding a bath towel. I would never have pegged him as someone who liked doing laundry, but then we bought a washer-dryer and I can hardly get him to stop.
“I have liver spots on my hand. I’m thirty-seven years old and I have liver spots.” Small brown spots flecked the part of my hand at nexus of the wrist, thumb and pointing finger.
“You do not have liver spots.”
He took up my hand and flipped it one way and then the other.
“Oh. Yeah. Those are liver spots.” With that he dropped it. “You can get those lasered off.”
That last sentence trailed off as he walked away. His reaction wasn’t unfriendly, just efficient.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Why I Hate Third Party Candidates!
The endless news cycle around the presidential elections - 'change' anyone? - has reminded me of a story I wrote: "Exhilarated (New York City, October 2000)." It tells of my own personal reasons for calling Ralph Nader a 'spoiler.'
This story was effectively homework for a writing class I took at the New School in the Fall of 2004. The teacher gave me some really good criticism on the first draft: "Okay, we get it. Your ex-boyfriend is a jerk. So what? What was it about you that made you want to be with this guy? That would be infinitely more interesting." I took that to heart and turned the mirror back at myself.
There's an interesting coda to this story with respect to Seth Rudetsky - a very talented musician, performer, and writer. He cyber-pens a very entertaining, weekly, theater-related column on Playbill.com. Among the theater news and tidbits he introduces his new boyfriend James. Week-after-week he goes on-and-on about James and I just wish he would get back to the Broadway gossip. Then he suddenly drops James's last name into a column one week and I'll-be-damned if it isn't the same James from my own "Exhilarated (New York City, October 2000)!" He's a regular Nancy Cunard for the gay virtual blogisphere!
This story was effectively homework for a writing class I took at the New School in the Fall of 2004. The teacher gave me some really good criticism on the first draft: "Okay, we get it. Your ex-boyfriend is a jerk. So what? What was it about you that made you want to be with this guy? That would be infinitely more interesting." I took that to heart and turned the mirror back at myself.
There's an interesting coda to this story with respect to Seth Rudetsky - a very talented musician, performer, and writer. He cyber-pens a very entertaining, weekly, theater-related column on Playbill.com. Among the theater news and tidbits he introduces his new boyfriend James. Week-after-week he goes on-and-on about James and I just wish he would get back to the Broadway gossip. Then he suddenly drops James's last name into a column one week and I'll-be-damned if it isn't the same James from my own "Exhilarated (New York City, October 2000)!" He's a regular Nancy Cunard for the gay virtual blogisphere!
Monday, January 21, 2008
Never Make Eye Contact
I heard the ring - a pulsating tone from one of those two way radio things. It came from behind me, at the front of the subway car. Knowing better and ignoring that sense, I turned my head to look. I hate those things. People end up shouting into them with every turn in conversation preceding by a thought scattering "beep-beep.'
"What're you looking at tall guy!" I had already looked away, so the shouter was anonymous. It could have been any of the kids.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you in the beige! What do you think you're looking at!"
It's not beige. It's camel. Why am I letting these black, ghetto, teenagers bother me? Shouldn't they be in school? Am I being racist for hating them so much because my own thoughts and conversation keep getting derailed by their nonsense. Maybe I'm just a classist. Does the volume have to go up as the family income goes down? Why is every sentence punctuated with "n*" this and "n*" that.
Mark shook his head and gave a disapproving smirk, an inaudible tsk-tsk. He stood opposite me, holding the same pole, as the L Train passed underneath the East River.
"What're you smiling about guy in the green! Something funny!?"
Poor Mark. He had wanted to board at the front of the train but I had insisted on this position, calibrated for a perfect exit at my stop.
Then I compounded one mistake by making a meager gesture of defiance. To stand my ground or not show fear or protect my husband, I tuned back and stared. I looked some of them in the eye and didn't look away. I still didn't know which delinquent had been the shouter.
Nothing happened. I turned back to look at Mark.
"What're you lookin' at tall guy! Yeah! I'm going fuck you up. Seriously. What the fuck does he think he's lookin' at?"
I thought for sure they would get off at 1 st Avenue. There are still pockets of those neighborhoods that are poor enough for these jerks.
The taunts continued, through third avenue and onto Union Square - where Mark gets off the train to go to work. It didn't escalate, but remained a banal, persistent menace.
"Get off the train with me here and change cars. Please." Mark is often the most practical person in our marriage.
At the Union Square stop, we got off and quickly kissed goodbye. We ran back a car and passed the conductor. Mark held the door open so I wouldn't miss it. As the doors separated us, he waived good-bye. The L train all but clears out at that station so I had most of a bench to myself.
Should I do something? Tell the conductor maybe. That could be a whole other thing. They'd call the police. Could I even pick any of them out of a lineup?
The train stopped at 8th Avenue, the end of the line. As I walked out, I glanced back at the offending car. Those same kids were sitting there on the idle train as it waited to go right back where it came from.
Above ground, I sent Mark a text message to let him know that I had arrived safe. He worries.
"What're you looking at tall guy!" I had already looked away, so the shouter was anonymous. It could have been any of the kids.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you in the beige! What do you think you're looking at!"
It's not beige. It's camel. Why am I letting these black, ghetto, teenagers bother me? Shouldn't they be in school? Am I being racist for hating them so much because my own thoughts and conversation keep getting derailed by their nonsense. Maybe I'm just a classist. Does the volume have to go up as the family income goes down? Why is every sentence punctuated with "n*" this and "n*" that.
Mark shook his head and gave a disapproving smirk, an inaudible tsk-tsk. He stood opposite me, holding the same pole, as the L Train passed underneath the East River.
"What're you smiling about guy in the green! Something funny!?"
Poor Mark. He had wanted to board at the front of the train but I had insisted on this position, calibrated for a perfect exit at my stop.
Then I compounded one mistake by making a meager gesture of defiance. To stand my ground or not show fear or protect my husband, I tuned back and stared. I looked some of them in the eye and didn't look away. I still didn't know which delinquent had been the shouter.
Nothing happened. I turned back to look at Mark.
"What're you lookin' at tall guy! Yeah! I'm going fuck you up. Seriously. What the fuck does he think he's lookin' at?"
I thought for sure they would get off at 1 st Avenue. There are still pockets of those neighborhoods that are poor enough for these jerks.
The taunts continued, through third avenue and onto Union Square - where Mark gets off the train to go to work. It didn't escalate, but remained a banal, persistent menace.
"Get off the train with me here and change cars. Please." Mark is often the most practical person in our marriage.
At the Union Square stop, we got off and quickly kissed goodbye. We ran back a car and passed the conductor. Mark held the door open so I wouldn't miss it. As the doors separated us, he waived good-bye. The L train all but clears out at that station so I had most of a bench to myself.
Should I do something? Tell the conductor maybe. That could be a whole other thing. They'd call the police. Could I even pick any of them out of a lineup?
The train stopped at 8th Avenue, the end of the line. As I walked out, I glanced back at the offending car. Those same kids were sitting there on the idle train as it waited to go right back where it came from.
Above ground, I sent Mark a text message to let him know that I had arrived safe. He worries.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Crap Generosity
"You've got to be more giving!" said Tracy.
I laid on the massage table, cradled to my left side in the fetal position. I turned my head over my shoulder to watch my own feces travel across a clear tube - no more than a few inches in diameter - behind a small clear pane. I felt like I should have waived good-bye as it passed by my window.
"You've got to be more generous!" Tracy loves poop, or more correctly the total elimination of it. She runs the M.A.R.C. Holistic Center on Spring Street.
"How many of these do you do per day?" I asked.
"Maybe ten."
"Seriously."
"Yes. It's very serious." Her voice had a subtle lilt to it of the Caribbean or some such balmy island. "I was studying medicine in college when a friend of mine died of constipation. The toxins built up and poisoned him from the inside. So I changed my focus and studied massage and colonic. People hold on to all this shit. If I can help them release all this crap that they hold on to, it can change their lives. It can lighten your mood, improve your skin, give you energy. You'll see."
She stood up and started to rub my belly very hard. Tracy is a bodacious lady. She used her full strength to loosen the inside of my colon from the outside.
"You're being stingy. Look. Do you see that? It's gas. You're full of hot air!" She made herself guffaw with that one.
I groaned. The pressure and pain indecipherable but total and overwhelming.
This first session (in my package of three) happened just before Christmas. Giving this year had become a task list rather than an act of kindness or love or appreciation. Maybe that was my own fault because I wasn't "giving." So preoccupied with myself, everything I was taking in was not entirely coming out, agitating my guts. As for Tracy, I didn't know how to give her was asking for. I didn't know how to trigger my body into releasing.
"Come on, come on. You can do it," she coaxed in a soft voice.
So I tried to stop doing anything physically. Thinking about "release" and "letting go" I suddenly felt the pressure drop out.
"Look. Now you're giving. I knew you had it in you!"
I laid on the massage table, cradled to my left side in the fetal position. I turned my head over my shoulder to watch my own feces travel across a clear tube - no more than a few inches in diameter - behind a small clear pane. I felt like I should have waived good-bye as it passed by my window.
"You've got to be more generous!" Tracy loves poop, or more correctly the total elimination of it. She runs the M.A.R.C. Holistic Center on Spring Street.
"How many of these do you do per day?" I asked.
"Maybe ten."
"Seriously."
"Yes. It's very serious." Her voice had a subtle lilt to it of the Caribbean or some such balmy island. "I was studying medicine in college when a friend of mine died of constipation. The toxins built up and poisoned him from the inside. So I changed my focus and studied massage and colonic. People hold on to all this shit. If I can help them release all this crap that they hold on to, it can change their lives. It can lighten your mood, improve your skin, give you energy. You'll see."
She stood up and started to rub my belly very hard. Tracy is a bodacious lady. She used her full strength to loosen the inside of my colon from the outside.
"You're being stingy. Look. Do you see that? It's gas. You're full of hot air!" She made herself guffaw with that one.
I groaned. The pressure and pain indecipherable but total and overwhelming.
This first session (in my package of three) happened just before Christmas. Giving this year had become a task list rather than an act of kindness or love or appreciation. Maybe that was my own fault because I wasn't "giving." So preoccupied with myself, everything I was taking in was not entirely coming out, agitating my guts. As for Tracy, I didn't know how to give her was asking for. I didn't know how to trigger my body into releasing.
"Come on, come on. You can do it," she coaxed in a soft voice.
So I tried to stop doing anything physically. Thinking about "release" and "letting go" I suddenly felt the pressure drop out.
"Look. Now you're giving. I knew you had it in you!"
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