Category Archives: Play

The Village

Travel

This is my second attempt at today’s blog post. It will not be as cool as the one I just lost. God damn it.

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Aimee and I walked to Little India and had amazing Indian food at a kosher, vegetarian Indian restaurant. It was fantastic and delicious.

After that, we shopped a little – didn’t buy anything – and then navigated the New York subway system sans guide to Central Park where she hit the deli she’d wanted to go to, Cafe La Fortuna, where she bought Kevin a t-shirt and a couple of cannolis. We did not end up in Queens, which is an accomplishment in itself considering how little attention we’d paid to any of our previous guided forays into the world of public transportation here.

42nd & Grand Central

We made it back to Penn Station and from there walked to Steven’s apartment. Steven had to work from two until eight, the poor dear, so we hung out here with JoLynn a little bit, then I walked ten blocks to 8th and 21st to meet up with Deb and Jimmy at Bright’s Food. They ate dinner and I had a pomegranite juice-based cocktail.

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The gay boys in Chelsea are so fucking cute, you would not believe it.

Gay boy-watching is a totally different sport than straight boy-watching; it has a whole different set of criteria. It’s sort of like the kind of looking you might do at high school kids. You look because they’re eye candy, but you don’t mean it because, well, they’re kids. With the gay boys you don’t mean it because they’re gay. You look because they’re pretty, not because you want to fuck them.

Gay boys have their own aesthetic, and around here they’re so pretty and stylish, walking around smiling and holding hands, with their little outfits and their high-end hair products and their obviously too-obsessive workout and diet routines and their own highly specific and stylized expression of masculine beauty and sex appeal. The cult-of-the-body problem is tragically overrepresented in this population, sad to say, but they’re astonishingly easy to look at.

I lived in San Francisco once. The boys here are way cuter.

Steven has told me twice since I’ve been here that I have the fag hag gene. “Gay men love you, and you love them. You have the gene.” I’ve always associated the phrase ‘fag hag’ with those sad fat chicks who fall tragically in love with homosexual men and try fruitlessly to ‘convert’ them, but I think he meant it in a nice way. The men around here are just really open and sweet, and it’s a nice trait to see in a male population. It’s not that I think straight men should act like women, but it’s nice to see certain quasi-feminine qualities so overtly expressed in males.

“Stanley asked me once on my blog when I’d ‘turned into such a fag hag’,” I replied to Steven.

“Yeah, when did you?”

“I guess I’ve always been one. Even my roommate in junior college was queer. But there are only two out fags in Fairfield so I guess my membership expired from lack of proximity. You can call me and whine on my voice mail every so often to keep me in the loop.”

He laughed.

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After dinner, Debbie & Jimmy and I walked up to and around the Village. I saw The Blue Note, I saw a tattoo parlour I wanted to give money to, I saw cute hippy skirts I wanted to buy. It’s a cute area, but the locals aren’t kidding when they say the grid system breaks down there – the streets are all curvy and some intersections boast three or more roads all trying to cross each other.

We found a bar and sat and had a couple of cocktails and socialized. I told them to join us in Telluride next year; I think Jimmy’s considering it. I complained about wanting to stay longer, and they offered me their couch. I seriously considered it until I realized that changing my ticket would take up much of my remaining cash and that I wouldn’t be able to stay and eat too. Plus I should probably return to work on Tuesday so I can, you know, like, keep my job and stuff.

We walked through Washington Park and Jimmy hailed me a cab and I came back to Steven and JoLynn’s.

Now I’m sitting on the balcony with a bottle of water and an ashtray, and New York is being New York and it’s loud and wonderful and I can’t believe I’ll be back in my old farmhouse tomorrow afternoon. We’re leaving here at nine, taking the subway and the skytrain to Newark, then flying to Chicago, then flying to Des Moines (woe are my ears with all those pressure changes), and then putting oil in the jeep and driving back to Faifield where I will drop of Aimee, pick up Shiva and Stella (and probably something to eat), then a side trip through Libertyville to pick up Miss Bindu, and then home… where I will probably sleep for twenty hours.
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Images

Travel

I’ve been taking pictures with my camera phone, but since I’m roaming here I can’t send them to an email account – “network connection denied”.

I’ll add images to the preceeding posts when I get home. And then I’ll get all the pics off of Aimee’s camera and post them in the gallery. As soon as I install the gallery software, that is.

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Steven has to work today, so Aimee and I are going to Little India and then over to some restaurant so she can buy some food she wants. A chocolatier, maybe? Anyway, we’ll be navigating New York subways alone and with no native guide. Eeek!

Tonight I’m going to try to have dinner with Debbie and her husband Jimmy, but I don’t know when and where yet.

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We’re leaving tomorrow. Tomorrow night I’ll be home with my dogs in my own house (Brett won’t get back until Wednesday). I’m going to be honest and say that I’m not particularly excited by the prospect. I’ve wanted every vacation I’ve been on in the last decade to be over; I was always ready to get home among my own stuff. Not this time. I don’t want to go home!

Maybe I’ll just go live on Debbie’s couch and not go home at all.

Yeah, that’d go over like a lead brick. *chortle*
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Cocktails and Studio Work

Music, Travel

Last night after I blogged, Steven, JoLynn, Aimee and I walked down to The View and had a couple of cocktails. The View’s a (gay) bar and not a club, so we sat on couches and watched music videos and were nearly able to talk. (Until the drag queen puppet bingo started, then we decided to leave.)

You can’t smoke and drink at the same time here, you have to go outside to smoke. One point for Iowa: you can still smoke in the bars. (Score: New York 120, Iowa 1.) (Hah.)

Then we came back to the apartment and crashed out.

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Eight hours later, the alarm went off and we were off and running again.

We hit the corner Starbucks for lattes and muffins, then took a cab over to Live Wire (Cyndi Lauper’s studio, I gather) and recorded four songs in ten hours.

Studio 2

I don’t really love studio work. It’s intellectual, picky, detail-oriented, and if you’ve never done it, it’s hard work. Especially in a choir; we were working three or four people on a mic in a live-in-the-studio scenario, so if one person or section fucked up, we’d have to re-do the whole section. No punch-ins.

Booth

You’ll be happy to hear that I nailed my solo in one take. It took three hours for the group to record the chart, but fewer than five minutes – including mic setup time – for me to record my solo. One take! You may enjoy a moment of silence in worship of me. (Snort!)

We broke around 7:30 for dinner. Steven and I ate at Taco Bell across the street from Live Wire; every one else ate at Brick Oven Pizza up the street. Then we went back and did one more chart. Punch-ins were nearly impossible because we were tired and dropping in pitch so badly we couldn’t cut and paste from one take to another.

The engineer, Chris Agosto, was wonderful. Patient and professional and friendly, and he laughed at all my jokes (including the time when I mumbled, “Damn vocalists… we’re all so stupid and chatty.”). I really thought he was amazing.

Finally we re-recorded the entire chart and were in the booth listening to playback. Amazingly, the end section of the keeper take, which was bad and needed to be fixed, was able to be replaced by the end of the final take – they were in the same key. We’d dropped exactly the same amount in two takes recorded over an hour apart! Believe me when I tell you this is damn near impossible.

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On the subway ride home, we sang the end of Sweet True Love. New Yorkers are so fabulous, they absolutely did not give a fucking shit. I was wailing my solo, six other singers were singing the comp, the train car was full, and no one Gave. A. Shit.

I love this city.

We all kissed and hugged when Lindsey got off to connect with the A train, and then again when Steven and Aimee and I got off at our stop, and now I may never see some of those people again.

Now I’m sitting at the kitchen table, people are chatting around me, and I’m done typing today’s entry on JoLynn’s laptop. I believe I’ll go have a wine cooler. Ciao, babies!
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A disaster in more ways than one

LOTD

Hurricane Katrina – Our Experiences by Bradshaw and Slonsky, paramedics frorm California that were attending the EMS conference in New Orleans.

“As we approached the bridge, armed Gretna sheriffs formed a line across the foot of the bridge. Before we were close enough to speak, they began firing their weapons over our heads. This sent the crowd fleeing in various directions. As the crowd scattered and dissipated, a few of us inched forward and managed to engage some of the sheriffs in conversation. We told them of our conversation with the police commander and of the commander’s assurances. The sheriffs informed us there were no buses waiting. The commander had lied to us to get us to move.”

Viewpoint

LOTD

BBC News: New Orleans Crisis Shames US

The uneasy paradox which so many live with in this country – of being first-and-foremost rugged individuals, out to plunder what they can and paying as little tax as they can get away with, while at the same time believing that America is a robust, model society – has reached a crisis point this week.

Visit the link, read the readers’ comments at the bottom. Hot stuff.

Drunkard's Remorse

Social

In which I use chemicals to make myself feel like shit. And quite by accident, too.

When Corby and I sat at the bar a few weeks ago and discussed the world at large, we spent quite some time on the topic of drunkard’s remorse: that feeling you have the day after drinking of extreme shame and embarassment, even if you know you didn’t do anything unacceptable.

Corby’d never heard the phrase before, but he knew the feeling. I don’t remember where I learned it, maybe from Joe, but it fits. I know they go over it in AA and Al-Anon, in terms of chemical balance in the brain and endorphins and why drunks feel compelled to drink, blah blah blah.

Anyway, Monday I woke up with a horrible case of drunkard’s remorse. I felt stupid and ugly and provincial and obnoxious. I could remember all my interactions with people, so I know I didn’t actually do anything horrible at the reception besides offer a few sloppy kisses to people, but I still felt like they could all have easily been looking at me thinking, “Damn. She’s so stupid and provincial, so obnoxious. And why the hell does she keep repeating herself? I heard her the first time, for chrissakes.”

Note to self: don’t drink on an empty stomach. You’re simply too old for that shit any more.

IliumAfter waking up feeling like an asshole, I was ready for grease. Brett and I went out to breakfast with Bo at Fairfield Family Restaurant. Then we went back to Bo’s place to watch football. I took a nap on one of his couches.

Brett and I got home around three, I think, and I spent more time messing with my computer and reading Ilium and thinking about knitting. I tried not to dwell on how stupid and ugly and provincial I was feeling. I also didn’t dwell on the dirty dishes so much that they didn’t get done. At 7:30 I made cabbage and noodles and a massive salad, and we ate it from a TV tray in our dark living room in front of Titanic, which, inexplicably, was what Brett was watching. I went to bed early. Today, I merely feel awkward and unattractive. Tomorrow I should be fine. One hopes.

Reception

Social

In which I cut the sleeves off an old bride’s maid’s dress – eggplant, floorlength, strappy, six-paneled, and synthetic – and wear it to a party.

Elisabeth and Nathan were married at a quarter to four on Sunday, but we didn’t go to the wedding. I was napping, and Brett was probably sitting on the couch watching TV.

As I was getting dressed to go to the reception though, Brett, who’d said he didn’t want to go, changed his mind and hopped in the shower. When he was clean and dressed, and I had done my hair and make up, we hopped in his truck and left for town. I had a moment of thinking, “This isn’t a good idea, us going together. He’ll want to leave early. Damn.” But on we went.

We were half an hour late, but the reception was just getting into full swing. The dance floor was filled with a gaggle of screaming, dancing, flailing children, some in their wedding finery and the rest dressed as superheroes. One toddler climbed the dais and was heading hand-out straight for the cake but a dad, seemingly materializing out of nowhere, swooped her up before the cake could have a handful of frosting removed from it. “Now that’s good parenting,” I said to the person standing next to me.

I wandered around seeing the wonderful out-of-town people, and gave lots of hugs and kisses to old friends. Eventually I found the bar and got a glass of cabernet, then I sat with Kevin & Aimee for the toasts. Bijan came to sit with us.

wedding

Bijan gave the funniest toast I’ve ever heard about eating mystery-meat-on-a-stick in Chinatown and spending the night in the couple’s guest room emitting horrible flatulence. I think Aimee thought it was crass, which it certainly was, but I laughed my ass off. It was a nice counterpoint to the sweet, lovey-dovey toasts that had gone before. I like a lovey-dovey toast as much as anyone, but a wedding celebration should encompass both the estoteric and the profane, just as a marriage does.

I don’t know about yours, but my marriage certainly seems to involve a great deal of farting.

I was found by my beloved Eliana and hung out with her for awhile, missing the cake cutting and the throwing of the bouquet. I kept drinking cabernet. Eventually Eliana and I parted and I wandered around accosting people, having no idea how drunk I’d gotten. Every time I went to get my glass refilled, I asked Eli if anyone had told him in the last twenty minutes that he was adorable. I told Tammy that her kids were gorgeous and that she was a saint. I noticed myself repeating things for emphasis – a horrible habit I have, but one I can’t seem to break – and I started kissing people on the lips.

Eventually my path crossed Brett’s again and of course he wanted to leave. I went to see if I could crash with Hattie & Joe, and they said I could, so I went back and told Brett that. Inexplicably, it pissed him off so I left with him. At eleven. All those cool people in town and a big dress-up party to see them at, but he wanted to go home at eleven!

I hate him.

On the other hand, when we were driving home I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, and realized I was totally shitfaced and probably would have gotten (even more) obnoxious if I’d stayed there. So it worked out for the best, even though I was hurt and pissed we had to leave when I was having so much fun. And I’d just discovered the hors d’ouvres, and hadn’t had as much time to munch on them as I’d wanted. Goat cheese and pesto – yum!
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