Sunday, September 30, 2007

my droll existence of new-found moderation.

as tempting as lying in bed talking to my pillows all day is, i did that yesterday & by this afternoon the conversation was getting stale & marked by slightly awkward silences — so i decided to get out of the house and go to my favorite treasure trove of antique tools, war bits & general oddities. it's the only antique store i've ever been in where you leave feeling like a 'REAL MAN'. naturally, i love it.

so, i'm poking around finding one gem after another. i'm doing my best to be as unobtrusive as possible & make eye contact with absolutely no one so i don't have to talk if i can help it. that's what i hate about antique & junk stores more than anything, everyone wants to chat my ear off & god forbid i show interest in anything... they swoop in like vultures touting the provenance of the $3 pair of siamese cat salt & pepper shakers in my hand like i was at sotheby's.

tell you what buddy, i'll pay extra if you just shut the fuck up & let me peruse the bayonet knives in peace... deal?

anyway, i was in heaven:
1920's medical exam table
buster brown hatchet
edison head lamp helmet AND battery pack
old remington with all the keys
film projector
assortment of gears
art deco hood ornament
glass paper weight with a photo of a little kid riding a wagon pulled by an alligator on an alligator farm in florida
cat skeleton
little machines & electrical things... to name just a few of the items on my list.

what more could a girl ask for?

well, for starters... life in a city i don't despise. and with that thought i remembered i'm supposed to be behaving right now- not spending $500 on an exam table (even if it did have stirrups) or $200 on a cat skeleton. and not only am i not supposed to be spending money- i need to downsize my collection of shit, not ADD to it.

so i rather sadly put back the ice house & farm tools, decided against the munitions boxes that would have been perfect for my sewing things and walked away from the cat skeleton that had my name written all over it.

moderation is so boring. i'm not sure i can live like this. not even a single stuffed lizard to call my own.

sometimes you have to hate someone before you know them enough to really like them.

"youre kind of a psychological mind fucker
you have this really weird down on yourself thing
no baby, no man...
its kinda cute.
it makes you this icon in a weird debauched way
because there's the sweaty sex and stuffed cats, smoking crack on your birthday, weird tales about new york.
you're kinda a senile cat lady with this bizarre sex appeal.
its a strange juxtaposition that I find heart warming because its unique
its honest in a weird anti honesty kinda way
hard to explain
but youre a genuine article.
youre overall persona is a refreshing one.
i've always been hugely attracted to you
its the craziness
youre not a novelty
its weird
youre more like a potential hazard"

— from my BEAF (best estranged acquaintance forever)

Thursday, September 27, 2007

the last time i was at jackie 60... i died.

i went to visit johnny while he was working. all i remember him saying that night is:
'they let you in dressed like that' (oh the 1000's of times i have had to endure these words from the mouths of gay men),
'i thought you had left & then i saw you on the video feed from the bathroom' &
'are you sure you're going to make it home?' (as i crawled into a cab).

that night i imbibed less than a single vodka tonic. granted, i hadn't eaten for days... but it was the GHB that threw me for a loop. i'm convinced it was the drag queen in the dorothy pinafore that put something in my drink... she was not a fan of my tattered, holey sweater & leather jeans that looked as though i had just been in a motorcycle accident i shouldn't have lived through. apparently johnny wasn't kidding about the dress code.

at any rate— 2 sips of my drink & all i've got left of the next 48 hours are flashes of puking in the cab (& then apologizing profusely), waking up sprawled on the stoop of my apt on 6th st btwn b & c several hours later (not a good spot for a nap), my roommates hitting, punching & screaming at me in a cold shower & then finally waking up in lenox hill hospital 36 hours later.

i think my doctor was about to check me into bellevue when he rather gravely explained to me that my heart had stopped and i had actually been dead for a few minutes and all i had to say was "damn drag queens!" like a total raving looney.
(my apologies to all the wonderful gals out there who DON'T poison cute little thug girls... i know you aren't all bad.)

all in all... maybe not one of my better new york moments... but i have 1000's of great ones that don't involve covert operations conducted by large men in gingham & i'd love to see that all brought together for one more night. unfortunately i live 3500 miles away & nobody wants to see me in ANYTHING leather these days. i wore the holey sweater just a couple weeks ago though.... & got absolutely shit-faced.

some things never change.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

bromidic banter

it started last night. that horrible first rain when i suddenly remember i live in a city that spends the winter months in a cold, rainy downpour. i think it's like childbirth- i forget how horrible it is, other wise i could never make it to another winder (OR WINTER)... but it's sneaky & my mind subdues the depression until october rolls around, the sun disappears and then it creeps back in: this place SUCKS.

i got my first pangs of labor around 5 am (like i know anything about child birth) when i woke & heard a passing car splash through a puddle out front. my heart sank as i thought 'that's not urine he's driving through.... it's here again.' i couldn't fall back asleep afterwards. i couldn't stop thinking of cute art deco apartments with lots of built ins and a view of los angeles or a block from the beach. i've been planning to move since i got here it seems. follow through isn't my strong suit. i think too much, i over analyze, i try to be organized and prepared- down to the very last detail – and in the end i accomplish nothing in the real world. BUT.... i have a wonderful palette of colors selected for my future home, the hand embroidered linens have been designed and i know exactly what the first 25 meals will be that i will prepare in my phantom kitchen.

my imaginary world is so much more interesting than the real one.

i'm trying to give both arenas equal time- but it's hard. in the real world – where my italian linen sheets have not yet been embroidered with cute vermin – my hope is to have a new job by the beginning of next year. that gives me time to find a new house, a job, get jack squared away & pack my never ending piles of crap. my days of sneaking out under the cover of night are long over, it takes weeks, a full sized moving truck & a couple swarthy men. i have too much shit. i've also reached that point in life where i can't move into any old flop house. i don't want to live in squaller and i need room for books/art crap, a full sized working kitchen, i've got cats a bird and about 100 pairs of shoes. we are way beyond 'studio'. unless that studio happens to be about 1000 sq feet with a separate bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and living area.... i've really taken a liking to my dressing room too... having a dishwasher... and washer and dryer. god, this is going to be a tough one. i AM katie couric. fuck.

no, no, no... i am not. katie fucking couric doesn't collect dead animals and occasionally get a craving for braised rats. i am not a fucking soccer mom.... even if my suburban pudge & matronly, oh-so un sceney bangs would have you believe otherwise.
the pudge really has to go though. that one sprung up on me out of nowhere & i must admit- i'm not a fan. shit, that reminds me.. i've got a fucking 5' ballet barre i need to accommodate too. jesus, maybe i should be looking for a factory to move into.

anything, anywhere that doesn't under go 4 months of rain. i don't care, i can't handle it. i am so depressed. i don't intend to leave my house until i leave it for good. and i won't be looking back on this god-for-saken shithole of a town ever again. consummate waste of 4 years of my life. this place has ruined my career, my social life and now my waistline.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

the number of times i have cried like a baby while lying in the dark on the floor listening to nessun dorma

every time.

it seems hard to imagine that the two men who influenced so much of my early years in new york have both died within a week of each other.
first hilly krystal and now luciano pavarotti. disparate yet similar, one nurtured my punk education (& did his best to keep me out of jail) while the other refined a life long affair with classical music and opera (& did his best to help me understand soccer.)
i wasn't always so great when it came to staying out of jail & i still don't get soccer... but i had the best musical upbringing on the planet. sweet dreams to strange bedfellows