The Gays Next Door

A couple years ago Master P's newly single mother (Sugar) cast off the shackles of her repressive suburban life and set her sites on the big city, Chicago. No longer would she be burdened by the hassle of her three grown children or her ex-husband's compulsive blinking. It was a brand new adventure for her, an adventure bound to be fraught with all the ups and downs of a modern day Jane Austin novel.





















She imagined herself in a slinky black dress, sipping French wine as her dinner guests raved about her hors dourves. It was a chance for her to start anew and to reconnect with her younger, hipper self...at least that's what she thought when she made the decision to move downtown...at least that's what I like to imagine...

Sugar took special care when looking for a place to buy and she made sure to give the realtor specific instructions.

"I want to be in the middle of the action. You know, somewhere that's a short walk from everywhere…I want to live somewhere where I can go out for a drink at any time, day or night," she continued, "Also, and I want to make sure I'm clear about this...I must have MEN. I want to live near the young single ones…the well-manicured fellows who have never been married. Show me a neighborhood where the men share my love for wine and my delicate sensibilities."

















"What, like Boys Town?" the realtor asked, half kidding.

Sugar's eyes lit up and she smiled warmly, "Well that sounds delightfully naughty!"

She fell in love with a home quickly and as the realtor drove her around the neighborhood, she saw young, athletic men everywhere. Her heart fluttered and, aside from being slightly jealous of one man's perfectly even tan, she felt comfortable with her surroundings. She wondered if the Irish were finally getting their shit together. After all, there were multi-colored rainbow patterns all throughout the neighborhood. Naturally, she assumed that this was an Irish neighborhood and that the rainbows were a cultural nod to leprechauns, pots of gold, and God's promises.

God's progressive agenda





















As it turns out, she moved into the largest openly gay neighborhood in the midwest. Not that there's anything wrong with that....and nor should there be.

Just like there isn't any problem with Master P's sister and m-

OK, hold on a second. Initially I intended to develop a seamless and scandalously interwoven web involving Master P's mom, his increasingly hot sister, who was living with her earlier, and the friendly homosexual couples who they have befriended in the nearby area, but I'm a bit lazy. Also, I'm a simple person, and I realize that once you (I) start talking about Master P's mom, Sugar, and her daughter it's easy to get sidetracked.











Sorry.

In summary:

If you live near Wrigley Field, don't be alarmed if you see something that seems out of place...a man running down your street wearing nothing more than a green g-string speedo and a rhinestone leprechaun hat, for example. What you are seeing are homosexual tourists unbound by the constraints of a "breeders" world during Pride Week--fueled only by a proud gay spirit and the siren song of Debbie Gibson (and Appletinis).














Master P's mother, Sugar, and his sister (now studying for her MD degree out of state) lived together in this sexually charged and promiscuous atmosphere...in the same building...did I mention that she's going to be a doctor? HOT!

The gays who live in the neighborhood are quite friendly, especially if you have a patio in front of your place and are willing to share...and gossip!

Apparently, it's only an occasional thing for them to dress up like this.





















Sweet Tea Vodka with crushed mint, a splash of lemonade, and a smidge of Sprite is fucking delicious.

I feel as liberated to use the term "Gays" as I did "Jews" once I realized that it wasn't a slur, in and of itself.

I couldn't really find a place for this anywhere in here.

As Master P said to me before heading upstairs with some artistically seasoned flank steak, "It's nice having some friendly people nearby to socialize with, hell, we like to cook and drink."

I agreed, "They make good neighbors."

My Marriage In Post It Notes #6 - Walden Fucking Pond


This does not include the new bed purchased upon moving out to Los Angles, or the second-hand coffee table, second-hand futon, second-hand computer desk, kitchen table & chairs left by prior tennant, and hand-built TV stand for our symbol of the American Dream - a bigass flat screen TV. (I'd like to point out that we don't have cable. We're might as well be living in a shack in Walden Fucking Pond as far as not being defined by our material posessions. Or maybe we just own a lot of old junk. I mean, I wouldn't turn down a Harley V-Rod if someone left it in our parking space, and when you are living in apartments indefinately, what's the point of settling in, particularly when the upstairs neighbors just might be crazy in the stabby sense of the word, and anything you buy you have to move, and it's not like we're home much anyway, and doesn't it make more sense to save money for a house rather than buy stuff to fill up a shabby 1000 sq ft apartment in West Los Angeles? Right? I mean, Right?)

All righty, I'm changing the channel.
Someone I know killed himself a few weeks ago, and I wrote this.

Dear A,
Seems you couldn't see the charm
in your own charming human blunders
anymore

Now I imagine you as Spirit
shaking your head at your former self
like a much older man remembering his youth
wondering over how
you lost perspective
until

the stars shifted
someone gasped
and you were gone

And I imagine
that in your last human moment
you felt the horror of what you had done

And I imagine
that your first realization as pure Spirit, as a being of light,
was that you had always been one
along with the rest of us
each our own charming human flavor
with our own wretched and glorious moments

And this is how I will remember you:
Giggling impishly
at something you had said to poke at C
then straightening up into seriousness
but letting the giggles overtake you again
before you could go on
"ok. ok." you said, more to yourself than anyone.
"it's ok, it's ok." I say to myself -- am I dreaming?

Oh, A --
sometimes, in a space, a moment of frozen time shatters,
and I can hear the echo of your laughter.

And now I walk out into the night,
with Mama Earth beneath my feet,
look up at the blade of a moon that slices the sky
a crack in the veil between us
feel myself as a part of it all

feel you a part of it, too

I now return you to your regularly scheduled program.

Los Angeles BBQs


Los Angeles BBQs are a lot like BBQs all over these United States, only way, way, way, way sexier (and considerably more patriotic).

(Did everyone begin photoshopping invitations since I've been out west, or is this just pure southern California sexiness?)

See also:

Sexy Beverly Hills Library
Sexy Los Angeles Primary Health Provider
Sexy Hollywood Party

The Lizards

5 states, 13 days, and nearly 2,000 miles later, I have finally returned from the first expansive road trip that I have taken since the Abu Ghraib photos first began to leak out to the press in 2004. 2004…it seems like such a long time ago now. Thoughts of this year are stuck in my mind, resting in the back of my subconscious, waiting for their chance to burst into the forefront of my concerns like the distant, stormy haze of the horizon that loomed over us as we barreled down I-65 toward Noblesville, IN.















My driving companions seemed unconcerned. Sure, they suspiciously eyed the cars around them as they snacked on some hippie trail mix, but their concerns were not with the foreboding skies or a distant year, long forgotten. Their concerns were based on the more immediate fear of getting caught smoking premium marijuana, which they did with alarming frequency and a brazen carelessness for the "Stonededness" of the driver, me.

Hell, for all I know, "Mike" may be a serial kidnapper and rapist…he could be a schizoid with a reckless lack of concern for human life. I only knew a little bit about him, but what I knew, I admired. He was 34 years old, he had seen over 100 Phish shows, he had really great marijuana which he was willing to trade for a ride, and his girlfriend was 22. I put her at 21 and a half…maybe.

Was she even old enough to vote 5 years ago? Would she have known to vote for the Lizard People?

2004 was a tough time for our nation and the world. Despite the capture of Saddam Hussein, the CIA had admitted that Iraq's WMD program posed no immediate threat to any nation. The Iraq insurgency escalated at alarming speed. The United States decided that we wanted to watch George W Bush meddle with things like an irate infant for another four years. Housing prices soared. Bankers wallowed shamelessly in their own crapulence. Whales were spontaneously exploding, the Patriots won the Superbowl, Ireland banned smoking, the UN officially blamed Sudan for atrocities occurring in Darfur, a Tsunami killed over 200,000 people...and Phish played what were to be their last six sets EVER at a career-ending festival ominously titled Coventry.











Coventry…in a year of sick and dismal shit, Coventry was the diarrhea. Torrential rain and mud kept thousands of fans stranded without any way to gain entrance into the festival. It may have been just as well, though, due to rampant crack smoking, bunk acid, wook flu (A4N20), and the greatest band of my generation playing at their absolute worst. Trey, the lead guitar player and bandleader, was regularly slamming smack into his veins at the time and he almost nodded off several times throughout the weekend. Page, the keyboard player, wept openly during Velvet Sea, effectively ruining any enjoyment that I would get out of the song ever again. Frequently, the entire band sounded like they were playing in the wrong key. It was such a rainy, dreary shitshow that none of the "Phans" were really put off by the breakup. "Fuck," the overriding sentiment seemed to be, "There aren't enough drugs in the world to make this shit listenable."

To this day, many people who attended the festival refuse to listen to the recordings from those concerts. Many more deny even being in attendance, hoping that by refusing to remember it, they will somehow be able to erase it from their memory forever. But now, thankfully, the last chapter of Phish has been reopened with Phish 3.0.












I celebrated Phish's triumphant 2009 return by hitting up four shows in St Louis, Indiana, and Wisconsin. St. Louis was a fun show, played in front of a 4,200 person venue built in the 20's and stuffed with various artifacts collected from throughout the world and jammed together throughout the various tunnels and crevices in the theater. It was opulent and over the top. The stage itself was surrounded by golden Buddha's and Indian gods, arranged in a manner reminiscent of a giant, golden, Catholic cathedral. During set break I suggested the church-like appearance to the elderly usher working in my section. He seemed uncomfortable with my sacrilegious suggestion and took a few steps back away from me. I stared up at the ceiling for several minutes as I was hypnotized by the massive, guarded, heaving orifice which seemed to be descending closer and closer to the balcony as I stared at it. It looked like a reversal of that sand thing in Return of the Jedi. A girl came by and decided that I looked like a reasonable person to talk to while she was whacked out on ecstasy. After I struggled to form sentences for a while I watched half of her head and face ooze down on to her shoulder. I realized that the four grams of mushrooms floating around in my stomach were starting to mess with me. "I should mention," I said carefully, "That I'm surprised that you can make any sense out of the words I'm using." She left a little while later after having what appeared to be the most meaningful conversation of her life. I seem to remember her mentioning something about elves, but I can't be sure…nothing was making much sense at that time.

I tried to get my head together and found myself staring at the ceiling again as it bulged closer and closer to me. "Is that thing, uh, ceiling, made out of….like...plaster???" I asked the old usher. He looked up, looked at me, and shrugged his shoulders , "Yeah, probably." I was suddenly a little worried that he knew. I left immediately and wandered around the theater getting lost in weird patterns and staring at columns until I realized that the band was playing again. I ended up in a new location on the balcony for the second set. Nobody seemed to notice that I had stolen a first row seat that I had mistaken as my own. I encountered some difficulties when the balcony began shaking due to the throngs of people dancing in unison. I saw three people fall down as they walked back to their seats due to the unique tremors we were experiencing. The only way to maintain balance was to dance...but that only helped if you let the floor lead.

After the show I ended up at the swanky Hyatt hotel bar talking to a fan from Pennsylvania. He has just passed his last drug test after 5 years of probation and celebrated by catching a few Phish shows, buying me beer, and rolling joints for us to smoke out on the streets of downtown St Louis. He was a decent person -- despite being from out east. Then again, he was a Flyers fan, so he may have just been happy to hear somebody use explicit detail as they described murdering the Penguins' Sydney Crosby with their bare hands.
















After St Louis, I drove home the next day and went to work on Thursday as I prepared for Indiana and Wisconsin. Phish had released a "greening manual" explaining how to minimize the environmental impact of fans going on tour. Among the suggestions was carpooling via a ride share program. I registered in the hopes that I might be ale to find someone to keep me stoned for one of the drives and to blame if I was pulled over and my own stash was discovered.

I was happy to see an email waiting for me from Mike L when I got into work, "Hi, I need a ride for 2, me and my fiance. I can give cash or kind trade. I'm on the Northside, trying to get to Deer Creek and back to Chicago. Thanks, Grande"

This might just sound like some sort of innocuous hippie bartering lingo, but this can be directly translated into, "Hey, me and my freaky mama want to you to drive us around for 9 hours while we get baked out of our minds. We're engaged so don't even think about it. We can't afford a car, but we'll give you a bunch of weed or some gas money if you would prefer. Also, I'm a bit fat so you will need a little extra room for both of us."

So there we were, heading down I-65 in Indiana with an angry storm casually advertising itself in the distant summer haze. We arrived at the show 15 minutes after the advertised start time. I grabbed a nug and some rolling papers and slipped them into a sock, deposited the sock into my boxers, and wrapped the upper part of the sock around my wasteband. I looked up at the sky, took a swill of warm beer, and decided against bringing my rain poncho as I headed towards the security gate. Once inside, I grabbed a $12 double Gin & Tonic and took my seat just as the show started.

The first set was great but towards the end of it, dark clouds began encompassing the venue and lighting started striking in every visible direction. After the set had ended, the storm seemed to fade and I decided to look for my second trade of the evening. I had won two Phish tickets for an upcoming show in Wisconsin and some kid at this show was willing to trade me some "bomb dank" for them. After several failed attempts at reaching him, I finally got through on my cell. He was clearly under the influence of hallucinogenics…but mindful enough that he could follow simple instruction. He performed the "stay" command with relative ease. He could also hug…a skill which he performed with blissful repetition after I handed him the tickets.
(actual picture from Deer Creek)








I returned to my seat to roll some of my newly acquired smoke. A little while later, Page came out during the intermission and told the kids to, "Get off my lawn," since another line of storms was on a path to hit the venue. The show would start again in about an hour. Everyone in the pavilion could stay, everyone in the lawn was supposed to deal with the storm out in the parking lot. The rain came in and pummeled us, even soaking those of us near the edge of the pavilion, but the Phish came back and fucking raged the second set. A set which was the best that I had heard them play in almost ten years.

It poured for the rest of the show and people exiting the venue were knocking on strangers cars to bum rides and to protect themselves from the rain. On the way out, we gave a ride to a couple of campers and I was paid a surprising $20. When 2:00 am hit, I told Passenger Grande that I was feeling a bit drowsy and asked him to drive. I passed out and woke up 3 hours later in Chicago, well-rested with a car full of weed and without a storm cloud in site. I thanked Grande and his young fiancee for their services and I pointed the Honda north toward Wisconsin for the last two shows of the first leg of the tour. 2004 be damned! We have a new year on our hands, and I, for one, welcome our Lizard Overlords.

Yeeehaw!

Sleeping Lessons

The Bossman’s English skills are pretty good, with some peculiarities sprinkled in. He is taking adult swimming lessons. I asked him how they were going.

“I can put my face in the water, but I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“You’re having trouble what?”

“I can stand and put my face in the water, but I can’t sleep well.”

“Sleep?”

He makes a motion with his hand to indicate his body parallel with the bottom of the pool.

“Oh right…Yeah, once you relax a bit you’ll be able to sleep just fine.”

My Marriage in Post It Notes #5: Catching Up



See My Marriage in Post It Notes #1

See My Marriage in Post It Notes #4