Magical Thinking Man

The dreams keep coming. We’re all well acquainted with my fondness for magical thinking and sly manifestations. So, it’s no surprise that one of the skeletons in the my subconscious closet is rattling its way to the surface.
Summer in NYC is anathema to monogamy. The worst possible time to wish for steady company. Yet, the dissatisfaction from internet encounters with men either in relationships, looking for relationships, or some kind of generic fetish poster boy has left me wondering anew about that dubious middle-ground somewhere between the NSA (no strings attached) fuck buddy and the casual relationship. Now that I’ve spoken it into being, let’s get to the dream.

I’m in a car, parking, going into a crowded bar. It feels like a Wall Street hole in the wall. The kind of place where men who have retained their low-life tastes go to spend their high tax bracket paychecks. This one, in particular, was crowded with closeted gay men. Again, no strangers to this little Indian. Throughout my late teens I made a sport of collecting married men. The sight of their wedding band hands pawing my tender brown vittles was all the money shot I needed. For this reason, I would’ve made a terrible street whore. I was too invested in the narcissistic taunt and not enough in the full-release happy ending.
Yet, taunt I did. Making my way through this dark, smoky “chaps pub” crowded with white button-down shirts loosened at the collars, I focused on one guy in particular. He was sitting at the bar with a posse of his friends, including the bartender. As soon as I sauntered up, this guy threw his arm around me, nuzzled his head in my chest, rubbed the back of my neck and proposed a toast with such aww-shucks earnest intensity it almost melted my icy heart.
I could sense a few of his friends giving me the “hairy eyeball” as Terre calls it. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit making a conscious effort to avoid returning the sideways glances. This man had clearly broken some intimate good news to his friends, so all eyes were on me. Anyone in that crowd with any kind of radar could’ve smelled my reticence in the air if they sniffed hard enough. I suspected one or two did but I tried not to avoid them anyway. This former chicken knows how to play chicken with the best hawks.
I can’t describe any of their faces now, but they were in their early 30’s and not typical brokers; these guys had been slackers who got lucky or got wise and retained a streetwise earthiness. They were also swarthy types, not uptight WASPS. As I stood there, literally being arm candy, I played up my trophy wife role. I smiled, I laughed, I kissed my future husband passionately, I hoisted my shot glass and slammed it back and down on the bar upside down and empty to thunderous applause and yet more kisses.
That’s when I think I squirmed visibly for the first time, at least enough for someone in the corner to register. Damn, I thought, here’s this great guy who’s the best of both worlds, a reformed thug with money and manners and dark stubble, and here I am, toasting half-heartedly, hiding my ambivalence in plain sight. In my dream I knew I really cared for this guy, but I also realized on the brink of commitment again that I was not capable of this. Reciprocating unconditional love was never my forte. I’d always been a finicky, tempestuous lover. I had lulled myself yet again into believing that wishing for wedded bliss, I could attain or manifest it. Yet, even in this pitch-dark, picture perfect dream scenario, I could see my shortcomings clearly.
As one of his friends, the guy in the corner who had registered my self-doubt, approached to say something – presumably to congratulate me, whispering something scandalous in my ear as he hugged me and squeezed my hand a little too long, in just the wrong way – I excused myself. As I turned to find the restroom, the tension of the dream woke me up.
Staring at the ceiling, wondering what time it was, I thought of comic Jake Johanson’s nightmare skit “bring him out of it, quick…”

Yes, please bring me out of this. But into what?

Exposed to Freestyle

Expose and the Freestyle Summer Jam are hitting the road! Chances are if you grew up in any kind of Barrio in L.A., Miami, NYC, Texas or Chi-town this was bumpin’ around the way. The post-disco/proto-Italo/Latin/electrofunk-laced hybrid remains in a time warp, but in it’s heyday it paved the way for the likes of producers like Masters at Work. Most of the vocalists, like Lisa Lisa, Nocera, Safire, Cover Girls, Trinere and even Expose (once “the top girl group since the Supremes”) didn’t fare quite as well. And, let’s not even talk about the guys.

Exposé – Live Performance Promo

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03 – nocera – summ…

I Was Dreaming When I Wrote This…

But, please, don’t sue me if I go too fast.

This morning I woke up with Prince’s “Adore” from Sign O’ the Times in my head.
I had been dreaming that I was drifting out to sea, encouraged by the tide and some hipster in a hat. When we got out a bit far, I realized I couldn’t swim so well. Noticing my panic and our predicament, the hipster said, “Sometimes, you just gotta do whatever works” – then went under. I clung to an old pier post that popped up, waiting for him to resurface through the ripples and bubbles. Instead, Prince alighted on the post. He was a fairy with wings and flowers and he was doing the closing falsetto yelps at the end of “Adore”. When I looked back, I realized the shore wasn’t as distant as I remembered, so I jumped and landed in shallow water.
An auto body chop shop had materialized near the shore, and there were cars being dumped out its back door into the ocean. I panicked again, hoping whoever was behind this toxic enterprise wouldn’t notice me poking about. Someone entered the shop and noticed me splashing around. That’s when I “woke up” the first time.
Suddenly, I was in bed with the Ex. I told him about the strange dream I just had. He guessed the song and hummed the same final bars, then said he had to “go into the city” for some art supplies. I said OK, and went back to bed.
When I “woke up” again, I was in my grandparent’s old house in Cancun. I could hear and see the ocean from my bed.
That was when I finally woke up again, this time for real, safe and sound, back in my comfy a/c cooled NYC pad. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the fish tank; the first thing I heard over the a/c was the gurgling of the aquarium pump. I noticed one of the sharks chasing the Ghost Fish around. I tapped on the glass to make him stop.
Before I could forget, I texted the ex. “U were singin Prince in my dream within a dream…”
My doctor said there would be dreams like this on these meds. No need to guess what I’ll be listening to all day.
Prince – Adore

T’s Fantastical 33rd

Or, Beavis and Butthead Go To the Movies.

Terre’s 33rd birthday was today. He spent most of it with his mom who’s in town with her girlfriend for a few days. They’re on a summer-long multi-state family tour. The first and last time we met was one night 12 years ago when she came to Foxxy’s in Chicago and partied with everyone.
It’s true. The fruit does not fall from the tree. The cute profile, the sense of humor and gusto – all there. A few years ago, Terre and I were sitting in Thompkins Park reading an article in the Village Voice that gave props to gay boys raised by dyke moms. Compassion? Check. Resilience? Check. Independence? Check. Joi de vivre? Check. As we went down the list, claiming redeeming traits, we gave ourselves and our moms high fives and snaps. Check-slap, check-snap! Last night, eating late-night deli sandwiches with them and giggling over bawdy nonsense reaffirmed it. We’ve all mellowed and rounded out some, but the spirit’s still there. And so is the flawless skin.
Today, was the best birthday present any Louisiana-born, Chicago-raised mamma’s boy could ask for – a muggy, stormy, NYC summer night. After their dinner and window shopping, Terre came over. I’d stayed home sick again, but it was his birthday, so I was going to make some effort, bronchitis or not.
After deciding not to “go downtown” as it were, I spontaneously suggested going to see Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. I’m not a big comics fan, but Terre, like a lot of my friends, is; and I do love big, loud summer flicks. And it was better than “being in some gay bar downtown” because, well, “you know what that means” he said. Indeed.
So we did a quick Google on ye ole MacBook and found a few screenings on the Upper West Side and in Times Square. Before we could debate it too much and change our minds, we headed downstairs to hail a cab on CPW. Outside, high winds were knocking everyone and everything about; there’d been flash flood warnings, a brief blackout on the East Side and black clouds still hovered overhead.
When we got to 86th street, we realized we had the wrong theater. Immediately I blamed my numeric dyslexia – I transpose numbers all the time. “Damn, it must be 68th street,” I muttered. “Or maybe it’s on the East Side” T suggested. We asked the lady in the ticket booth and she confirmed 68th was right. So, we started walking. Along the way, we popped into a Starbucks to get coffee and confirm the showtime on his Sidekick.
Then, it started storming – lightning, thunder, thick sheets of warm drops flooded the hood within minutes. We hopped in another cab, a dozen blocks to the right multiplex. We bought our tickets from one of the self-serve kiosks and went to a diner up the block while we waited.
Inside, the diner seemed very gay friendly. A male couple hovered in the doorway, a pair of gay moms nursed a crying newborn, a couple of cute DL bro’s kept looking over from their booth across the way, and the South Americans in the booth behind us were definitely not-so-secret society. “Doesn’t this place seem very…that way,” I asked. “Yup,” he nodded without looking away from his menu, listing the same characters I had noticed. It looked like the place hadn’t been redone since the 70’s – it was all dark wood and green plants, with a tacked-on glass gazebo. Terre had a big chunky lentil soup, baked potato and Ginger Ale; I had a Matzoh ball soup, a grilled cheese on rye and peppermint tea. When in that way, keep it very that way. The food came quickly and was comforting and the bill was cheap – $15. “We’re coming back here,” we decided. Outside, it was still raining.
We dashed into the multiplex, took the escalators to the Imax screen accidentally, then went in to what we thought was the correct theater. It said “F4″ on it’s Egyptian themed transom, but once inside I had the feeling we were in the wrong place. “Did we miss all the previews? Is this how it starts, right in the middle of all this crazy action?” 45 minutes passed before we got to the big showdown and realized, we were in the wrong screening room.
We got up and wandered freely into the correct one just as the Silver Surfer made his first appearance. “Good,” we thought, “we missed all the blah blah blah and got here just in time for the action.” When we reached the point at which we had entered in the other theater, we got up and left again. As I waited for Terre to use the bathroom, I noticed no one monitoring any of the entrances to any of the other screens. We could’ve easily walked into a 3rd showing without anyone noticing. But, our options were not tantalizing. Ocean’s 13 – nah; Sicko – not tonight; Knocked Up – not at this hour. It was still raining, and neither of us felt like having a late night. We saw what we came for, so we decided to just head back home for our umpteenth nightcap in almost 13 years. I forget, but Terre was barely 22 when we moved to NYC almost 11 years ago.
Why can’t we stay cute club kids forever? Because – we make even foxier 30-somethings!
Happy magic number 33, heathen!

When a Stranger Calls

Who called? Don’t recognize the digits? Nothing on the line when/if you pick up? If you like conspiracy theories, check out WhoCalled.US. Enter the number and you’ll see comments posted by people everywhere. Today, I got one from a 303 number, identified as Product Development.This seems to be related to Verizon verifying phone book deliveries, but you know there’s more than 1 theory online. Here’s what WhoCalled.Us had on file. They’ll even map out all the reported incidents, creating a peculiar kind of social networking experience. Jayzee rings in first.

134 Comments

2006-07-24jayzee

Just rang in and no message on my machine.

Scott

Like jayzee, they called and when I picked up, no one said anything

Randolfe

This number now calling my cell phone numbers (T-Mobile). No answer or now voicemail left.

JG

Got caller ID July 28th at 5:23pm name was “Product Dev” I did not pick up. There’s a rumor going around that this is a new tactic being used. These companies call you now and make note of what time you pick up and answer and when you don’t and then re-sell that data to telemarketers so they can call you at a time you are more likely to answer the phone. That’s why they don’t talk to you. They’re only interested in whether or not you pick up the phone and at what time of day that you do.

San

Unknown, no message I live in canada

Zanetevejr

phone rang…I said “Hello” but..no one answered! I hung up and googled 303-280-8689! found you’all

Notes on an ill Nana

I’ve been kinda sick for the last few days, chest congestion, so I’ve been laying about, sleeping, popping pain killers, vitamins, tea, soup, water. And, catching up on TiVo, when I’m not in Freudian/Orwellian dreamland.
One of the films I downloaded recently was Notes on a Scandal, the catty, campy drama starring Dame Judi Dench as a repressed lesbo academic stalker. Why she had to be a lesbo, I don’t know. It could’ve been as creepy had she obsessed over, say, Clive Owen, instead of Cate Blanchette. Still, it’s great fare for curling up late at night with a cup of tea and Vicodin; the tightening of the screws makes for irrepressible rubber-necking.
One sad note, however, bothered me throughout. It was the fact that Ms. Dench, in this role, reminded me so much of my own “grandmother/godmother”. They look alike, they keep notes, pit people against each other, all out of some gnarled, misplaced need for love. In my grandma’s case, we also involved the supernatural. I’ve repeatedly made references to her voodoo behavior and its consequences. Yes, she took up raising my mom and aunt after my natural grandparents passed, but there was always some dark yearning motivating her to go too far and push people away, rather than bring them close. And so, people left her.
Last time I was in LA for Xmas, she had been banished by everyone to a single studio apartment. An 80 year old woman, alone, in Echo Park. So, she keeps things in jars and rips pages out of the Bible and ties black ribbons around things. So, she whispers gossip, plants innuendo, hoards and denies money. Is that really reason to kick her to the curb? Especially at this point, when most of the damage has been inflicted and survived? Is it not weak and mean of us to drop her when she’s most vulnerable?
Last time I spoke with my brother he mentioned that she had recently taken one of her many annual trips down to the homeland, where she still is today. While in Yucatan, she fell again, hurt herself and was taken to a hospital. There, she flew into a delirious rage, cursing doctors, refusing treatment, calling out for my dead aunt and other relatives. The woods, it seems, have come to the castle. Things got so bad, the hospital sent her home, in this case being another apartment, in Yucatan, alone. She refuses to accept guests or food; she’s reluctant to shower; she trusts no one to help her in any way. Everyone’s at a loss. Her santeria-laced senility, it seems, is in full stride; she’s seeing dead people. And, she’s not liking it.
I’m not liking it either. The other night, before the movie, I had a dream about her. She was standing on the corner of a street called NeuHausen. As I walked by, without making much of a fuss, she simply muttered, “What, you don’t call me no more?” Before I could formulate a calculated, diplomatic answer, she vanished.
A few nights later, watching the movie, during the big cat fight between Judi and Cate, I couldn’t help but think of fights between Nana and my mom. My mom, the 70’s disco dyke fag hag, and my nana, the busy body who poured redirected reserves of love and need from her own dead child to my mom – they had had numerous fights like that over the years, especially after my aunt died, right next door to my mom, under what we considered suspicious circumstances, and Grandma kept everyone out of the house, including my mom. I’d often wondered why this single woman spent so much time around packs of lesbians and devoted her entire life to raising other people’s children. In 30 years, she never had another lover, boyfriend, husband. Were the spells, potions, drama all a kind of tantrum, a cry against unrequited affection? Unrequited by whom?
Although I haven’t spoken to her, or seen her in a while, at least not “”in person”, from this distance, I sense her anxiety. She senses her time coming, and she is not going gently into the night. She is raging, thousands of miles away, in a box by the beach, fighting the ghosts that have come to usher her forth. I sense that it’s not so much dread of the after life that’s making her crazy, as much as the sense of unfinished business here.
Perhaps, the last, best gift we can give her, I told David, is to make peace with her. No matter what she’s done, this is no way for any one to go out. In his newfound sobriety, my brother, the reformed gangbanger and recovering addict, agreed. “It’s not cool,” he said, “it bothers me too. Whatever she did, it’s over. We’re still a family.”
But, is it genuine love that’s motivating us, or fear? Fear that we’ll end up that way. Or is it guilt? Does it matter, in the end? The million dollar question remains – What kind of enlightened creatures sit idly by as one of the nurturing forces in their lives descends into disease and death without raising so much as a finger, a voice or a fuss?

iWait…iScam…iPhone!

On craigslist, you’ll find offers like this almost exclusively in Manhattan, and a handful in Brooklyn, but in the Boogie Down Bronx, it’s still all about Boost. Where U at?

iPhone – $250

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Reply to: @craigslist.org
Date: 2007-06-26, 6:39PM EDT

I will wait on line for you so you can get your iPhone.
Contact me for details…guaranteed to get a prime spot.

Brand New/Unopened Apple iPhone 8GB – $950

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Reply to: @craigslist.org
Date: 2007-06-26, 8:45PM EDT

Up for sale is an unopened Apple iPhone (8GB). The asking price is $950.00. The weekend would be best but arrangements to meet up could be made for anytime during the week at the Empire State Building. Please be prepared to pay cash.

- and run like hell, no doubt….

Below, rejected prototypes.

Sounds of Summer in the City

Summer in the City equals free (or cheap) music. This summer, it seems Water Taxi Beach is the place for DJ heads, beating out old reliables PS1 and Central Park Summerstage. Resident Advisor reports.
The Beach Party is a series of parties happening on Water Taxi Beach, a strip of sand in Queens overlooking Manhattan. There’s a covered, wooden dancefloor, sand and a great view, and this year’s lineup is better than ever. The Beach Party kicks off on June 30th with a night featuring space discoist Prins Thomas and ends on September 1st with an Innervisions showcase featuring Dixon from Berlin and Alex From Tokyo. In between you can catch nights with NY talents Grandmaster Flash, In Flagranti and Tim Sweeney as well as Gilb’r from Château Flight, Underground Resistance and Zombie Nation alongside residents Justin Carter, Probus and the Brothers’ Brothers. Take that, Ibiza!
June 30 with Prins Thomas
July 7 with In Flagranti
July 14 with Gilb’r From Chateau Flight
July 21 Turntables on the Hudson
July 28 with Grandmaster Flash
Aug 4 with Tim Sweeney
Aug 11 with The Underground Resistance Assault DJ Squad
Aug 18 with Akalepse
Aug 25 with Zombie Nation
Sept 1 with Dixon And Alex From Tokyo

Happy Summer Solstice

Who Killed Martin Hannett?

Self-described “writer, actor, director, drama coach, pundit and cultural commentator” Colin Sharp has written a bio on famed Factory producer Martin Hannett.

The magician, as Tony Wilson calls him; Factory co-founder, musical genius and sonic alchemist, Martin ‘Zero’ Hannett created the soundtrack of a generation. He produced the greats of punk and post-punk (Buzzcocks, U2, Smiths, New Order, Joy Division, Happy Mondays, Stone Roses, Psychodelic Furs etc). Hannett shaped and delivered the sound that propelled the whole movement to prominence and still can be clearly heard in the records of Interpol, Snow Patrol, the Killers, Franz Ferdinand, the Kaiser Chiefs, Radiohead, Oasis. Yet, despite the extraordinary influence his production work and personality had on the seminal bands of the time little is really known about the complex man behind the myth. His life was as tragic and destructive as his work was innovative and creative. How did the ‘magician’ end up a sad, overweight, wrecked junkie humiliatingly pushed around in a shopping trolley by Sean Rider for a Happy Mondays video before a sad early death in 1991? In this original and fascinating biography – the first book on Hannett – Colin Sharp, best friend to Martin and witness to the scene, takes us on a journey into the heart and soul of Post-Punk’s sonic genius. Who Killed… getsIt is a unique portrait of a tortured genius.

Kitties!!!!

Who doesn’t love kitties?! Steve keeps his mom’s precious cat photography legacy going. The models in question belong to the Ex who took in a stray with a loose caboose and pops them out like Skittles.

America: Love it…and Leave it anyway….

Wife of Missing Latino Soldier in Iraq Faces Deportation
Proving yet again that no good deed goes unpunished, Yaderlin Jimenez, the wife of a missing in action soldier stationed in Iraq faces deportation. Spc. Alex R. Jimenez has been missing since May 12 when there was an attack on his unit in Iraq. He petitioned for his wife’s green card but a judge put a stop on those proceedings since he went missing. If Yaderlin were deported to her native Dominican Republic she would have to wait 10 years before she could reapply to enter the U.S.

Via / ABC News

This is Tomorrow

Saint Etienne’s new flick – about London, of course – and the mandatory accompanying soundtrack premiere in the UK June 29th. There are a couple of predictably dreamy teasers up on their MySpace. Here’s the divine trio and company in BK crowns at a Last Supper-style press conference. Who says royalty is dead? Presss info on the flick follows.

This is Tomorrow is at the heart of Saint Etienne’s year-long artistic residency at London’s Southbank Centre. The film explores the history, architecture, and unique cultural position of the Southbank Centre, and the preparations leading up to the reopening of the Royal Festival Hall this Summer (the First Night Gala Concert takes place on 11 June). Saint Etienne will be backed by a 60-piece orchestra and a choir drawn from local schools in Lambeth and Southwark. The 90 minute film is directed by Paul Kelly and produced by Andrew Hinton.

Grand National Drama

We hate it when indies act like majors and steamroll tastemakers into a Stockholm Syndrome consensus about the next big thing. All it usually serves to measure is where the present generation’s memory stops and the previous generation’s nostalgia begins. Somewhere in the mix, sometimes, a great band is produced. Most of the time, pretty OK bands take flight and grow into great bands. Others, well, let’s not speak ill of the dead.
Speaking of the still sluring, devilish Happy Mondays and the second coming of rave, behold Grand National. The first time I took the “not sequenced, not edited” advance “A Drink and a Quick Question for the 10-second fast-forward test spin, I thought, “Hmm…” Then I got invited to their upcoming NYC media blitz, spanning 5 days and almost every trendy joint in town, from Marquee to Soho House to LES’s Living Room and a KCRW gig at Joe’s Pub.
I listened again, and warmed up to a few tracks, but I thought the same thing. Their influences almost overwhelm their identity. There’s a lot of Manchester honky tonk with bits of early Police ska boogie, and a few slower songs where they get to hum and strum, but the familiarity is almost distracting. There are a few cute change-ups throughout, their earnestness is borderline disarming/endearing, and I’m always curious to hear (and perhaps too eager to support) any band that will both play acoustic and DJ. Once they’ve shaken off their influences a bit and settled into their own groove, they could be one of the next better, more commercial things.
But, let’s not forget what happened to Happy Mondays. That scene didn’t last too long. By choosing to take this pill with such a dubious shelf life, Grand National may be setting themselves up for some short-lived thrills and bellyaches. Sure, bank the crowd with nostalgia early on; but to generate your own and have kids 20 years from now sounding like you, you’ll need to sound like nothing but yourself on the next album.
Writers can be a bitchy lot when, especially when their open bar hostage hangover wears off and they’re stuck with clippings they’d rather not frame or at least bore their friends with. That said, watch for my drink-soaked 20 questions in the next issue of Remix, BPM or Earplug. (Wink.)

Age O’ Aquarist

Nerd alert. Further tragic proof that I need to get something more of a life, at least for summer.
Since I haven’t been able to keep a cat of my own for a while now, I got into keeping an aquarium last summer. Terre had started the year before and seemed really into it. The thought of creating and sustaining a tiny enclosed universe of colorful squiggly creatures appealed to the narcissist in me that used to dream of collecting pocket-size people.
I started with Mollies and a few loaches, then got into small sharks and Gouramies. The latest in the tank is the Black Ghost Knife Fish (Apteronotus albifrons). It comes from the Amazon and people there believe it to be, well, their ancestors. It’s a nocturnal fish that’s shaped like a tapered ribbon and finds its food via a weak electrical charge. They don’t mix with others of their own kind and they tend to eat smaller fish. They love hiding, even if it’s in a see-through tube. And once they settle in they apparently will eat from your hand and hide in your palm. I’ve got plenty of plants and ledges and caves for it to hide in, and the other fish seem more curious about it.
A few days ago, I’d been thinking that I wanted to start over, with a new tank and possibly exclusively aggressive fish to help me focus, and then strangely, a few of them died making room for the new school. I’m going to wait a few days and let them all get used to each first. Otherwise, they get all traumatized and go belly up. The two frogs are chill as ever. They come up and do laps and watch me move about the room. I haven’t gone quite as far as naming any of them yet, but I’m tempted to start with the frogs, and something horribly tacky like Guy et Michele.