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april 13, 2008
That’s the Way Love Goes
Fetching is the word that immediately comes to mind to
describe Lt. Dan's first thoughts upon seeing me at the Le
Cieba Airport. My wilted stature, limp sea-salted hair,
the clashing hues of my travelling outfit and of course,
my leper-like sunburn. That's me...simply a vision.
Lt. Dan can be described in that Sex and the City sort of
way as "good on paper". Lt. Dan is in the airforce,
stationed in Honduras for the next 10 months, has
retirement property on the island of Roatan. Blond
military issue haircut. Blue eyes. Dressed in neatly
pressed khaki shorts with a pristine evergreen polo, clean
white sneakers attached to neat athletic ankle socks. He
makes appropriate and genial small talk. Occasionally
peppering the end of his sentences with a "Yes ma'am/sir".
His interest is there, and he offers me a helicopter ride
as consolation for 3 hours of waiting at the airport gate.
Across the airport seats is what catches my eye. A
masculine boho chic sight with gorgeous aquamarine eyes,
an edgy Sally Hershberger razored shag, a sexy British
accent, but most importantly the attitude of supreme
indifference.Oh... He's a photographer too. However that
could be code for unemployed.
He can probably only offer me a Pabst Blue Ribbon and
wouldn't call again until 3-6 months later. Yet I secretly
hope that he leaves his girlfriend and their Park Slope
apartment, and we run away to the retirement property on
Roatan. Why is it that what is wrong for us is always the
most desirable? Isn't that the way love always goes?
That’s the Way Love Goes
Fetching is the word that immediately comes to mind to
describe Lt. Dan's first thoughts upon seeing me at the Le
Cieba Airport. My wilted stature, limp sea-salted hair,
the clashing hues of my travelling outfit and of course,
my leper-like sunburn. That's me...simply a vision.
Lt. Dan can be described in that Sex and the City sort of
way as "good on paper". Lt. Dan is in the airforce,
stationed in Honduras for the next 10 months, has
retirement property on the island of Roatan. Blond
military issue haircut. Blue eyes. Dressed in neatly
pressed khaki shorts with a pristine evergreen polo, clean
white sneakers attached to neat athletic ankle socks. He
makes appropriate and genial small talk. Occasionally
peppering the end of his sentences with a "Yes ma'am/sir".
His interest is there, and he offers me a helicopter ride
as consolation for 3 hours of waiting at the airport gate.
Across the airport seats is what catches my eye. A
masculine boho chic sight with gorgeous aquamarine eyes,
an edgy Sally Hershberger razored shag, a sexy British
accent, but most importantly the attitude of supreme
indifference.Oh... He's a photographer too. However that
could be code for unemployed.
He can probably only offer me a Pabst Blue Ribbon and
wouldn't call again until 3-6 months later. Yet I secretly
hope that he leaves his girlfriend and their Park Slope
apartment, and we run away to the retirement property on
Roatan. Why is it that what is wrong for us is always the
most desirable? Isn't that the way love always goes?
june 3,2008
neveda
I am not one of those people who can say that they met
their true love on-line especially through myspace. While
others may hear from dreamboats and gentlemen, I usually
get such love notes as "I want you to suck my big, veiny
mushroom-headed cock". Nothing but pure poetry, but
something tells me he's not interested to know the "real"
me.
I write these stories on a semi-frequent basis in the hopes
of being discovered as the next great literary talent.
Besides the occasional encouraging friend, it's a rarity to
hear raving praise from complete strangers about my words.
I'm highly responsive to flattery. Statements like "you
should write for the New Yorker" will indeed get me naked.
About two or three years ago, a fellow Myspacer dropped me
a note about how much he enjoyed my writing and quickly
signed up for a subscription about my musings. A bonafide
fan! There's nothing as heady or as ego-boosting as someone
who just wants to talk about how great I am. It's certainly
my favorite topic and only a matter of time before the rest
of the world agrees. He was cute to boot too!
Neveda is his name and hippieness is his game. He lived in
a faraway state, but over the months we developed a
friendship and mild flirtation. Eventually he came into
town, and we agreed to meet. There was anticipation and
complete fear that I had no idea what his name was. He
stopped signing his name to our emails after our second
correspondence. I had a hunch he was named after a state,
but I didn't want to risk the humiliation of calling him
Washington only to be chided that his name was really Dave.
We agreed to meet in Union Square which is not recommended
to meet complete strangers unless you have specific details
like near the Barnes & Noble. After numerous texts, I
manage to track him down. He wasn't lying when he said he
was wearing a fireman's jacket. While I was expecting a
wind-breaker, this was the fire retardant real deal. We hug
and exchange pleasantries. After subtly confirming his name
was indeed Neveda, we decided where we should eat.
We settled in Gab N Snack, and Neveda made a quick phone
call for his cousin to join us. I am completely confused. A
cousin? Joining us? Isn't this a date? I quickly
rationalize that he's only in town for about 2 days and
probably needs to multi-task or maybe he's had bad
experiences before and wants his cousin to insure his
safety from potential psycho killers like myself.
Cousin Nash arrives several minutes later, and immediately
engages Neveda in a conversation about cars. A subject I
could care less about. Under the guise of being a friendly
sort of person that cares, I ask Nash a couple of general
questions. I am soon informed that Nash is a male stripper
or exotic dancer. Since Nash certainly qualifies to shop in
the Husky department, I'm a little taken back. He continues
to fill me in on his latest costume purchase which is a
Vampire/Batman-esque costume complete with cape and mask.
If he can squeeze in a couple of extra shifts, he'll be
able to afford that new Range Rover. It seems the ladies
love a dark knight.
Our little threesome walks around the city a bit. Neveda
receives another call and instructs the mysterious stranger
to meet us on the next block. The mysterious stranger is
another red-headed woman who is desperate to make a cake.
So desperate that she has all the ingredients tucked safely
away in her miniscule backpack. The original twosome is now
a foursome. I am beyond thoroughly confused. Probably
another reason I am still single is that I cannot decipher
between friends and "friends". I am obviously out of my
league.
We end up at Neveda's home for the next two days. It's an
awesome space in the meatpacking district, but it's really
the World Trade Center museum. Once again, this shit could
only happen to me.
Our female friend ooh and aahs over the 9/11 artifacts, yet
doesn't seem to grasp what actually happened on that
fateful day. "You mean steel can actually get hot enough to
melt? People died that day by jumping? The air was
contaminated?" were only a handful of the inane questions
she asked. I couldn't help but think how bizarre it is to
stay in a room that captures the death of 3000 people not
to mention how Nash and Neveda can stand the company of
this twit.
My questions unanswered, we watch a Jet Li movie "The
Animal". We settle into a huge leather couch and watch on
this enormous giant screened TV. Our lady friend still
wants to bake her cake, but Neveda declared the kitchen
strictly off limits. Nash and I make small talk in the
hopes of pretending this is a perfectly normal night out.
Neveda informs us that this film really shows Jet Li's
growth as an actor.
It's time for some much needed herbal refreshment, and take
a walk down to the basement. The joint is passed around,
but it doesn't help make this girl any saner. She blathers
on about smoking Swiss-style, flowers, and the trouble she
got into when she was 15. I keep wondering how I can make a
polite escape.
We file back into the museum and finish watching Jet Li's
finest. I'm guessing Morgan Freeman was in it for the
money. Neveda gets nervous about the neighbors and lights
incense and sprays freshener in the hallway. Our lady
friend is even more insistent about baking her culinary
confection, but is shot down every time. Each denial only
strengthens her quest. Citing an early morning, fatigue,
and anything else he can think of Nash makes a quick escape
from the madness. The minutes the credits roll I do the
same.
I never expected to hear from Neveda again. Surprisingly he
was back in the city weeks later. He apologized for his
friend. They've been internet friends for years, but
apparently internet has a pesky habit of masking the crazy
in someone. Live and learn I suppose. We meet for a dinner
again. The only expectation I have this time is material
for a future blog.
We sip mojitos. He complains about the prices and
inauthenticity of the restaurant. I grapple for
conversation. The caveat of sharing your life on-line is
that people tend to read it. It makes sharing things a bit
frustrating. Every attempt I made was briefly cut short
since he remembered reading about it. No fun telling a joke
if you already know the punch line. Even I'm losing
interest in my favorite topic. I shift the conversation his
way and mistakenly find out about his mother's landscaping
problems with garden snakes. His mother wants to hire an
exterminator, but Neveda says that is inhumane. I'm treated
to a 10 minute PETA speech about the precious lives of
animals especially garden snakes. considering my fear of
snakes I don't agree. We struggle some more for some common
ground. I learn this next interesting tidbit that he's
expecting a baby next month. It's then I realize there's
something to be said about getting to know a person.
Suddenly, I the guy with the fellatio obsession doesn't
seem like such a bad deal after all.
neveda
I am not one of those people who can say that they met
their true love on-line especially through myspace. While
others may hear from dreamboats and gentlemen, I usually
get such love notes as "I want you to suck my big, veiny
mushroom-headed cock". Nothing but pure poetry, but
something tells me he's not interested to know the "real"
me.
I write these stories on a semi-frequent basis in the hopes
of being discovered as the next great literary talent.
Besides the occasional encouraging friend, it's a rarity to
hear raving praise from complete strangers about my words.
I'm highly responsive to flattery. Statements like "you
should write for the New Yorker" will indeed get me naked.
About two or three years ago, a fellow Myspacer dropped me
a note about how much he enjoyed my writing and quickly
signed up for a subscription about my musings. A bonafide
fan! There's nothing as heady or as ego-boosting as someone
who just wants to talk about how great I am. It's certainly
my favorite topic and only a matter of time before the rest
of the world agrees. He was cute to boot too!
Neveda is his name and hippieness is his game. He lived in
a faraway state, but over the months we developed a
friendship and mild flirtation. Eventually he came into
town, and we agreed to meet. There was anticipation and
complete fear that I had no idea what his name was. He
stopped signing his name to our emails after our second
correspondence. I had a hunch he was named after a state,
but I didn't want to risk the humiliation of calling him
Washington only to be chided that his name was really Dave.
We agreed to meet in Union Square which is not recommended
to meet complete strangers unless you have specific details
like near the Barnes & Noble. After numerous texts, I
manage to track him down. He wasn't lying when he said he
was wearing a fireman's jacket. While I was expecting a
wind-breaker, this was the fire retardant real deal. We hug
and exchange pleasantries. After subtly confirming his name
was indeed Neveda, we decided where we should eat.
We settled in Gab N Snack, and Neveda made a quick phone
call for his cousin to join us. I am completely confused. A
cousin? Joining us? Isn't this a date? I quickly
rationalize that he's only in town for about 2 days and
probably needs to multi-task or maybe he's had bad
experiences before and wants his cousin to insure his
safety from potential psycho killers like myself.
Cousin Nash arrives several minutes later, and immediately
engages Neveda in a conversation about cars. A subject I
could care less about. Under the guise of being a friendly
sort of person that cares, I ask Nash a couple of general
questions. I am soon informed that Nash is a male stripper
or exotic dancer. Since Nash certainly qualifies to shop in
the Husky department, I'm a little taken back. He continues
to fill me in on his latest costume purchase which is a
Vampire/Batman-esque costume complete with cape and mask.
If he can squeeze in a couple of extra shifts, he'll be
able to afford that new Range Rover. It seems the ladies
love a dark knight.
Our little threesome walks around the city a bit. Neveda
receives another call and instructs the mysterious stranger
to meet us on the next block. The mysterious stranger is
another red-headed woman who is desperate to make a cake.
So desperate that she has all the ingredients tucked safely
away in her miniscule backpack. The original twosome is now
a foursome. I am beyond thoroughly confused. Probably
another reason I am still single is that I cannot decipher
between friends and "friends". I am obviously out of my
league.
We end up at Neveda's home for the next two days. It's an
awesome space in the meatpacking district, but it's really
the World Trade Center museum. Once again, this shit could
only happen to me.
Our female friend ooh and aahs over the 9/11 artifacts, yet
doesn't seem to grasp what actually happened on that
fateful day. "You mean steel can actually get hot enough to
melt? People died that day by jumping? The air was
contaminated?" were only a handful of the inane questions
she asked. I couldn't help but think how bizarre it is to
stay in a room that captures the death of 3000 people not
to mention how Nash and Neveda can stand the company of
this twit.
My questions unanswered, we watch a Jet Li movie "The
Animal". We settle into a huge leather couch and watch on
this enormous giant screened TV. Our lady friend still
wants to bake her cake, but Neveda declared the kitchen
strictly off limits. Nash and I make small talk in the
hopes of pretending this is a perfectly normal night out.
Neveda informs us that this film really shows Jet Li's
growth as an actor.
It's time for some much needed herbal refreshment, and take
a walk down to the basement. The joint is passed around,
but it doesn't help make this girl any saner. She blathers
on about smoking Swiss-style, flowers, and the trouble she
got into when she was 15. I keep wondering how I can make a
polite escape.
We file back into the museum and finish watching Jet Li's
finest. I'm guessing Morgan Freeman was in it for the
money. Neveda gets nervous about the neighbors and lights
incense and sprays freshener in the hallway. Our lady
friend is even more insistent about baking her culinary
confection, but is shot down every time. Each denial only
strengthens her quest. Citing an early morning, fatigue,
and anything else he can think of Nash makes a quick escape
from the madness. The minutes the credits roll I do the
same.
I never expected to hear from Neveda again. Surprisingly he
was back in the city weeks later. He apologized for his
friend. They've been internet friends for years, but
apparently internet has a pesky habit of masking the crazy
in someone. Live and learn I suppose. We meet for a dinner
again. The only expectation I have this time is material
for a future blog.
We sip mojitos. He complains about the prices and
inauthenticity of the restaurant. I grapple for
conversation. The caveat of sharing your life on-line is
that people tend to read it. It makes sharing things a bit
frustrating. Every attempt I made was briefly cut short
since he remembered reading about it. No fun telling a joke
if you already know the punch line. Even I'm losing
interest in my favorite topic. I shift the conversation his
way and mistakenly find out about his mother's landscaping
problems with garden snakes. His mother wants to hire an
exterminator, but Neveda says that is inhumane. I'm treated
to a 10 minute PETA speech about the precious lives of
animals especially garden snakes. considering my fear of
snakes I don't agree. We struggle some more for some common
ground. I learn this next interesting tidbit that he's
expecting a baby next month. It's then I realize there's
something to be said about getting to know a person.
Suddenly, I the guy with the fellatio obsession doesn't
seem like such a bad deal after all.
june 4,2008
last night with mario lopez
"Tits & ass can change your life. It sure changed
mine." sang Audrey Landers in the 1985 movie of the
Broadway musical "A Chorus Line". Being 8 years old
at the time, I had no idea she was singing about
breast implants, however the words were vaguely
taboo and that was enough to tickle my fancy back in
those days. Plus she did fan kicks. Fantastically,
fabulous glorious fan kicks.Who wouldn't want to be
a showgirl after seeing that performance? Little did
I know that I would spend the rest of my life
perfecting my fan kick and using that song as an
occasional mantra.
Flash forward to 2008 when a friend invites me to
see that very musical on Broadway. I'm ecstatic.
Even more ecstatic when I remember that the actor
"internationally known as AC Slater" is a prominent
player in the cast. Our seats are impeccable. Second
row. If Slater so much as sneezes, I will be right
there to catch a glimpse.
The lights dim, the show starts, and I'm magically
transported back to the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theater
where my grandmother took me to see the national
touring company in Florida.
"Sing out Morales!"
As the show continues, I remember every song, every
dance. Just like John Leguizamo in "Freak", I'm
right there with Morales. I feel every non-woosh,
every struggle to feel like an ice cream cone as she
digs right down to the bottom of her soul to see
what she feels inside. She felt nothing, but I felt
something. It's the magic that only Broadway and
jazz hands can inspire. As quickly as the show
started it ended. The finishing singular sensation
number is complete with sequins and tons of
applause. I study the choreography intensely,
knowing that I will be right in front of my mirror
tonight trying to recapture the top hat & cane
combo. I may throw in a little Fosse slinkiness for
added effect.
After the show, my friend and I filter our way
through the crowd. We exit near the stage door where
a small but dense crowd hovers with cameras. I
assume to catch a glimpse of Mario Lopez himself.
I'm not the type to hound celebrities for
autographs. It's just a signature, I have one too.
Plus even with an autograph I would still need $1.25
for a cup of coffee. The cheesiness sucks me into
the fervor. Afterall, how awesome would it be to
post a picture of me and Mario Lopez on my myspace
profile. That's what it all comes down to doesn't it?
As we wait for his arrival, we start to crack jokes
about Mario Lopez. His nuanced performance in the
role of "Zach", his disturbingly veiny biceps, and
his questionable international fame. It becomes
obvious that Mario Lopez is the new John Wong. John
Wong is a childhood friend of mine that dates all
the way back to Ms. Ragno's class in the second
grade. Though his name is John, he will always be
referred to as John Wong. There's just something
about his name that must be connected to his
surname. He's not John. He's not Mr. Wong. He's John
Wong. Mario Lopez has the same name musicality. As
in:
"Mario Lopez, do you see the irony in playing a
character named Zach?"
"Mario Lopez, are you too good to hang out with your
castmates?"
"Mario Lopez, do you relax your hair?"
"Mario Lopez, why do you need a big SUV to drive you
home?"
"Mario Lopez, what is it like to be "Mario Lopez"?"
We continue to wait for Mario Lopez's big exit. The
lesser known castmemners make there departure
through the stage door. Take away the stage, the
heels, and stage makeup, and these people could be
your co-workers. My friend insists that I get
autographs from the lesser knowns so they can feel
valued and important, but that doesn't have the same
cache as Mario Lopez. Anyway, Morales made her exit,
and we accost her with snarky comments and questions
while she scribbles on my playbill. Tonight was
special that's why she cried on stage she explained.
She patted my arm good bye and disappeared through
the night. I took this as a good sign for meeting
Mario Lopez.
There are 2 cars waiting by the curb. One is a
modest town car and the other is an ostentatious SUV
variety. My friend insists that Mario Lopez is
humble and would opt for less flash. We watch as
"Cassie", the female lead, jump into the town car
and speed away. So much for that theory.
I spot what could certainly be Mario Lopez's driver
circling protectively by the huge truck. I inquire
if he is indeed Mario Lopez's driver, and if he
enjoys this occupation. He's not amused and does not
succumb to my effervescent charms. A pushy
midwestern soccer mom interrupts our chat to insure
that he hooks her daughter up with a photo of her
and Mario Lopez. Mario Lopez's driver only looks on
in disgust.
Suddenly a huge cheer errupts. Mario Lopez is here.
Right on 45th St. In a tank top no less! You just
know that means that Mario Lopez is a complete
famewhore. My friend insists that I do what needs to
be done. I close in on the SUV, but the opened door
blocks me from getting any closer. In a soft, wispy
voice I exclaim, "Mario Lopez, can I have your
autograph?"My request goes unnoticed as the door
slams immediately. Undeterred I inform Mario Lopez's
driver that it was much more thrilling to meet him
instead. Even though I am being completely sincere,
Mario Lopez's driver regards me with nothing but
complete scorn.
The SUV speeds off into the night only to be stopped
at a traffic light. We casually stroll down the
street just in time to wave at the blackened windows
and snap a photo of the infamous SUV. If only the
rest of the world knew who was in that backseat.
last night with mario lopez
"Tits & ass can change your life. It sure changed
mine." sang Audrey Landers in the 1985 movie of the
Broadway musical "A Chorus Line". Being 8 years old
at the time, I had no idea she was singing about
breast implants, however the words were vaguely
taboo and that was enough to tickle my fancy back in
those days. Plus she did fan kicks. Fantastically,
fabulous glorious fan kicks.Who wouldn't want to be
a showgirl after seeing that performance? Little did
I know that I would spend the rest of my life
perfecting my fan kick and using that song as an
occasional mantra.
Flash forward to 2008 when a friend invites me to
see that very musical on Broadway. I'm ecstatic.
Even more ecstatic when I remember that the actor
"internationally known as AC Slater" is a prominent
player in the cast. Our seats are impeccable. Second
row. If Slater so much as sneezes, I will be right
there to catch a glimpse.
The lights dim, the show starts, and I'm magically
transported back to the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theater
where my grandmother took me to see the national
touring company in Florida.
"Sing out Morales!"
As the show continues, I remember every song, every
dance. Just like John Leguizamo in "Freak", I'm
right there with Morales. I feel every non-woosh,
every struggle to feel like an ice cream cone as she
digs right down to the bottom of her soul to see
what she feels inside. She felt nothing, but I felt
something. It's the magic that only Broadway and
jazz hands can inspire. As quickly as the show
started it ended. The finishing singular sensation
number is complete with sequins and tons of
applause. I study the choreography intensely,
knowing that I will be right in front of my mirror
tonight trying to recapture the top hat & cane
combo. I may throw in a little Fosse slinkiness for
added effect.
After the show, my friend and I filter our way
through the crowd. We exit near the stage door where
a small but dense crowd hovers with cameras. I
assume to catch a glimpse of Mario Lopez himself.
I'm not the type to hound celebrities for
autographs. It's just a signature, I have one too.
Plus even with an autograph I would still need $1.25
for a cup of coffee. The cheesiness sucks me into
the fervor. Afterall, how awesome would it be to
post a picture of me and Mario Lopez on my myspace
profile. That's what it all comes down to doesn't it?
As we wait for his arrival, we start to crack jokes
about Mario Lopez. His nuanced performance in the
role of "Zach", his disturbingly veiny biceps, and
his questionable international fame. It becomes
obvious that Mario Lopez is the new John Wong. John
Wong is a childhood friend of mine that dates all
the way back to Ms. Ragno's class in the second
grade. Though his name is John, he will always be
referred to as John Wong. There's just something
about his name that must be connected to his
surname. He's not John. He's not Mr. Wong. He's John
Wong. Mario Lopez has the same name musicality. As
in:
"Mario Lopez, do you see the irony in playing a
character named Zach?"
"Mario Lopez, are you too good to hang out with your
castmates?"
"Mario Lopez, do you relax your hair?"
"Mario Lopez, why do you need a big SUV to drive you
home?"
"Mario Lopez, what is it like to be "Mario Lopez"?"
We continue to wait for Mario Lopez's big exit. The
lesser known castmemners make there departure
through the stage door. Take away the stage, the
heels, and stage makeup, and these people could be
your co-workers. My friend insists that I get
autographs from the lesser knowns so they can feel
valued and important, but that doesn't have the same
cache as Mario Lopez. Anyway, Morales made her exit,
and we accost her with snarky comments and questions
while she scribbles on my playbill. Tonight was
special that's why she cried on stage she explained.
She patted my arm good bye and disappeared through
the night. I took this as a good sign for meeting
Mario Lopez.
There are 2 cars waiting by the curb. One is a
modest town car and the other is an ostentatious SUV
variety. My friend insists that Mario Lopez is
humble and would opt for less flash. We watch as
"Cassie", the female lead, jump into the town car
and speed away. So much for that theory.
I spot what could certainly be Mario Lopez's driver
circling protectively by the huge truck. I inquire
if he is indeed Mario Lopez's driver, and if he
enjoys this occupation. He's not amused and does not
succumb to my effervescent charms. A pushy
midwestern soccer mom interrupts our chat to insure
that he hooks her daughter up with a photo of her
and Mario Lopez. Mario Lopez's driver only looks on
in disgust.
Suddenly a huge cheer errupts. Mario Lopez is here.
Right on 45th St. In a tank top no less! You just
know that means that Mario Lopez is a complete
famewhore. My friend insists that I do what needs to
be done. I close in on the SUV, but the opened door
blocks me from getting any closer. In a soft, wispy
voice I exclaim, "Mario Lopez, can I have your
autograph?"My request goes unnoticed as the door
slams immediately. Undeterred I inform Mario Lopez's
driver that it was much more thrilling to meet him
instead. Even though I am being completely sincere,
Mario Lopez's driver regards me with nothing but
complete scorn.
The SUV speeds off into the night only to be stopped
at a traffic light. We casually stroll down the
street just in time to wave at the blackened windows
and snap a photo of the infamous SUV. If only the
rest of the world knew who was in that backseat.