Friday, April 20, 2012
I was 16 when I did my first show at Lakeland. it was a revue called, "TV, Movies, and More." And Jack Underwood was the first person out of all those new strangers to come up and say hello to me. Within minutes he killed my shyness, and he and I began to exchange very crude, and very dirty jokes. We had a number in that show called, "Solid Gold" for a tv show that I had never heard of. Our costumes were black leotards underneath all of our costume changes. But Jack obviously couldnt fit a leotard, so he did the "Solid Gold" number topless, as in, he was in a sequined gold vest (as we all were)but there was no shirt underneath, just Jack's round belly.
The after I registered for my wedding in 2008 on Amazon.com, Jack and Moira were the first people to buy my husband and I a gift, and I know it's shallow and it doesn't matter, but I have to say that he got us the most expensive gift on the list. When I thanked him, he said, "I should've bought the whole registry for you." My wedding was two weeks after the run of "Arsenic & Old Lace" and he lamented that he and Moira would not be able to make it since they were going to England. I told him that was fine, and that it didnt matter. He then tried to give me $300 - which I laughed off and refused.
It's just money, it shouldn't matter, but I grew up without a lot of it, so I knew how much he meant it when he offered. But that wasn't the extent of his kindness. Jack was always behind the bar at the lounge, building sets, teaching me how to play the piano, and always telling me I was beautiful and talented, and that I had "It". He made me kiss him every time I saw him. I would go a few months without being to Lakeland after I moved to Raleigh, but every time I came back, he would track me down until he found me, and then there would be a kiss and a huge bear hug, and he'd ask me what was new.
When I was the lead in 'Cuckoo's Nest", to say I was'nervous' was an understatement. But every time he found me backstage, he'd hug me and tell me that no one else could do it the way I could.
I loved how Jack did anything and everything he could for people. I loved how he was more than happy with taking a part where he had no lines and all he had to do was stand there with his arms out. He just loved being at the theater, around all of his friends.
Jack believed in youth, in the potential that young people have, and he was never without a piece of wisdom for me - usually with some sort of vulgar punchline. My favorite line was this:
Me: "Jack, do you want me to grab you a water?"
Jack: "Do bears shit in the woods?"
To be honest, Jack reminded me of my own father. And he knew it.
Jack's main gift was to make others laugh, and when I could make HIM laugh, it was like hitting the jackpot. Because he was smart, very smart. People usually took him at face-value with his jokes, but behind that, he was one of the most intelligent people I ever met. Jack would explain to me the infrastructure of IBM and old computers. And new computers, he would track Van down and talk IT with him. He once sent me a 20 page email all about his theories on the intangibles of the universe, God, the Space Time Continuum, and the mystic travels of energy and feeling. Heavy, right? But it was brilliant.
Jack was always there to calm my tears and tell me to be strong. He would tell me all of his past regrets and tell me to 'always think of others' before making any decisions. He would tell Van to always treat me like a princess.
And the way he loved Moira, the way he would look at her, like he was meeting her for the first time everyday.
I am so angry for being in Washington. I am so angry that I am not there to say goodbye. Jack meant more so much to me, he was a real friend and I loved him like a father.
Jack, I will miss all those laughs And everything else.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Praise the Sword - and pass the Ammo.
You are missing something.
There is a place inside of you where something should be, and you’re searching for the missing piece of the puzzle. It is an empty hole in your soul.
Don’t expect me to tell you what to fill it with. Don’t expect me or my words to fill it for you.
Respect that hole in your soul; it’s a wonderful reminder that you’re human, people need a steady dose of humility. Listen and you can hear the entire world ignoring you. Your family is your army, stitched together with love and nights bonded when the electricity got shut off. They’re the occasionally protective, but mostly stinging fisherman’s net. Everything you’d ever catch in an embrace – more hate than love, but just as sincere. A mother bear in constant hibernation to you, catching and releasing you to the wild, over and over – endurance test for the long-run. People with families go through life with a shield.
That’s just my opinion, but right now, it’s the only one that matters.
This is when I mention that I don’t have one of those shields. I don’t want to begin at birth and steer my story through the canals of my life. It’s obnoxious, and that information isn’t going to solve the great mystery of why I am the way I am. You should appreciate that thoughtfulness, because nothing dissatisfies me more than doing someone a favor that has done nothing for me in return.
Quid quo pro. Living is about supply and demand, tit for tat, and give and take – one action no better than the other. But I don’t expect anyone to understand that, I don’t expect much out of anyone.
There was no explosive catastrophe that made able to do what I do. I wasn’t molested as a child by a neighbor. I don’t have a vulgar distaste for the world around me because my parents’ divorce was the final nail in my self-esteem coffin. I don’t drink and sometimes see things that aren’t there because a burglar came one night and tortured me until the cops finally came. It is a luxury to have something to blame all of your problems on. It is a treat to pin down an exact moment or place where all of this stems from.
Nevertheless, here is the simple truth about me as a human being, as a component of a statistic; it is that there is no parachute for me. There is no net or trampoline below me. I had a mother who left, a father who died, and a sister that I remember mostly when the sun starts to get tired and go down in the summer. However, I can’t even remember the last time I saw her, or spoke more than ten words to her.
It’s okay if no one loves me, I know the ghosts do. If only because I’m the last one of the living that they will ever love because I am just as abstract as they are.
This is what being alone feels like – it’s a dull and constant ache, with sporadic moments of bursting agony. My home is in The Pit of myself. And in that pit there are no doors or windows. It is easy to lose track of time there, there have been many times where I have planned an escape to no victory.
No one has ever tried to break me out.
But, conversely, I am so invested in this planet and the beasts that pretend to be people. Even when I am at my deepest in The Pit, my brain bursts out like a wounded and angry vulture, and while I pass swiftly and quietly past people – I absorb them. All of their energies and gibberish thoughts are as if a dark and romantic map lay at before me. I want to describe it as a million different voices looks like a million different route, alternating paths that are possible for me to take.
Try to remember the last time you were utterly, staggeringly, blind-in-the-night confused?
Every voice you hear is a scream, but yours never goes above an Easter morning zephyr.
Multiply that depth of disorientation and by a hundred and sink it to the bottom of Hell and I will tell you, “You are blind in Ancient Rome. You are a Slave in Ancient Rome.”
Hey, there is nowhere to go but everywhere, right?
You can go anywhere even when you’re not really here. Or there. The heaviest ball and chain is confusion – named because your feet become fused in one spot. A spot in time or a spot in a place – some place where the outlines of your daily routine take on a dramatic blur, and you have no choice but to stop. You become a part of it, it is engraved in you – the best statue of yourself, forever in time, and time is oblivious to your problems.
Time has no fucking problems, but I’ve got plenty.
See, I can sum up myself of to the tiniest of molecules – but only when I’m lying on silk sheets, only when the clouds past midnight look like silver spun cotton candy above the ocean – here and now, counting down the hours until I die.
Why wasn’t I able to get all of this shit together before I only had a few hours left of living?
Because, as sure as the horizon will appear I will be dead.
It seems only fair to lie, and edit myself into a PG-13 rating and shine the bullshit up for you.
But the truth of it is, is that everything that happened was more beautiful than you could ever imagine.
It’s just that it was beautiful and also so awfully malicious. A colorful and lush tapestry of pure silk malevolence.
I never meant to hurt anyone, but I did – a lot of anyones. But, who are we if not for our scars? Maybe they’ll learn something; maybe someone will start paying attention.
Life spent in mid-prayer. Now every thought is a prayer, and a virgin – these are my first prayers in my whole life, my entire brief and blistering 25 years. And the first prayers will be on the same night as my last prayers.
Empire opens champagne from behind, he’s walking out of the hall, onto the 4th floor terrace – all marble and ancient limestone. He is wearing his usual double breasted Navy blue suit, but with my bright green Converse Chucks on his feet, and his tie undone and tied around his head like a bandana. He is already drunk, good thing he is carrying another unopened bottle of champagne in his pocket. I watch the golden foil over the cork catch the light as he walks towards me.
"When you get to Heaven love, please send me directions.”
It’s October again, a wink of a year later, but still once again under that arrogant night sky – every star is a mirror.
A goddamn mirror.
A Goddess Damn mirror.
We’re (empire and I) are dealing in guilt, remorse, and wickedness by the pounds tonight. I’m telling him the story of the last year. He was beside me most of the time, but he wants my recount of the past year.
What the fuck else am I going to do tonight?
There is a place inside of you where something should be, and you’re searching for the missing piece of the puzzle. It is an empty hole in your soul.
Don’t expect me to tell you what to fill it with. Don’t expect me or my words to fill it for you.
Respect that hole in your soul; it’s a wonderful reminder that you’re human, people need a steady dose of humility. Listen and you can hear the entire world ignoring you. Your family is your army, stitched together with love and nights bonded when the electricity got shut off. They’re the occasionally protective, but mostly stinging fisherman’s net. Everything you’d ever catch in an embrace – more hate than love, but just as sincere. A mother bear in constant hibernation to you, catching and releasing you to the wild, over and over – endurance test for the long-run. People with families go through life with a shield.
That’s just my opinion, but right now, it’s the only one that matters.
This is when I mention that I don’t have one of those shields. I don’t want to begin at birth and steer my story through the canals of my life. It’s obnoxious, and that information isn’t going to solve the great mystery of why I am the way I am. You should appreciate that thoughtfulness, because nothing dissatisfies me more than doing someone a favor that has done nothing for me in return.
Quid quo pro. Living is about supply and demand, tit for tat, and give and take – one action no better than the other. But I don’t expect anyone to understand that, I don’t expect much out of anyone.
There was no explosive catastrophe that made able to do what I do. I wasn’t molested as a child by a neighbor. I don’t have a vulgar distaste for the world around me because my parents’ divorce was the final nail in my self-esteem coffin. I don’t drink and sometimes see things that aren’t there because a burglar came one night and tortured me until the cops finally came. It is a luxury to have something to blame all of your problems on. It is a treat to pin down an exact moment or place where all of this stems from.
Nevertheless, here is the simple truth about me as a human being, as a component of a statistic; it is that there is no parachute for me. There is no net or trampoline below me. I had a mother who left, a father who died, and a sister that I remember mostly when the sun starts to get tired and go down in the summer. However, I can’t even remember the last time I saw her, or spoke more than ten words to her.
It’s okay if no one loves me, I know the ghosts do. If only because I’m the last one of the living that they will ever love because I am just as abstract as they are.
This is what being alone feels like – it’s a dull and constant ache, with sporadic moments of bursting agony. My home is in The Pit of myself. And in that pit there are no doors or windows. It is easy to lose track of time there, there have been many times where I have planned an escape to no victory.
No one has ever tried to break me out.
But, conversely, I am so invested in this planet and the beasts that pretend to be people. Even when I am at my deepest in The Pit, my brain bursts out like a wounded and angry vulture, and while I pass swiftly and quietly past people – I absorb them. All of their energies and gibberish thoughts are as if a dark and romantic map lay at before me. I want to describe it as a million different voices looks like a million different route, alternating paths that are possible for me to take.
Try to remember the last time you were utterly, staggeringly, blind-in-the-night confused?
Every voice you hear is a scream, but yours never goes above an Easter morning zephyr.
Multiply that depth of disorientation and by a hundred and sink it to the bottom of Hell and I will tell you, “You are blind in Ancient Rome. You are a Slave in Ancient Rome.”
Hey, there is nowhere to go but everywhere, right?
You can go anywhere even when you’re not really here. Or there. The heaviest ball and chain is confusion – named because your feet become fused in one spot. A spot in time or a spot in a place – some place where the outlines of your daily routine take on a dramatic blur, and you have no choice but to stop. You become a part of it, it is engraved in you – the best statue of yourself, forever in time, and time is oblivious to your problems.
Time has no fucking problems, but I’ve got plenty.
See, I can sum up myself of to the tiniest of molecules – but only when I’m lying on silk sheets, only when the clouds past midnight look like silver spun cotton candy above the ocean – here and now, counting down the hours until I die.
Why wasn’t I able to get all of this shit together before I only had a few hours left of living?
Because, as sure as the horizon will appear I will be dead.
It seems only fair to lie, and edit myself into a PG-13 rating and shine the bullshit up for you.
But the truth of it is, is that everything that happened was more beautiful than you could ever imagine.
It’s just that it was beautiful and also so awfully malicious. A colorful and lush tapestry of pure silk malevolence.
I never meant to hurt anyone, but I did – a lot of anyones. But, who are we if not for our scars? Maybe they’ll learn something; maybe someone will start paying attention.
Life spent in mid-prayer. Now every thought is a prayer, and a virgin – these are my first prayers in my whole life, my entire brief and blistering 25 years. And the first prayers will be on the same night as my last prayers.
Empire opens champagne from behind, he’s walking out of the hall, onto the 4th floor terrace – all marble and ancient limestone. He is wearing his usual double breasted Navy blue suit, but with my bright green Converse Chucks on his feet, and his tie undone and tied around his head like a bandana. He is already drunk, good thing he is carrying another unopened bottle of champagne in his pocket. I watch the golden foil over the cork catch the light as he walks towards me.
"When you get to Heaven love, please send me directions.”
It’s October again, a wink of a year later, but still once again under that arrogant night sky – every star is a mirror.
A goddamn mirror.
A Goddess Damn mirror.
We’re (empire and I) are dealing in guilt, remorse, and wickedness by the pounds tonight. I’m telling him the story of the last year. He was beside me most of the time, but he wants my recount of the past year.
What the fuck else am I going to do tonight?
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Sometimes
On days like this, where I was too scared to stay at home all day by myself, I would go to the Art museum. The Art museum in Raleigh is free, easy to get to, and has ample parking. Their selection of pieces isn't nearly as amazing as it could or should be, but the other three factors I mentioned cancel that fact out. It was somewhere to go to get away from the gloom hanging in the house, thick with my fuck-ups. I can't go to the Art museum here in Seattle when I feel like that - it costs $15 to get in, and then another $15 to park my car somewhere where I won't get raped. I hate how expensive it is, how everything is, it's isolating.
I don't want to complain. The volcano is beautiful, the air is fresh, and the Sound reminds me of New England. But so far, the only people I've met have scared me - and I'm usually not scared of anything without red eyes or eight legs. After ten years in the South, I can't get over how cold it is here - I always have a shiver, my teeth are always chattering, but - oh, hold on, I'm watching an episode of "Law & Order: SVU" and there is a fight club. A real fight club consisting of New York cabbies, and one betting all his fighting money on his step son whom he makes fight to 'earn his keep'. It's so bad, it's almost good. But, enough of that.
I can't get over how lost I feel sometimes. Somedays, I feel like I've fell down a rabbit hole. Sometimes I am at a happy tea party and I can't stop laughing. Other times, I'm alone in the woods and I can hear something eating in the dark. and he wonders why I can't move sometimes.
I don't want to complain. The volcano is beautiful, the air is fresh, and the Sound reminds me of New England. But so far, the only people I've met have scared me - and I'm usually not scared of anything without red eyes or eight legs. After ten years in the South, I can't get over how cold it is here - I always have a shiver, my teeth are always chattering, but - oh, hold on, I'm watching an episode of "Law & Order: SVU" and there is a fight club. A real fight club consisting of New York cabbies, and one betting all his fighting money on his step son whom he makes fight to 'earn his keep'. It's so bad, it's almost good. But, enough of that.
I can't get over how lost I feel sometimes. Somedays, I feel like I've fell down a rabbit hole. Sometimes I am at a happy tea party and I can't stop laughing. Other times, I'm alone in the woods and I can hear something eating in the dark. and he wonders why I can't move sometimes.
Suddenly
When I came home today, I dropped my things off at the door and went to the couch where I sobbed into my dog Taco's furry neck.
She sat still and let me.
I brushed my teeth twice,
I still feel twinges of tightness in my chest when I think about it.
When I was driving home after it happened, I resisted the urge to call my ex, who used to be my best friend,
"He probably would just pretend to care, while laughing so hard inside his organs would quake."
I am missing my life two years ago, suddenly.
I want the friends who I let inside my heart more than anyone before back in my life;
People like Jessica, Chris, Nick, Will, and Wyatt.
4 boys.
4 Men.
Coincidence?
"Law & Order: SVU" puts me to sleep nearly every night, unlike any other show or movie, it actually relaxes me,
That's how I know I'm fucked up.
The bad writing and predictable dialogue - how many hookers actually get murdered in New York?
I'm suddenly realizing how ridiculous i must look to the world.
I am suddenly sick over the thought of trying again, what if it happens again?
It's enough stress to make me go to church again.
I associate Churches with death and guilt,
If I want to be happy, I go to the movies - darkness and popcorn - it's a cure.
Suddenly, I want a life in the country - writing novels, chasing dogs, not talking to any more people.
I feel old, suddenly, and it was mirror.
Do I look retarded in my Ramones shirt?
I suddenly want to get all of my tattoos removed,
Except for the ones that represent the 3 men that have really loved me -
Maybe the only people that loved me.
Suddenly, I can't sleep,
and movies with sex scenes just look like gore now.
The idea of eating chocolate makes me gag,
even Nutella is horrible - saddest thing ever.
I can't believe how empty I feel.
How stupid I feel now.
Words cannot describe how stupid I feel.
She sat still and let me.
I brushed my teeth twice,
I still feel twinges of tightness in my chest when I think about it.
When I was driving home after it happened, I resisted the urge to call my ex, who used to be my best friend,
"He probably would just pretend to care, while laughing so hard inside his organs would quake."
I am missing my life two years ago, suddenly.
I want the friends who I let inside my heart more than anyone before back in my life;
People like Jessica, Chris, Nick, Will, and Wyatt.
4 boys.
4 Men.
Coincidence?
"Law & Order: SVU" puts me to sleep nearly every night, unlike any other show or movie, it actually relaxes me,
That's how I know I'm fucked up.
The bad writing and predictable dialogue - how many hookers actually get murdered in New York?
I'm suddenly realizing how ridiculous i must look to the world.
I am suddenly sick over the thought of trying again, what if it happens again?
It's enough stress to make me go to church again.
I associate Churches with death and guilt,
If I want to be happy, I go to the movies - darkness and popcorn - it's a cure.
Suddenly, I want a life in the country - writing novels, chasing dogs, not talking to any more people.
I feel old, suddenly, and it was mirror.
Do I look retarded in my Ramones shirt?
I suddenly want to get all of my tattoos removed,
Except for the ones that represent the 3 men that have really loved me -
Maybe the only people that loved me.
Suddenly, I can't sleep,
and movies with sex scenes just look like gore now.
The idea of eating chocolate makes me gag,
even Nutella is horrible - saddest thing ever.
I can't believe how empty I feel.
How stupid I feel now.
Words cannot describe how stupid I feel.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
A Night With Cameron / Crown's Thanksgiving Speech
Cameron was actually really into Astrology and Palmistry and anything else that could give him some kind of hint as to what to put money on. One afternoon after lunch and still a long ways until dinner, we decided to split a bag of mushrooms and barricade ourselves in one of the drawing rooms. I found myself on a chaise lounge by the window rubbing an expensive lotion I had found in one of the bathrooms all over my legs(this was when I was still in my swimsuit after a swim in the bay). We had one of Vivian’s old Victrola’s playing some obscure rag time record older than the both of us, and Cameron was dancing spritely all over the room. He landed in a spot finally next to a large, basketball sized crystal ball on a pewter stand in the corner of the large room.
“Oh my fucking God!” I heard him yell, like he had just found that pot at the end of his Gay rainbow. I heard him start to shuffle and grunt, frustrated and swearing under his breath as he moved spastically in the corner. Still high and seeing fish on the Persian rug swim beside the lounge I sat on, and called out to him;
“What are you doing?” He whipped around excitedly, peering out between the giant potted ferns in front of him.
“I’m trying to get this ball out of the stand, you have to see it. Can you just come over here and see it? It’s ‘A-fucking-mazing’!” I looked up from my leg with a slight grimace on my face. Out of my peripherals I could still see the swordfish swimming slowly below me, and now it seemed, that the Persian rug had started to breed small lobsters that floated slightly and awkwardly up to near my feet.
“Oh, Christ, I can’t swim over there right now. Can’t you pick it up?” I moaned. I do remember really, really, wanting to see this crystal ball. Who the fuck has a basketball sized crystal ball in their house? It was most likely older than the house itself and I have always had a fondness with anything with a history – obviously.
“It’s too heavy,” Cameron whined, tugging at one of the silk scarves he was wearing. “Please.”
Two lobsters fumbled over themselves trying to pinch my left foot. I hissed out a ‘Goddamn it!” to them as I grabbed a pillow of the lounge and swatted them away. I felt tiny beads of sweat on the brows, and the whirlwind of the high was beginning to subside.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re too Gay to pick up the crystal ball….that is so ironic.” I said, smirking.
It was then that another song began to play and Cameron went back to dancing around, and explaining how Astrology was ‘more science than magic ‘.
“You see, someone like me, a Gemini, has to always have something going on! And if I let my hands be still for one minute – oh my god!” He gasped and folded his arms and shook his head vehemently. “I could end the world if I was angry enough, I mean, I really could!” He flew over to my side of the chaise lounge and sat in front of me like a puppy asking for some kind of playful romp, but Cameron wanted to play with words. He would get into these long conversations about nothing and everything and what people wore and who they fucked, how they fucked, when they fucked – Cameron didn’t get fucked enough. The conversations were tedious and obligatory to begin with, but then they started to be like radio shows and personal Opera performances. Cameron played every character out with voices and mannerisms and brought every story to life. Soon, I was starting to prepare myself a large tumbler full of Jameson and head down the hallway to his room. He’d start a conversation and always beg me to listen to his problems with the world. “Nobody ever listens!” He’d whine. Offer me a cigarette and by then I was nearly drunk so I’d accept and drowsily smoke while he rattled on. The conversations were a warm blanket of self-indulgence for him and a thick layer of cozy comfort for me. I loved to be an audience for someone.
It was Cameron’s great idea to do Thanksgiving at the House. He had planned and arranged – with Vivian’s funds – for the dinner to consist of 5 amazing courses. The appetizers being scallops wrapped in bacon, with some sort of lemon and black pepper sauce drizzled all over. Then the New England clam chowder, with some sort of added sausage mixed in and served with fluffy Southern biscuits with a sausage gravy as a dip. Then, we had a thick lobster each, complimented by a salad with artichoke hearts and hard-boiled eggs, and then there was a tiramisu the size of a football before each of us.
An hour before dinner was to start I smoked an entire bowl in my room. I had been doing this ritual of getting myself baked before I knew I was going to devour an amazing meal since I was 15. After an hour, the munchies have set up camp in your brain and have had a fire burning for a while. The last 20 minutes before the meal are always the worst. Your brain is teetering on making you get a snack and ruining the fine meal,and clawing at the seats and Google-ing ‘food porn’. Those giant, Hi-def images of pizzas, cheesesteaks, fries, burgers, and fried chicken. By then it is 5 minutes until, and you are about to jump out of your goddamned skin.
‘If you don’t eat soon, you will die.” I looked up from a deep train I was riding in the kitchen, sitting on the high wicker chair against the wall by the fridge, and Cameron was looking down at the bacon he was wrapping around the scallops, but there was a smirk on his face.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“You’re so stoned and your munchies are kicking in.” He said, looking up at me. Smug motherfucker.
“Marijuana is a dangerous drug and should be exterminated." I said, mockingly triumphant, and jumping off of the chair and walking over him to inspect his work.
“But it cured my Anorexia!” He cried sarcastically, throwing an arm up in the air, dramatically.
“Anorexi-o. A new designer drug.” I said slowly, watching my words float out of me, over the appetizers.
“I’m from the planet Anorexia. Our god is Donatella Versace and we only have sex ‘up-against-the-wall.”
Oh!" I smiled, 'Up-against-the-wall' sex is the best...it's so chic."
"It's the only way the Parisians do it." Cameron said, putting the serving tray of scallops to the side and reaching for the ladle to stir the pot of gravy with. I suddenly realized that there was no catering staff anywhere around, the kitchen was marble silent with just Cameron and I to fill the high ceilings with noise.
“Where are the caterers?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Cameron’s back was to me and I watched it rise swiftly as he drew in a frustrated sigh.
“I sent them away. All they were doing was fucking everything up.” He said, stirring the gravy faster ass the thought of the caterers ate at him.
When he finally decided to feed us all, we assembled in the White dining room on the 20 foot long cherry oak table Vivian had acquired in Charleston after the Civil War. China on top a black lace table runner, Waterford crystal glasses filled with champagne, and $500 in rich ingredients to consume each. I felt a moral obligation to every blue-collar person in all of earth's timeline to become the epitome of glutton and satisfaction during this meal. When you are handed a plate of the finer things in life, is it so wild to put faith into the thought that you owe it to all of the poor bastards who have never and will never? Or do you eat and somehow tuck into the back of your head that, someday, somewhere, you will be given a second chance to have this finer thing once again? I have to say enjoy it because no one else is currently present to take your place. The idea of wasting anything spectacular and grand is a shipwreck – a devastating little tear on the face of history. I sat up in my chair and put my best table manners on display, garnering a brief but elegant nod from Vivian, whose place was at the head of the table, four seats up from me on my right.
That first bite into the meal was like water on a wild fire – instant calm and relief from that superficial hunger I created myself. Everything tastes so much more complex and alive when I am stoned. But this was the first time I was stoned off of the regular stash that sat in the green glass jars – one in every room of the House. Each jar was always full of at least an ounce of weed in it at all times. Making the House even more utopic, was the constant stickiness and pungency of it. The rooms the jars sat in where always thick with sour sweetness of the weed. The times I wanted to fill my nose with the scent, I would go to each jar and take a lung full – and always leave with an acidic tear in both eyes.
By Thankgiving, I had been at the House for a continuous two or so weeks, and had not left once. I had finished the last of my own weed about four days before, and in order to fufill my gastronomical ritual, I had to smoke the House’s stash. To ease any back-brained uneasiness I felt about using these accessible drugs that I knew no concrete origins of, I reasoned that each glass full of dank was just ‘an adult version of candy dishes’ in each room. After only one toke, my head began to float on it’s back while it allowed me to navigate the rest of my body through the pool it had placed me in. I had never noticed the House’s light humming; soft like a harp chord – sharp as a sickle. Once the humming entered my ears I felt the floor slip from underneath me. It was exhilarating, but smooth – a controlled, safe, but fast boat ride through a still black lake. Eating was sensational. The seasonings were blooming all over again on my tongue, the meat was soothing the wolf gnawing away at the inside of my belly, and the breads were making peace with my serotonin levels.
From down the table 5 seats, I watched as Vivian cut into her lobster with precision, and then cracking the claws open without a nutcracker. She sunk chunks of meat into the ramekins filled with melted butter and Old Bay seasoning, thickly coating it with the lipid. She would then take a bite to divide it in half, and drench the remaining half in butter and repeat the process. Finishing her lobster quickly with this starving vigor, I snuck a glance at her eyes as she eyes everyone else’s plates.
It was as if she wanted to steal the lobsters out from each one of us. She looked blood-thirsty and desperate for more food. I kept my head low hoping she wouldn’t notice me staring out of my peripherals to watch her. Watching her stretch her back, adjusting in her seat like a predatory feline, getting comfortable with the notion of ending someone’s life, my head buzzed up to a auditory alarm.
It’s all about the dinner, babe.
Crown clinked his goddamn crystal with his salad fork.
“A toast?” He said, grinning and standing. Vivian rolled herself from plank straight plank back to a demure elbow on the table and her head resting on her fist. Her iris’s were swimming with a deep mahogany color, near looking reflective and red. Her eyes had relaxed into a dozy, sleepy U-shape. Her brows were relaxed and the air around her seemed to purr – as if she was fed and satiated.
Everyone turned to look at Vivian, a silent signal on whether we should all this to what this prick had to say about the season. Vivian made an approving nod and Crown raised his glass.
“For the pilgrims, who wanted to forget God, but then they realized they needed him when they got here and didn’t know how to plant or build anything. It is because of them that our country is full of Christian imposters with hollow insides. A people that are hell-bent on creating fantastical re-creations of the past and commemorating them into holidays in order to alleviate our guilt from subjeceting entire races into brutal slavery, slaughtering millions in order build upon stolen land, and for the countless – and useless- hours people spent praying about the genocide, rape, and starvation we incurred. May we always have the spirit of those Pilgrims – a soul that looks for independence and success in unfamiliar territory, and then who selfishly uses others in order to get them.” Crown downed his entire glass of champagne in one large gulp against the background of the entire dining hall clapping him on. I looked up at Vivian and she smirked, amused at Crown. He straightened back his black hair, shiny today with pomade and gel with one hand as he poured himself a glass from the table bottle with the other. He then stood and raised his glass again, and this time Vivian raised hers in a polished response.
“And, to the Indians,” Crown began.
“Yes,” Vivian said, all eyes looking at her. “They were delicious.”
“Oh my fucking God!” I heard him yell, like he had just found that pot at the end of his Gay rainbow. I heard him start to shuffle and grunt, frustrated and swearing under his breath as he moved spastically in the corner. Still high and seeing fish on the Persian rug swim beside the lounge I sat on, and called out to him;
“What are you doing?” He whipped around excitedly, peering out between the giant potted ferns in front of him.
“I’m trying to get this ball out of the stand, you have to see it. Can you just come over here and see it? It’s ‘A-fucking-mazing’!” I looked up from my leg with a slight grimace on my face. Out of my peripherals I could still see the swordfish swimming slowly below me, and now it seemed, that the Persian rug had started to breed small lobsters that floated slightly and awkwardly up to near my feet.
“Oh, Christ, I can’t swim over there right now. Can’t you pick it up?” I moaned. I do remember really, really, wanting to see this crystal ball. Who the fuck has a basketball sized crystal ball in their house? It was most likely older than the house itself and I have always had a fondness with anything with a history – obviously.
“It’s too heavy,” Cameron whined, tugging at one of the silk scarves he was wearing. “Please.”
Two lobsters fumbled over themselves trying to pinch my left foot. I hissed out a ‘Goddamn it!” to them as I grabbed a pillow of the lounge and swatted them away. I felt tiny beads of sweat on the brows, and the whirlwind of the high was beginning to subside.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re too Gay to pick up the crystal ball….that is so ironic.” I said, smirking.
It was then that another song began to play and Cameron went back to dancing around, and explaining how Astrology was ‘more science than magic ‘.
“You see, someone like me, a Gemini, has to always have something going on! And if I let my hands be still for one minute – oh my god!” He gasped and folded his arms and shook his head vehemently. “I could end the world if I was angry enough, I mean, I really could!” He flew over to my side of the chaise lounge and sat in front of me like a puppy asking for some kind of playful romp, but Cameron wanted to play with words. He would get into these long conversations about nothing and everything and what people wore and who they fucked, how they fucked, when they fucked – Cameron didn’t get fucked enough. The conversations were tedious and obligatory to begin with, but then they started to be like radio shows and personal Opera performances. Cameron played every character out with voices and mannerisms and brought every story to life. Soon, I was starting to prepare myself a large tumbler full of Jameson and head down the hallway to his room. He’d start a conversation and always beg me to listen to his problems with the world. “Nobody ever listens!” He’d whine. Offer me a cigarette and by then I was nearly drunk so I’d accept and drowsily smoke while he rattled on. The conversations were a warm blanket of self-indulgence for him and a thick layer of cozy comfort for me. I loved to be an audience for someone.
It was Cameron’s great idea to do Thanksgiving at the House. He had planned and arranged – with Vivian’s funds – for the dinner to consist of 5 amazing courses. The appetizers being scallops wrapped in bacon, with some sort of lemon and black pepper sauce drizzled all over. Then the New England clam chowder, with some sort of added sausage mixed in and served with fluffy Southern biscuits with a sausage gravy as a dip. Then, we had a thick lobster each, complimented by a salad with artichoke hearts and hard-boiled eggs, and then there was a tiramisu the size of a football before each of us.
An hour before dinner was to start I smoked an entire bowl in my room. I had been doing this ritual of getting myself baked before I knew I was going to devour an amazing meal since I was 15. After an hour, the munchies have set up camp in your brain and have had a fire burning for a while. The last 20 minutes before the meal are always the worst. Your brain is teetering on making you get a snack and ruining the fine meal,and clawing at the seats and Google-ing ‘food porn’. Those giant, Hi-def images of pizzas, cheesesteaks, fries, burgers, and fried chicken. By then it is 5 minutes until, and you are about to jump out of your goddamned skin.
‘If you don’t eat soon, you will die.” I looked up from a deep train I was riding in the kitchen, sitting on the high wicker chair against the wall by the fridge, and Cameron was looking down at the bacon he was wrapping around the scallops, but there was a smirk on his face.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“You’re so stoned and your munchies are kicking in.” He said, looking up at me. Smug motherfucker.
“Marijuana is a dangerous drug and should be exterminated." I said, mockingly triumphant, and jumping off of the chair and walking over him to inspect his work.
“But it cured my Anorexia!” He cried sarcastically, throwing an arm up in the air, dramatically.
“Anorexi-o. A new designer drug.” I said slowly, watching my words float out of me, over the appetizers.
“I’m from the planet Anorexia. Our god is Donatella Versace and we only have sex ‘up-against-the-wall.”
Oh!" I smiled, 'Up-against-the-wall' sex is the best...it's so chic."
"It's the only way the Parisians do it." Cameron said, putting the serving tray of scallops to the side and reaching for the ladle to stir the pot of gravy with. I suddenly realized that there was no catering staff anywhere around, the kitchen was marble silent with just Cameron and I to fill the high ceilings with noise.
“Where are the caterers?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Cameron’s back was to me and I watched it rise swiftly as he drew in a frustrated sigh.
“I sent them away. All they were doing was fucking everything up.” He said, stirring the gravy faster ass the thought of the caterers ate at him.
When he finally decided to feed us all, we assembled in the White dining room on the 20 foot long cherry oak table Vivian had acquired in Charleston after the Civil War. China on top a black lace table runner, Waterford crystal glasses filled with champagne, and $500 in rich ingredients to consume each. I felt a moral obligation to every blue-collar person in all of earth's timeline to become the epitome of glutton and satisfaction during this meal. When you are handed a plate of the finer things in life, is it so wild to put faith into the thought that you owe it to all of the poor bastards who have never and will never? Or do you eat and somehow tuck into the back of your head that, someday, somewhere, you will be given a second chance to have this finer thing once again? I have to say enjoy it because no one else is currently present to take your place. The idea of wasting anything spectacular and grand is a shipwreck – a devastating little tear on the face of history. I sat up in my chair and put my best table manners on display, garnering a brief but elegant nod from Vivian, whose place was at the head of the table, four seats up from me on my right.
That first bite into the meal was like water on a wild fire – instant calm and relief from that superficial hunger I created myself. Everything tastes so much more complex and alive when I am stoned. But this was the first time I was stoned off of the regular stash that sat in the green glass jars – one in every room of the House. Each jar was always full of at least an ounce of weed in it at all times. Making the House even more utopic, was the constant stickiness and pungency of it. The rooms the jars sat in where always thick with sour sweetness of the weed. The times I wanted to fill my nose with the scent, I would go to each jar and take a lung full – and always leave with an acidic tear in both eyes.
By Thankgiving, I had been at the House for a continuous two or so weeks, and had not left once. I had finished the last of my own weed about four days before, and in order to fufill my gastronomical ritual, I had to smoke the House’s stash. To ease any back-brained uneasiness I felt about using these accessible drugs that I knew no concrete origins of, I reasoned that each glass full of dank was just ‘an adult version of candy dishes’ in each room. After only one toke, my head began to float on it’s back while it allowed me to navigate the rest of my body through the pool it had placed me in. I had never noticed the House’s light humming; soft like a harp chord – sharp as a sickle. Once the humming entered my ears I felt the floor slip from underneath me. It was exhilarating, but smooth – a controlled, safe, but fast boat ride through a still black lake. Eating was sensational. The seasonings were blooming all over again on my tongue, the meat was soothing the wolf gnawing away at the inside of my belly, and the breads were making peace with my serotonin levels.
From down the table 5 seats, I watched as Vivian cut into her lobster with precision, and then cracking the claws open without a nutcracker. She sunk chunks of meat into the ramekins filled with melted butter and Old Bay seasoning, thickly coating it with the lipid. She would then take a bite to divide it in half, and drench the remaining half in butter and repeat the process. Finishing her lobster quickly with this starving vigor, I snuck a glance at her eyes as she eyes everyone else’s plates.
It was as if she wanted to steal the lobsters out from each one of us. She looked blood-thirsty and desperate for more food. I kept my head low hoping she wouldn’t notice me staring out of my peripherals to watch her. Watching her stretch her back, adjusting in her seat like a predatory feline, getting comfortable with the notion of ending someone’s life, my head buzzed up to a auditory alarm.
It’s all about the dinner, babe.
Crown clinked his goddamn crystal with his salad fork.
“A toast?” He said, grinning and standing. Vivian rolled herself from plank straight plank back to a demure elbow on the table and her head resting on her fist. Her iris’s were swimming with a deep mahogany color, near looking reflective and red. Her eyes had relaxed into a dozy, sleepy U-shape. Her brows were relaxed and the air around her seemed to purr – as if she was fed and satiated.
Everyone turned to look at Vivian, a silent signal on whether we should all this to what this prick had to say about the season. Vivian made an approving nod and Crown raised his glass.
“For the pilgrims, who wanted to forget God, but then they realized they needed him when they got here and didn’t know how to plant or build anything. It is because of them that our country is full of Christian imposters with hollow insides. A people that are hell-bent on creating fantastical re-creations of the past and commemorating them into holidays in order to alleviate our guilt from subjeceting entire races into brutal slavery, slaughtering millions in order build upon stolen land, and for the countless – and useless- hours people spent praying about the genocide, rape, and starvation we incurred. May we always have the spirit of those Pilgrims – a soul that looks for independence and success in unfamiliar territory, and then who selfishly uses others in order to get them.” Crown downed his entire glass of champagne in one large gulp against the background of the entire dining hall clapping him on. I looked up at Vivian and she smirked, amused at Crown. He straightened back his black hair, shiny today with pomade and gel with one hand as he poured himself a glass from the table bottle with the other. He then stood and raised his glass again, and this time Vivian raised hers in a polished response.
“And, to the Indians,” Crown began.
“Yes,” Vivian said, all eyes looking at her. “They were delicious.”
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Some simple requests. :)
well, it's obviously been a while since I last wrote something on this thing. I've gotten a new laptop since then, and I've been busy writing my novel (which I'll have to at first publish myself, but hey - technology rocks) instead of on this thing. My favorite pair of tits came to visit me here in Washington, (Leanne, for those who are unsure who my 'favorite pair of tits' are...)and it was great! It felt amazing to have her here and actually pretend that she lived here....I wish she did, we'd have so much fun. ) But she wrote a blog for the first time in forever yesterday, and it inspired me to d othe same.
So, today at the gym, I started mentally making a list of things I'd like to do. Preferably, within the year, but I guess it could also be a 'Lifetime List" of 'shit-I'd-like-to-get-done.'
1). Get a tattoo / piercing apprenticeship. (And also learn to spell 'piercing' properly, without Spell Check correcting it for me. I before E bullshit)
2). Go white water rafting.
3). Take my niece Mila to the Bug Safari while she's still in the phase where bugs are cool and not the horrible, alien sent monsters that they really are.
4). Start modeling. Plus size, or 'alternative' - I don't really care. But, (as vain as this sounds)But I've realized that I have a beautiful face, and I like it. :)
5). Go on a Nerd-tastic trip to New Orleans with Leanne Patrick (A.K.A - My favorite Pair Of Tits). I want to go to the French Quarter, and ghost tours, and go to Gothic bars, and try and have sex with Jefferey Star.
6). Go hiking in the rainforest. Washingotn has rainforests - so I'm gonna go climb shit in them.
7). Finish my book.
8) Eat something ONCE without feeling guilty.
9). Finish my mini-line of greeting cards / valentines for you people to buy them. They're off-color, blunt, honest cards. And then there is also a line of one's featuring really creepy characters. BUY THEM.
10). Start making dog treats at home. Don't ask why.
11).Write a children's books with my favorite pair of tits. Actually, she'll write, I'll illustrate.
12). Get my BB Monster Puggie - pregnant. I want her to have a 'Pug in the Oven' - and then be able to give Lee and my sister Meghan a puppy.
13). Get a Pink Floyd tattoo with Van. We have our reasons.
14). Move back to New England (once I'm done with school).
15). Get pregnant.
16). Haha! Gotcha! I don't want any fucking kids.
17). Get my Green Card.
18). Get my passport and go to Ireland.
19). Take a Glass Blowing class. Save the blow job jokes, people.
20). Visit my aunt in Rhode Island.
21). Volunteer at Planned Parenthood. I could be the bouncer.
22). Have dinner and drinks with Will Ward. We need to catch up.
23). Have drinks with Buster Freeze. We need to get stupid.
24). Write something amazing - or create something amazing - with Wyatt Rollins. And make him come to Washington for grad school.
25). Go to Portland and see Eric and get drunk on Absinthe.
26). Make a pecan and chocolate chip pie for my nieces and nephew.
27). Tell the 6'6 Saudi guy who lives upstairs from me, and his Kim Kardashian wannabe girlfriend, to pick up their 300 pound German Shepard's shit. I mean, goddamn, I step in it all the time. I, and the other tenants pick up our dog's shit - and just because your whore faced girlfriend with the heels (that I KNOW for a fact she bought at Target) works in the apartment complex's office - doesn't mean that you are immune to some payback. And you'll get it.
28). Collect my dog's shit for 5 days, and in the middle of the night, leave it on said neighbor's doorstep.
29). Move to a house on the waterfront. Puget Sound waterfront, NOT Lake Washington.
30). Have my sister Ceilidhe and her wife, Kris come out to WA for a visit. I would like a picture of me and my sisters together now that we're all grown up and don't want to rip each other's eyeballs out anymore.
31). Find Elizabeth Hasselback and fucking kill her.
32). Find Norman Reedus again. and then find a closet. So I can get my rocks off.
33). Get a Winnie Sanderson tattoo. If you don't know who she is - you're an asshole.
34). Split the world in two - make half of the people love me, and other half want to kill me. Success breeds in polarity.
35). Get back on stage.
36). Have someone or somewhere to stay in North Carolina for the summer - I'd like to sing Betty Hutton in the USO show.
So, today at the gym, I started mentally making a list of things I'd like to do. Preferably, within the year, but I guess it could also be a 'Lifetime List" of 'shit-I'd-like-to-get-done.'
1). Get a tattoo / piercing apprenticeship. (And also learn to spell 'piercing' properly, without Spell Check correcting it for me. I before E bullshit)
2). Go white water rafting.
3). Take my niece Mila to the Bug Safari while she's still in the phase where bugs are cool and not the horrible, alien sent monsters that they really are.
4). Start modeling. Plus size, or 'alternative' - I don't really care. But, (as vain as this sounds)But I've realized that I have a beautiful face, and I like it. :)
5). Go on a Nerd-tastic trip to New Orleans with Leanne Patrick (A.K.A - My favorite Pair Of Tits). I want to go to the French Quarter, and ghost tours, and go to Gothic bars, and try and have sex with Jefferey Star.
6). Go hiking in the rainforest. Washingotn has rainforests - so I'm gonna go climb shit in them.
7). Finish my book.
8) Eat something ONCE without feeling guilty.
9). Finish my mini-line of greeting cards / valentines for you people to buy them. They're off-color, blunt, honest cards. And then there is also a line of one's featuring really creepy characters. BUY THEM.
10). Start making dog treats at home. Don't ask why.
11).Write a children's books with my favorite pair of tits. Actually, she'll write, I'll illustrate.
12). Get my BB Monster Puggie - pregnant. I want her to have a 'Pug in the Oven' - and then be able to give Lee and my sister Meghan a puppy.
13). Get a Pink Floyd tattoo with Van. We have our reasons.
14). Move back to New England (once I'm done with school).
15). Get pregnant.
16). Haha! Gotcha! I don't want any fucking kids.
17). Get my Green Card.
18). Get my passport and go to Ireland.
19). Take a Glass Blowing class. Save the blow job jokes, people.
20). Visit my aunt in Rhode Island.
21). Volunteer at Planned Parenthood. I could be the bouncer.
22). Have dinner and drinks with Will Ward. We need to catch up.
23). Have drinks with Buster Freeze. We need to get stupid.
24). Write something amazing - or create something amazing - with Wyatt Rollins. And make him come to Washington for grad school.
25). Go to Portland and see Eric and get drunk on Absinthe.
26). Make a pecan and chocolate chip pie for my nieces and nephew.
27). Tell the 6'6 Saudi guy who lives upstairs from me, and his Kim Kardashian wannabe girlfriend, to pick up their 300 pound German Shepard's shit. I mean, goddamn, I step in it all the time. I, and the other tenants pick up our dog's shit - and just because your whore faced girlfriend with the heels (that I KNOW for a fact she bought at Target) works in the apartment complex's office - doesn't mean that you are immune to some payback. And you'll get it.
28). Collect my dog's shit for 5 days, and in the middle of the night, leave it on said neighbor's doorstep.
29). Move to a house on the waterfront. Puget Sound waterfront, NOT Lake Washington.
30). Have my sister Ceilidhe and her wife, Kris come out to WA for a visit. I would like a picture of me and my sisters together now that we're all grown up and don't want to rip each other's eyeballs out anymore.
31). Find Elizabeth Hasselback and fucking kill her.
32). Find Norman Reedus again. and then find a closet. So I can get my rocks off.
33). Get a Winnie Sanderson tattoo. If you don't know who she is - you're an asshole.
34). Split the world in two - make half of the people love me, and other half want to kill me. Success breeds in polarity.
35). Get back on stage.
36). Have someone or somewhere to stay in North Carolina for the summer - I'd like to sing Betty Hutton in the USO show.
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