On New Years Eve 2007 my cousin got back from Iraq. I had just been fired from one of my gigs and I heard rumor than another was just waiting for after Christmas. I wanted to escape New York City, so I got in my cousin's car and went down to North Carolina.
It was one of those great road trips where you eat Burger King and tell a thousand stories. We drove all night, like Roy Orbison. I got to thinking about my life. This was a few months after I flew to Minneapolis to chase down Nikki, which was a total failure (or not).
I got to thinking about my life and what I had done (basically: drugs) and I thought about what I wanted to do with this brand new year ahead of me. I had never been serious about music, but I don't mind writing and I like DJ and I had the opportunity to work for a major label.
But what really happened on the trip is I ventured out of the Lower East Side. I saw a big, beautiful world out there. I bought drinks for the guys who looked out for my cousin over there. They all at first looked away, but then when I thanked them for it something in both of us changed. They could tell I was serious and I realized I was serious.
I hid in the barracks and wrote songs all day. It was awesome.
The one thing I was dead certain about on my 14 hour Amtrak ride home was that I had already met the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. We had dated in the wreckage of the Nikki disaster. She was a wonderful girl, but I was a terrible person. I wanted to work on that.
I stopped dating, which is like how other people start dieting. I was gung ho at first, but inside of me was that little dorky kid who never met any girls. I owed him, right? I took Italian at NYU and my favorite part of it was that every Monday night the girl of my dreams was there in the library.
I remember the day I truly, completely went batshit for her. It was finals week (right before my cousin came back) and I saw her there, all bushy-tailed from a laptop-case library nap. She was puffy and her hair was sticking up and she had gained weight since I dated her.
That was the day I knew I wanted to be with Leigh. I would coax her away from the library (my Italian suffered tremendously--but who cares!) and we would go and have edamame and sushi. What a wonderful way to end my long weekends. Tuesdays would begin the cycle again, but Mondays were for flashcards and miso soup.
Italian ended in December. I came back in January and was despondent for her. One night I texted her from Beauty Bar, "Can you please come and take me away from here?"
She didn't have any way of knowing how bad I was doing back then, but she didn't come. We met up the next night and had dinner at Sea. I could barely talk. I had too much to say. She rubbed my temples during dinner and promised me that whatever it was it would be alright.
When I dropped her off at her house I said, "I can't leave."
"What?"
"I've been thinking about you non-stop for 3 months. But I was waiting until I was a good enough person to be with you. That's what I discovered in North Carolina. I remembered that I used to be very nice and I miss that. And I miss you."
I don't think I deserved to be forgiven for the way I treated her when we first dated. And I don't think she really did. Why wouldn't she assume that no-text-back means I'm not chasing down an ex girlfriend?
She broke up with me after Havana. I'd had enough then and was really hurt. I walked away.
I should have pursued it more, but I just wanted her to decide on her own whether she wanted to live life without me. Unfortunately she decided that she didn't want to live life with a guy who didn't have the decency to beg for her back.
On Easter I discovered that she was dating someone else. It ripped me in half the way I felt that first day walking to school when my neighbor and best friend moved away. I'm alone in this world and no one, no one cares. Easter was at my cousin's house that year and I spent the majority of it in his Mom's bathroom in West Hartford crying.
Months go by and the whole world changes. It's summer. My roommates move out. I'm working with a new singer and things are looking up.
My cousin gives me a call saying he got into Columbia. "Can I stay with you while I look for a new place?"
"The roommates all moved out so you can have your own room. I need you to help me with renovations. You build me a deck: you can stay with me for free."
We're hammering away and listening to Aerosmith and using tape measures and wifebeaters.
It's July. It's the month I planned on being a-okay with life. "I think I found a great place. It's in Harlem, two dudes. Their third roommate moved out and their lease is up in December so if we get along we me might stay or get a place together."
"That's great man, welcome to New York!"
I walk to the lumber yard (I dress like my brother there: camo hunting cap, wifebeater, jeans) and negotiate the lumber for the stairs that are going to go to my hammock--where I will spend my summer in perfect bliss.
My phone rings. It is, of all the people in the world, Leigh. "I'm freaking out."
My heart is racing and I'm carrying the future 16 steps on my stairs. I'm struggling and I'm late for work. "Are you okay? Where are you? Is everyone okay?"
"Tommy is moving in with Conlan."
"Who's Tommy?" I am literally thinking about who could be a Tommy. I know a guy from work named Tommy but who cares if my manager lives with---
"Your cousin."
I had to smack myself in the forehead on that one--it was just too improbable to make any sense. "What?"
"Your cousin Tommy is moving in with Conlan. The person I'm sleeping with."
That was, surprisingly, the best way to possibly put it. If she had said boyfriend I would have melted into a sticky mess on the streets of Park Slope and dog-owners would bark at their pets to keep away.
"What?"
"It just dawned on me. 'I found this great guy. He's going to Columbia in the fall. It'll be cool His cousin's a DJ, so we'll get to go to cool parties. He's staying with his cousin in Brooklyn and going back to his parents house in West Hartford.'"
"You're still dating Conlan? I thought you broke up with him."
"Yes. I got back together with him."
"Okay, calm down. There's only one thing to do: you're going to have to break up with Conlan."
She must have known I would say this because instead of yelling at me she just laughed. In a really cute way. "I'm serious. There's just no way for this to work. My poor cousin can't just go find another apartment by Columbia a week before classes begin. Let him down easy. Tell him you're really focussed on your career or something."
"This is awful," I didn't think she would take it this way. "It's my fault. I'm apparently just a huge disease that infects everyone I touch. I had this. Nevermind, I shouldn'tve said anything."
"Honey, please. You're not a disease. It's a good thing you caught it in time."
"It's just..." she let out this sigh of nostalgia and frustration. "It's just that he's moving to the city and they're probably going to hang out and he's going to tell him all about his cool DJ cousin and, and the parties and I mean I've been to his Mom's house for Easter."
"Conlan ruined Easter this year."
"Nevermind. Forget I called."
"Thank god you called. Tommy will fucking kill him if they ever meet."
I walked home and Tommy says, "What's up?"
"Nothing. I gotta go to work."
From work I texted Leigh "Try and pretend this is a funny story and we're laughing about it years from now when our crazy luck brings us together at some college lecture panel. It'll be a real crowd pleaser in the Q&A."
She was still upset and so I made her a list.
Looking on the Bright Side
I know SOMEBODY who's getting an oversized portrait of me on Rihanna's boat for XMas!
Now I won't be late for Easter! I can sleepover at my cousin's place in Harlem and we can take Metro North from 125th. This will bring back a proud Sullivan family tradition of the pre-Easter Egg Hunt all-cousin sleepover! Easter Eggs in the bathroom? Yes please!
If the lease is up in December maybe the four of us can find a place together?
The New York Times is gonna love this as the ending to my "Modern Love" essay. Somewhere another couple will get the Sunday Giggles all snuggled up in bed. "You know how hard it is to find an apartment in this city!" And the guy'll respond, "Only in NY!" They'll never fight over Week in Review again!
I laughed because I thought of funny things to say.
I was happy because I had a funny story to tell.
And none of that changed how I feel about anything else. This weird little thing was like when you stir up a pot of chili. All those things I'd forgotten about floated to the surface. Everything seemed clear before because I let things settle, but it didn't make anything go away. That little stir left me feeling like she had called me to tell me a funny story. It made me remember why I consider her the love of my life.
And I guess any sadness I'm left with is from regretting the fact that I could have told her that and made sure she knew it.
Wherever I walk it's like the sidewalk is your face. I can't move, I just stand there stuck in place. I could move, but you'd be there waiting too, In some small town, where I meant to grey with you.
I just gets worse, but here's the thing: I'd rather live with that painful sting. Losing you was already hard enough Hearing from you is a sore I can touch.
My friends say to leave it alone for now Adrianne texted to sell me "Somehow It gets better no matter what you do, Even though you never wanted it to."
Sometimes when I'm reading a book I think, "What if this were all I had?"
I think about my Grandfather, who was the greatest grandfather ever. I think about what I would think if I were lucky enough to read one more book at his house on the shore of Lake Michigan. He had a glorious house in Good Harbor Bay, across from the port of Leland.
I read a book a wonder what I would think of that story if I just had nothing else to think of right then.
As a kid I hated reading. But every summer my dad would take me to Sunrise Books in Traverse City, Michigan. People talk shit about Young Adult novels, but I remember the first summer I read something from the Goosebumps series. My dad took one look at the cover when we were at the bookstore and he said, "Why don't you get a couple of these, kid?"
What a luxury! Across the street was a gag shop. All the exploding gum and whoopee cushions a guy could want. But here at the bookshop my own dad gave me free reign. "Get a couple of those," he said. And I did.
I read those books underneath a desk lamp, with the semi-tidal waves crashing in on that house. For fun I used to skip to the 15th page! Figure it out, Sullivan!
Meanwhile fruit flies and moths would dance with the lightbulb until they got their fatal wish. I remember reading each page slowly (I wasn't the brightest) and brushing the dead, burnt flies away from each leaf as I turned the pages.
When I read a book: that is all I'm looking for.
And someday I want to write the book that keeps people up at night, and makes preteens brush the dead flies off their pages to read more.
I'm updating my blog template and the fun part is that you can't see how many iterations blogger is taking me through. This is the ugliest blog I've ever seen.
First of all, I have maybe the best apartment in our price range. It's under two thousand, full back yard, right by 9 subway lines. It's cheap because it's awkward (the boiler from the building is off the kitchen, the backyard is half in the basement). But I like awkward.
I'll give you an example of what a shitty roommate I can be. Last week I had my new singer over with some friends and I made ratatouille with fresh Kentucky squash. The dish was lacking something, so I used my roommates salsa. The thing about this salsa is that it's hand made. By his family for generations and there was only one jar left (from the 2005 vintage) in our apartment. He's moving out soon and he mentioned that he wouldn't be taking his kitchen supplies with him.
I love this pepper relish so much that it took a lot for me not to hide or, or steam on some kind of Green Mountain Gringo Salsa label.
So just in case he meant that as liberally as I had hoped I cracked open this 4 year old jar of pickled jalapenos and invited my guests to enjoy it. He came home, unexpectedly, while we were smoking in the backyard and when I came back in he had taken all of the dishes and knives and salsas that we his and left the rest of the dishes out (whatever).
We went out drinking and when I came home I decided to take a nap in the living room.
He wakes me up the next morning while I'm happily asleep, shouts, "I was SAVING THAT JAR!" and storms out the door.
Here's how any normal person would tell this story: "Fucking Sullivan throws a party. Leaves the dishes out, gets wasted out back and uses up the last jar of my family's pickle relish. Then he goes out, stumbles home and when I go to work, two hours later, he's lying on the floor in the front hallway fully dressed with a bottle of whiskey next to him. I think he's dead. When I find he's breathing I step over him and tell him I was saving that salsa."
For about a year and a half there were three of us in here. It was actually fine because it encouraged us all to have girlfriends. We were all pay the unheard-of-in-this-neighborhood price of $550/mo. But you get to an age where you really don't want to have roommates anymore.
Personally this is difficult for me because I am so perfect and wonderful all of the time. My feet somehow never track in any dirt from the streets and I am capable of using the bathroom everyday for months without a trace. We all know, of course, that it is only roommates who are capable of leaving that mysterious trace of lint behind the toilet. Roommates--and only roommates--are inconsiderate enough to use up all but the very last splash of your soy milk. I have never done that unless, oops, I thought that was mine, bro?
It got so passive aggressive and annoying that last week he came back from job hunting out west (he needs to escape me THAT BAD) and he said, "Did you eat an entire box of my Morning Star Breakfast Patties?"
"I ate AN entire box of them this weekend, why?"
"Oh, before I left I saw them in the freezer and was like, 'Oh, I forgot I got these.' And then when I came back I saw the empty box in the recycling."
"So wouldn't it make way more sense that you didn't buy them at all and that we just both eat vegetarian foods?"
At my age I should be living someone and all of our conversations should go like this:
"Darling, did you use the last of the breakfast sausages?"
"I did indeed, my dear," I hold up a tray of coffee with a single flower in a champagne glass. "To make you BREAKFAST IN BED!"
"Aw, sweetie, that's the second time this week!"
"Well, my dear, what can I say? I just love these sausage patties you buy."
Instead I'm wasting my youth in dead end relationships and drinking my way into fights over whose asshair needs to be cleaned out of the drain. It's getting old.
Next week I have a girl and a dog moving in. She wants a steady apartment and a big back yard and laundry and a place to live. She's not just going to cram all her shit in her room and never leave.
I look forward to it. We're also going to get a maid service and agree on regular standards.
I got this apartment five years ago with Annie. It was our lovenest, but it was a bit of a wasted lovenest. I could have made an office in the laundry room. We could have had a pooltable with enough planning. When Annie moved out the first girl I kissed tracked me down where I was DJ'ing later that week. She and I never really dated but she took a liking to my old roommate. It's none of my business, of course, but I LOVE being all up in peoples business.
Last month he moved in with her, and the other roommate moved out soon after. Now the girl I'm moving in with is a girl that the first roommate used to date. This is wonderful because we will always have a fun story to tell when people ask how we met.
It might be weird that my old roommate and I are both living with girls that the other used to make out with. But I think that's fun!
I also can't fucking wait to see what kind of salsa she has. She's also getting a couch, so I won't have to pass out on the floor fully dressed anymore. Only ass-naked on her couch!
I was walking through downtown Lexington, KY and I needed a book. It was the first time in my adult life where I hadn't thought of travel as free-reading period. It's basically just me and Lemme from Motorhead who preferred touring to home for this reason.
I stepped into the basement of the Lexington library, where they sell all the books that teenagers return "it was like that when I got it."
So from John Updike's memoir about being John Updike, Self Consciousness:
On tying your shoes right the first time:
But I can still, ever so dimly, retaste the triumph of my first apparently successful attempt, and the praise that showered down from our teacher, raven-haired Miss Becker, whom I once invited, on behalf of a delegation of make-believe dwarves, to be Snow White.
On the rank-and-file of high school:
...We all came from Shillington, a unique square mile of global surface, and thus we were united against the world: against Mohnton on the one side and Kenhorst on the other, against the grade ahead of us (in which a number of our girls later found boyfriends) and the grade behind (which was to supply some of us boys with girlfriends, and, from third grade on, against Japan and Germany. The week after Pearl Harvor, Jimmy Trexler descrived to us, on unimpeachable authority, how our Navy men were holding the little Japanese by the heels and dropping them one by one into the battleship propellers.
My two favorite subjects:
I was often in love but didn't have a REAL, as they say, girlfriend until my senior year. She was a junior, called Nora. Though my only girlfriend, she was enough--sensitive, nicely formed, and fond of me. It was courtesy of Nora that I discovered breasts are not glaxed bouffant orbs pushing up out of prom dresses but soft poignant inflections, subtle additions to the female rib cage, which is distinctly yet not radically different from that of the male. She was as fragrant and tactful and giving as one could wish; in the relative scale of our youth and virginity, she did for me all that a woman does for a man, and I regretted that my nagging specialness harries almost every date and shared hour with awareness of our imminent and necessary parting. I was never allowed to relax with her; the perfect girl for me would take me away from Shillington, not pull me down into it.
On life:
...I walked back to the movie theatre, to join my mother and daughter, to resume my life. A fortunate life, of course--college, children, women, enough money, minor fame. But it had all from the age of thirteen on, felt like not quite my idea. Shillington, its idle alleys an darkened foursquare houses, had been my idea.
Remember that day before we were dating and you were apartment hunting with Sue in my neighborhood? You had chopped all your blonde hair off then and you had a cute brown pixy 'do. We walked to the bookstore and had dinner at Bartabac with a couple bottles of white wine. I love thinking about that day and how the sunset for us down Atlantic Avenue.
Darlin' texted me at five in the morning when I was on my connecting flight from Charlotte to Lexington, "Call when you get in. We're only 15 mins from airport." I didn't know why she wouldn't just pick me up at the time I emailed her. But as soon as I got in the car I realized why: this is the sister of the bride. The maid of honor. She has been on suicide watch for her entire family for the whole month prior to her little sister getting married.
Her parents (and now she) are from a very important Kentucky horse breeding family. The breeding was always very curious to me because they happen to be, basically, the busy bodies of all the horse-sex that happens in Kentucky. When you go with them to the races you are let in a private entrance to the "Lifetime Members Only" part of Keeneland racetrack, where they always get the same table right above where the jockeys promenade the horses when both man and beast are groomed, glistening and beautiful. Their mother can look at the race program and say, "Well, of course that one has strong knees. Little Irish Girl was her great grandmother."
They take breeding very seriously, but to a hilarious degree. When their horses breed with other horses it's called a "date" which was always weird to me because they had two teenage daughters at the time I learned this. Another thing is that in order to be a thoroughbred it must be a crossbreed between a coldblooded English mare and an Arabian Stallion.
Kentucky Thoroughbred racing is a huge business, but so is Kentucky Thoroughbred dating. In the newspaper in Kentucky all wedding announcements read like the Daily Racing Form, bride and groom get a casual mention in between a near exhaustive exploration of their family trees.
At Keeneland all of the lifetime members have grown up with each other and all the kids return every year for the first weekend at the races in their best outfits. The men all wear jackets and the ladies all wear the prettiest dresses.
Although Darlin' is, in my opinion, the most beautiful Kentucky throughbred girl she spends about a third of her life in Britain, dating coldblooded English stallions. I've only met one of them (she was engaged to another, briefly) and I don't really bother pretending that I like them. First of all, they're British which means they're dumb, shapeless, imbred and incapable of speaking English. Second of all none of them seem to worship her enough.
One of them also once made a snide remark about Amy, which I thought was unfair because as a matter of taste I do not like to punch anyone in the face.
The second I got into Darlin's car her ringtone went off.
Her ringtone is the traditional "Call to Post," which at Keeneland has been bugled out by Bucky Salee for the past 46 years. "What do you mean the dress ripped?"
"I went to try it on and it ripped." I was no surprised that there would be trouble before the wedding because I remember something I read once, "Thoroughbreds perform with maximum exertion, which leads to high rates of accidents."
I kind of thought that I would be in the way this week. Their farm is about twenty-five minutes from downtown Lexington (where we would all be staying) and the rehearsal dinner was ten minutes further out. The wedding was at their church in Midway (20 minutes from the hotel) and the reception was at the Keeneland racetrack (15 minutes). I didn't rent a car because I didn't plan on getting a DUI in another state.
Instead I was welcomed into the family like I always had been. Within minutes of arrival I was calming down the bride and assessing the damage to her dress. I have no idea where I picked up so much vocabulary on women's fashion (I have no sisters) but the shelf clasp had come unwrenched and the bodice hooks had come with it. I explained this to the bride (somehow vocabulary is the best medicine) bagged up the dress and we were off to the dressmaker.
The last time I saw Grandad he was recovering, I believe, from a stroke. He still had full mental capacity and he and I sat up one night and he told me all about the glory days of burlesque. "All the all the...all the great ones wore a body suit. Gloria Days, Alice Curtain. N-nothing dirty about it. Just theater."
But now Grandad had been moved to a home and his care and entertainment has fallen on his daughters. Also, curiously, as on any farm the females outnumber the males. By a lot. All the cousins I know are girls, all the full-blooded aunties are girls. I suspect, like in the dairy business, the men are drowned at birth or served as veal.
The question of the day is, "Should we bring Grandad to the wedding?" This was a question that was a little too-close to my heart because on my brother's wedding night my dad went down to the nursing home to visit my Gramma, who'd had a stroke the previous Easter. He said, "Mom, tonight is your first grandson's wedding. He really wants you to be there, but I don't think you'd want to cause a fuss. I just wanted you to know and I knew you'd be proud." She was waiting inside her head for six months so her first little guy could get married. Her heart held on for one more day, dreaming of her own wedding night, and in the morning--before anyone else could see her like this again--her little heart gave up.
I would be nervous to ever grow old or get injured in a Kentucky breeding family. Most horses get in fifteen races in their lives before they break a leg and get shot.
This means that family gatherings are a horrendous amount of fun. You basically go to a party full of beautiful women of all ages in pretty dresses and all of the guys are outsiders (this means there's none of that butt-sniffing that happens amongst men).
It was decided on the afternoon of the first day that the family needed to rent a car and while the girls were getting their nails done the men (me and their father--the only men for miles) would go rent a minivan to shuttle people around.
This, however, got bundled in a bale full of women-logic. The Mother-of-the-Bride pulled up to the farm office with the maid of honor and the DJ-of-the-Bride, "Get in, take us to the nail salon. Take Vaguen* with you to rent a car. Then have Vaguen drive my car back to the nail salon and bring us the keys so that you--"
"I still have work to do before I can go."
"Tom. Just get in."
"Why" (I love the way Southerners aspirate the aitches in words. We say "Y?" and they say "Wahhhaye not?") "Why would we go through all that trouble?"
"Tom we're going to be late."
"Daddy get in the car. Please." I'm in the backseat and I'm just as confused as they are.
For three more minutes they go back and forth and finally FOTB just says, "I have a car. It's right here. Why cain't you ladies drive yourselves to the nail salon and we'll just go to the car rental place?"
"Because your car is filthy!"
There it was. We had to go on a convoluted women-plan because the ladies did not want the DJOB to ride in a minivan that was used, daily, by a farm owner to ferry around various farm dogs and Mexicans. "Oh Jesus Christ," I hollered as I grabbed my record bag and stepped out the door. "I live in fucking Brooklyn. I've seen dirty cars before."
Once the ladies were gone we went upstairs to the office and it was kind of fun to have it just just us-guys. I met the farm office girl and Tom said, "This is our friend Vaguen, we brought him in to calm down the ladies." In this family I am, with bride, reguarded as a gelding.
Wikipedia:
Castration, and the elimination of hormonally-driven behavior associated with a stallion, allows a gelding to be calmer and better-behaved, making the animal quieter, gentler and potentially more suitable as an everyday working animal.
When we got in FOTB's car he said to me, "Vaguen we're gonna have to make one stop right quick here. I have this terrible, terrible addiction and I have to hide it from the women folk. I just love that KFC Pop Corn Chicken."
"Oh hellyeah! Me too. Only I never get to eat it. I love that barbecue sauce and the biscuits."
"Never met a biscuit I didn't like."
Cast of characters at the rehearsal dinner:
Cousin Martha was my best friend in Chicago. She and Darlin' couldn't be more different but when I moved to Chicago I got an email from her that said, "Welcome to Chicago your new worst enemy. My cousin says that we would be best friends if we ever met. I can't believe for a second that I would ever like a friend of my cousin's. So I have to meet you." At the time Martha was an art school dropout dating a coke dealer who threw her kitten against the wall and broke its legs. When she locked him out he broke down the door and she had to tell the landlord that some crazed junkie broke in. Which wasn't a lie. Her mom is the MOTB's sister and her dad is locally known as "Gay Uncle Phil." For many years GUP was the only one who didn't know he was gay, which just breaks my heart. He graduated from UVA law school and never practiced, he lost a farm and his inheritance on an ill-fated women's clothing store. Currently he is a waiter at a new restaurant in Lexington. I actually met him for the first time when we moved Martha into the ill-fated California-Stop-on-the-Blueline apartment where the El ran directly through her backyard, noisily silencing any conversation you might have for the next five minutes. She now works at Gucci and has an adorably nerdy boyfriend who has a good job video editing. He's basically the guy I would've been by now if I'd stayed in Chicago. Cousin Martha is going to be the Ted Kennedy of her family. It's wonderful to watch.
Brandy! One visit Darlin' picked me up from the airport and said, "Did I tell you our family has integrated? I will have little black neices some day." Breeders, by force of nature, are always looking new blood and technically an Arabian stallion can be Oriental, which includes the Barb breed from Africa. Brandy was staying in the cabin on one visit and we got along from the second she walked into the kitchen. She's just about the sweetest thing on two feet and since this is her second wedding with the family (hers being the first) Brandy had the decency to come pregnant. Pregnant black women (once you leave Brooklyn) are the most radiant, beautiful creatures. I'm smiling about her right now.
I could (and would love to) write an entire book about this family, but there already is one. Three Strides Before the Wire: the Dark and Beautiful World of Horse Racing. This book chronicles the year in the family's life that earned their horse the Kentucky Derby and almost killed each of them individually. Darlin' had a terrible car accident, FOTB just about ran himself ragged and had to be hospitalized. However (and this is priceless) the family doesn't make a big deal about the book because the MOTB despises an early description of her in the following sentence: "When FOTB was living in Lexington with his then-girlfriend, he..." She called up the author in a fury and the author said, "Actually FOTB's phrasing was 'living in sin.'" And MOTB said, "Well, there are going to be several people who I was going to send the book to that won't get a copy now." And she hung up. If I ever found myself unwelcome in Kentucky I would just about die.
The Groom (or whatever). The first time I met Drew was in 2005. I was at an enoteca in Florence right by the statue of David. He had flown in moments earlier to visit his future fiance on her semester abroad. I was in Italy with Annie, who had studied in Florence before. Annie and I had just walked across the Ponte Vecchio, which is the bridge in Florence where all the jewelers keep chilled Prosecco in the fridge so that young romantics can buy their engagement rings there and celebrate. Annie had written down a notecard full of useful Italian phrases for me, "May I have a glass of wine?" "How much is it?" "Will you marry me?" and I only mastered the first. He went to the bathroom at one point on our first meeting and I said, "I like him. He's very handsome and I can tell he really likes you. The future bride turned to me and said, "I know and can you believe he was a virgin when I met him!"
I was put at the misfits table. There's always this one table at gatherings where the leftover namecards get placed. I am always at this fucking table (with glee). The other people there are, without fail, unaccompanied divorcees, two teenagers who would rather be updating their facebook status and whatever your family thinks of as a "black sheep" and then some random couple who doesn't seem to know anybody and never says anything. The placecards were on the table, anchored down by lightweight racing horseshoe.
I was honored to be chosen as the DJOTB because I love this family. To me they are basically like a whole extra family that loves me and worries about me and doesn't compare me to my brother. But they are a very important family in their community and I knew that I had no chance of being invited as a guest, since they already had plenty of family.
They won the derby in 1999 with a horse that had the third-worst odds of any winner in history. Sometimes they make me feel like they're taking a chance on me because where other people might see a yankee who shows up (sometimes) unannounced and demands to be taken in they see a young writer who might just someday be a great writer if he could learn to believe in himself the way they do. I just got teary eyed writing that.
The Mother of the Groom took care of the rehearsal dinner, which was at the Woodford Reserve Bourbon Distillery (I know, fucking awesome). However, the latest drama of the trip was that there was a southern wedding for an important southern family and the MOTG was not interested in hosting a champagne toast.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Oh, because they're midwesterners."
We arrived to the catered function early so that we could sneak in and chill a case of champagne.
For no apparent reason at weddings you are supposed to take the piss out of the groom. Darlin' gave the first toast, "On the first day of college my sister called me up excited and said, 'I just got a tour of campus by the cutest guy. Can you believe my luck? He's Catholic and a virgin.'" She's standing two feet from the groom at a table full of his frat-buddies, who then took turns telling embarrassing stories about him.
At the end the groom stood up for that touching, I-love-you-all-speech, with his cheeks still red from knowing the entire room now knows he's only banged the woman to his right. Then he said, "And I want to thank our DJ tonight for making time to come out here for us. For those of you who don't know Vaguen is from Lady G--"
"Oh, please! I've known you for five years when you were in Florence and jet lagged!" Why did I add that? Why am I--the least invited person--taking the piss out of the groom for having once been tired on a trip?
The best part of a southern wedding is that southerners dance. I played :
Chapel Of Love
The Tracks of My Tears
Baby I Need Your Loving
Gimme Some Lovin'
Wouldn't It Be Nice
Good Vibrations
Barbara Ann
Do Wah Diddy
The Lion Sleeps Tonight
It's In His Kiss
Good Lovin'
The Joker
Light My Fire
Daydream Believer
I'm A Believer
All Summer Long
Sexual Healing (long mix)
I Got You (I Feel Good)
In The Midnight Hour
Ain't Too Proud To Beg
River Of Love
Beast of Burden
Tell Him
I Second That Emotion
You Cant Hurry Love
Hurts So Good
Jack and Diane
It's The Same Old Song
Listen To The Music
Ramblin' Man
Love Like This
Every Little Thing She Does is Magic
Sugar Sugar
Small Town
Everyone danced and us kiddies went out in Lexington for bourbon and trouble.
Cousin Liz picked me up in the morning at my hotel to go to the wedding brunch. I hadn't seen cousin Liz since I went to Kentucky last year after I was left for dead in Los Angeles by my record label. It was cute because at the time I was so sick of things that we went to the races and I remember saying, "Eh, I just finished touring with this band and we shot a music video in LA. I don't know. We'll see what happens. I don't wanna get my hopes up."
The family had to sell their original several-generations farm and move a few miles down the road to Versailles, which is pronounced in full (on my first visit to Kentucky I corrected Darlin's pronunciation and she said, "Well, we say Ver-sails, but maybe we're just hicks down here."). The new farm has a gigantic porch at the top of a hill that overlooks their horse pastures. They hired caterers and brought in tables and chairs for everyone. It was wonderful, too. Cheese grits, frittata, fresh fruit, Bourbon Balls and Kentucky wild mint and apple iced tea.
Also, there's no end to how many jokes you can make about "Bourbon Balls," which is hands-down a much better word than "whiskeydick." Again, to my surprise, I found myself an integrated member of the bridal party. I sat at her table on the porch and chatted with the other girls. Lovely.
I caught a ride back to Lexington and walked around the downtown so that I could go to the Farmer's Market. There's pretty much one man left who still forages for wild Kentucky sassafras (it's illegal to sell anything containing sassafras oil because it causes liver cancer in lab rats--and yet somehow Bourbon is still legal). I used it in my Sassafras and Clementine Christmas Cider at The Modern, which means that according to the FDA I was poisoning the wealthiest people in the world. I got fired for unrelated reasons.
Sassafras is the tricky root that needs to be steam distilled and, as wikipedia puts it:
The yield of this oil from American sassafras is quite low and great effort is needed to produce useful amounts of the root bark. Commercial "sassafras oil" generally is a by-product ofcamphor production in Asia or comes from related trees in Brazil. Safrole is a precursor for the clandestine manufacture of the drug MDMA (ecstasy), and as such, its transport is monitored internationally.
I didn't know that Sassafras was technically illegal, because I had been buying it from the same guy for years. I asked around and was directed to Mr. Rowland McIntosh, local corn farmer extraordinaire.
He didn't have any Sassafras on his table, which made me sad. But I thought I'd ask about it. His eyes smiled, "I sure do have Sassafras."
"Great. I can't find it anywhere."
"Most folks don't bother with it anymore. Too much work. I just save it for the winter when I hadn't anything better to do." Well I'll take two then. No, three.
By the time I left the market I had a box of squash, two kinds of homemade jam, Kentucky-grown salsa, handmade mint-julep soap and half a dozen ears of corn. I took a walk to the local library, where in the basement they have a used book store. Taking a walk to a used book store is a staple of my Kentucky visits. I left with the Fitzgerald translation of The Odyssey (which is a hilarious version of it featuring a very sarcastic Zeus), a book by Updike about being John Updike and a very handsome paperback copy of The Grapes of Wrath.
That night we assembled at Midway Christian Church, which is up the street from the most charming little town. I left my heart in Kentucky when I was eighteen years old to embark on a cruel and tasteless adventure for the rest of my life. It's always there, waiting for me like a pair swimfins at your summer home. I return for it every year and it's always right where I left it, next to a glistening, sweaty bottle of Ale-8.
The Bride was baptised there, her father went there, her father's father was a deacon there.
Cousin Martha had to get there early and so her boyfriend and I nipped out to Bistro la Belle. Midway (which was a ghost town when I rolled up as an eighteen year old, looking for a phonebook and calling around town til I found my friend at her father's farm) has been revitalized into a trendy little place with a bookstore, a coffeeshop, three wicked-nice restaurants and some mixed antiques and boutiques). The last time I was at Bistro La Belle the horse Veterinarian at the table next to us discovered that I too had gone to Kenyon, we sang a bit of our school song, got along great and when we went to leave we discovered he'd picked up our check.
The "bartender" was a forties-ish gay dude who obviously loved reading the cocktail blogs. It was the first time I've ever had someone in the bartending universe recognize me as a Starchef winner. "It's my first bartending job. I'm slow, but I do it right." I ordered my favorite gentleman's drink which is an Old Fashioned of bourbon, bitters, sugar and a lemon twist. "Which kind of bitters do you want? We have Peychaud's and--"
"Is that Reagan's I see back there?"
"I've been bartending for three years and you are the first person to ask for bitters by name." He knew all the cocktail hot spots in Chicago and New York (by blog only), which was adorable. However, he was so fucking slow that when we entered the church the MOTB was seconds away from walking down the aisle.
Grandad sits in back in a wheelchair. He's wearing a full tuxedo and sporting some very handsome shoes. He is in the later stage of a stroke where he still is in there, but he can't do things like walk and his mouth hangs open uncontrollably. Various Aunties come by to fuss with closing his mouth.
The cast assembles. The groom is up there smiling, nervous. We are all waiting for the MOTB to stand up so that we can all stand and hear, "Here Comes the Bride." We're there. We are dressed. We've had a bourbon drink. It has the distinct air of something... And then. Then sometime unbelievably wonderful happens.
Bucky Sallee, who has been bugling "Call to Post" in full regalia for 46 years at the Keeneland racetrack, walks out of the vestry. Bucky teeters with slow, determined steps in a pair of riding boots, breeches, and a top hat. Someone giggles. No one knows what the hell is going on.
Bucky is a very large old man and, like a true thoroughbred, he is a bit tired from his exertions. He teeters in short, waddling steps.
Then he pulls a four-foot bugle--a device meant to reign in a calvary or announce the race to a stadium--and belts out "First Call" aka "The Call to Post." Even the MOTB had no idea this was planned. Poor Bucky had to hide in the Vestry for two hours fanning himself with his top hat.
For Derby breeders, the "Call to Post" is an exciting, Pavlovian alarm. Within moments someone they know is going to be very happy or ruined.
The mother of the bride stands up. We all follow and turn as organist plays "Bridal Chorus." The ancient oak doors open. And here comes the bride. Here comes my friend's babysister, the girl who was excited to enter high school when we first met, here is the little sweetheart who came and found me on one adventurous college-trip to the races when Darlin' was out of town, here's the girl who congratulated me when my ex one five Grammys. Here's the little scholar I met up with in Florence when she hadn't seen her boyfriend in months. Here's the girl who fitted me in her grandmother's navy blazer so I could join her at the Lifetime Members club.
Here comes the bride on the arm of her father. She smiles. I glance up at the groom and you can see a single tear escape his smiling eyes.
Then she takes three strides into the room. She leans over to the wheelchair kisses him on the forehead and whispers, "I love you Grandad."
I hope that just once more in my life I get to cry in such a wonderful way as I did right then.
*In Kentucky they always introduce me to everyone as "Vaguen" which is how they pronounce "Vegan."
This is proof that a book is the hottest accessory--even if you're already killing me with bleaching your hair, wearing a sundress and cork wedge heels.
Then again maybe all the blood just drained out of my head and into my dick.
New York is a funny place. You master it your whole life, you laugh at tourists who can't do a simple thing like read a subway map and figure out downtown v. Uptown.
Then you take ONE STEP into New Jersey, and you're totally fucking lost.
I'm on a local bus to Newark Penn (who the fuck ever has $1.35 in EXACT CHANGE??--the only reason I made it on was bc the woman ahead of me didn't have exact change and I was the beneficiary of a nickel).
Newark Penn was terrifying at 5am last week (unmarked exits? Locked marked exits?? Am I trapped). From there I can catch the PATH, which is a parody of the MTA in the '70s.
Then I get to finally take it one stop into Manhattan, where at Christopher St. I will transfer to the expensive-ass MTA and probably kiss the ground on the 1 train platform while singing Beastie Boys "Stop that Train" a Capella.
This one's dedicated to the boofers in the back of the 1 train They be kickin out windows, high on cocaine I jumped the turnstile, I lost my last token I ride between cars; pissin', smokin'
This week while I was for my new ATM card to appear has been like the second part of "The Game" and I'm Michael Douglas.
If I ever had a girl ask me if she could have our engagement ring reset after some big anniversary I'd say, "I completely understand. I'm getting sick of looking at you too."
Have you ever fallen asleep on a couch in a house with a woman present and not woken up with a blanket over you?Isn’t that the sweetest thing ever?This is even better if she’s single because the blanket will smell like pretty girl.
As a general force of nature all women like dry white wines.If you’re ever going over to a girls house and you want to surprise her with something nice you can always pick up the second cheapest white wine in the store.This is especially grand if the store has one of those wicked-cold coolers.You know what I think of when I go to the package store?Hummingbird feeders.“If you keep this bottle full, maybe something beautiful and wonderful will show up for it someday.”
My favorite thing that I had to un-learn after four years of Women's Studies: all women really do love flowers. There is no limit to how many you can get. A single surprise flower makes her smile blossom into something much prettier..
If you can count to eight and you outweigh the girl: you can always grab a woman and make her dance with you.Smiling women dancing is just about the most wonderful sight in the world.
Somehow when women say "cock" it doesn't sound crass.
Sundresses.Every woman on the planet looks drop dead beautiful in a halter dress and flat sandals.Fall, you thief!How can you take the sundresses away from me.Spring, you goddess!Each year I forget that sundresses are coming back.*
I really don’t know any woman who will offer to buy you a drink the second you walk into a bar, but I know few who won’t offer you a drink if you come pick them up at their apartment.It doesn’t even matter what girls have around: old white wine, remnants of forgotten party liquor, or (my favorite) beer left over from an ex boyfriend.[Sidenote: one time an ex and I decided to work things out, but I knew she was dating another guy.She didn’t drink beer (only white wine).In the morning I discovered that the other guy had left a couple of Amstel Lights in the fridge.And I thought, “Well, at least this guy is a complete pussy, so…”]
Girls who have sisters automatically have bigger hearts than other girls.They pretty much always want to hang out and talk and rent movies and tell you when you look cute.
Every girl.Every girl is crazy about a sharp dressed man.I’m at a wedding in Kentucky right now and I was out hunting for sassafras.When I came in I dropped by a bar for a bourbon.I was writing out my expenses and when I finished my drink I stood up and caught a black mother of three.She looked at my shoes and then traced my inseam up to my eyes.Hello there.
Women have different senses of humor than we do.Even someone like Julia.This means that you can watch a movie with a girl and get more out of it than you would if she were just with a dude.
Women are always shopping. Dating?That’s shopping.Work?Career shopping.When they come into your apartment they’re shopping.Maybe for an apartment but maybe for apartment ideas (especially if you are as into wordworking and recessed shelving as I am).Visiting a friend is neighborhood shopping.Hooking up with you is shopping (that why girls call it your “package.”)
The way a woman’s dim eyes smile at the good parts when she reads a book on the beach is just about the sexiest thing on the planet.
*I intend to keep this list positive but I have to add: strapless dresses are the exact opposite.No woman looks fantastic in a strapless.Big breasted girls look saggy.Small breasted girls can’t hold them up.This is weird because all kinds of women look great in strapless tops.I can’t explain it.Just please don’t wear them.I spend the whole time worrying it’s going to fall and for once I’m not hoping.
My hotel tonight is by the staircase fountain in downtown Lexington, where the fun begins in my first novel. Yay!
Every time I walk by I want to roll up my pant legs and splash around in it.
It went like this:
She parks and we walk around the square and climb into a big staircase fountain.Splashing around, we slide on other people’s wishes, stirring the pennies and nickels around the underwater lights.Hampshire tries to spray us down by covering one of the springheads with his feet.It ends up spraying up his shorts.Our cuffed pant legs—damp to the knees—cling to our calves as we dangle our legs onto the city below.
Rose takes us on a short tour of the downtown.The city has some kinda contest for local artists.Each one gets a horse mold and is in charge of turning it into a derby winner.Some paint eyes and saddles.Some do racing stripes.Some are superheroes: Captain Hors-Erica.Drip-dropping on the sidewalks, we judge each one and pick favorites.
People flood the sidewalk as the movie lets out.We swim up stream from the couples who pass by, finishing oversized sodas and talking—I was so scared…I could believe…Did you ever think that he would…Never!...Do you think there’ll be a sequal?They look at us and remember how they felt two hours ago.How they had no idea how the movie would end or what was up ahead.And some of them smile on us the way people smile on you when you’re eighteen.It’s all down hill from here but you have no idea do you?No.You just don’t know.You have no way of knowing for sure and you never will until it’s too late.But I envy that expectation.You’re like pregnant women, you know?All cute and smiley.You even glow a little, but it’s only because you have no idea what the fuck you’re getting into.We walk back to my favorite statue—the one made out of smashed dishes.A saddle of dinner plates and teacup stirrups.The shards of an old mirror make up the number fifty-three on the side.Rose takes my elbow and steers me back to the truck.
In Kentucky they have an extra layer of stars just behind the regular ones.The same ole dots stick out up front, but behind them are the leftovers from making all the stars.You have to stare at them for a long time and wait for them to appear like bits of Styrofoam in your coffee.But then they pop up.And the regular stars, jealous of their younger brothers, shine even brighter.If you stay out long enough they start to fake a sunrise.Or at least enough light so they can see you undress by the watering hole.We sit at the end of a long wooden dock.Empty plastic gas tanks keep it afloat.For some reason I turn around to take my jeans off and wriggle out of my sweaty t-shirt.I keep my shorts on for now.When I turn around she gives me a slit-eyed smile that makes me feel like an underwear model and not like a guy with no pants on.She hugs me close and then peels of her shirt, tossing it over my shoulder as she pulls off her jeans and socks.My eyes don’t remember her body as much as I thought.Truth is I think that in the hundred times I’ve pictured her curves and her handfuls since we left—I think that I put her head on Sherry’s body and gave it a tan.My shorts tighten and I pull them off and jump in before I embarrass myself.Swimming backwards I giggle as I flap around underwater, kicking my legs around and feeling the freedom and the responsibility of my underwhiskers stretching out and trailing below.She reaches into the front of the truck and pulls off her bra.I watch as she escapes from the mystery of cups and pulleys and locks.Tanlines make her handfuls the blackest and whitest parts of her body.She dives in and when she comes back up, her hair disappears, making her face seem like it grew.I swim away and make her chase me.We wriggle around and keep moving, keep warm.I never told anyone this before, she says.But I love swimming nekid ‘cause I like the way my pubes feel when they flap around.
On the airplane to heaven you can stand up when they land.
And you never have to wait until the captain says you can.
You don’t have to wait in line, although you wouldn’t really care.
Because when you get to heaven you are already there.
I look over to the truck where a dim green glow burns off the radio.You did that on purpose, I say.Didn’t you.We swim back toward the dock.Maybe, she says through a breathless swimmer’s laugh.I’m going to hide you in this song, she says.We can keep it on repeat from now on.But when you leave I won’t ever listen to it again.Not on purpose.
But it’s such a good song.
I know.Then I can hear it again someday and remember this, she looks up at both star line ups.You.Seattle.San Francisco.Laundromats.I do the same thing with pictures.
St. Peter doesn’t work there, even if you think he should.
He doesn’t keep your scorecard or even know if you’ve been good.
Everyone’s said something stupid, and no one seems to care.
Because when you get to heaven you are al-rea-dy there.
It’s the only song on the record, so the stereo takes a few seconds to start it again.In the silence, you can hear the peepers gossiping about us already.She sits down on the underwater rung of a metal ladder.The dark water covers her like a low cut dress and her two dalmation sport peek over the goosebumped water.I swim over and hold onto the next rung, climbing up from underneath until we’re face to face.Her wet hands electrocute me with every touch as they slide down the sunset tattooed on my back.I can feel her fingers lock behind my neck as she pulls me in closer.Her elbows fit into my elbows as her knees clamp me on both sides.
Don’t worry about the song, I say.Just don’t forget me.
Her warm slippery body wraps around me under water.
First of all, why don’t you lose some weight? Second of all, why don’t you fucking talk about losing weight every single fucking time we eat? That way you can feel virtuous and I can lose my appetite, thinking about how much fatter you’re going to get after all the dieting you talk about and never do. Also, then you’ve ruined me for all the delicious foods I love and was loving until you decided to get self-conscious. Also, don't get me started on being self-conscious. When did that become a bad thing? Maybe then you'd be conscious of the fact that we've been eating for 45 minutes and I haven't said a word.
Enough with the fuckng padded bras. You spend all this time reading the fat content on the Emergen-C tabs you eat for lunch and you wonder where your tits went. Who cares? We just like breasts. That and when we've been walking around all day in the sun and we step into an air conditioned store where we don't really want to buy anything: we want to see some nipple. Hard and spiny, in the way that we always think we can make it but never quite can. I used to date a girl who was a 34-FF. The bras on her floor looked like they were designed for siamese epileptics.
Who the fuck cares what color your goddam fingernails are? Your little sister? Guess what you get for all this? Guess what you get for bleaching your hair and coating your face with powdered paint? You get old. One day you wake up and you're in line to get your tires changed and no one is tripping over themselves to make sure the pretty girl has been helped. You're not going to be ready for this, after of a life of devoted servants. And you know what happens then? You become that bitchy old lady with perfectly manicured nails.
Heels. You look great in them. You look terrible complaining about them and walking like a moron in them when you're drunk. Truth me told: we don't really notice what the fuck shoes you wear. Also, when you insist on walking slow in them and refuse to be mobile because of your footwear choice: if gives us commitment issues. We're young and tall and it's our night off. Your heels have trapped us inside some place we don't want to be. Right now we want a hot dog, but we can't get across town and we have to blow our hot dog money on the cab. It makes us want to escape. We want to run on our two feet like a normal person.
This whole "I don't ride the subway after 9" thing is bullshit. You know why the subway's scary at night? Because there are no women on it. New York City has a 24 hour, air conditioned service that doesn't have a single hard-nipple on it after sundown. Terrifying. In the subway you're surrounded by alert strangers. In a cab you're captive to a lonely Muslim guy who hates women more than I do. There is one thing I would get: the subway is fine but walking home in the dark alone is scary. Then take a fucking cab home from the station. Oh, right, that would be ridiculous. Why the fuck did I have to sit through Take Back the Night if you were going to keep it from us?
Why on earth do you go out in small groups of girls? This is the single worst way I can ever think of to meet people. First of all you're not going to meet other girlfriends, unless they're married and looking for younger girls to show them what's cool. You're certainly not going to meet guys this way. First of all we get confused and you become Captain Planet instead of planeteers. You're basically going to stand around while guys hit on your hot friend (whom you secretly know is stupid or already has a boyfriend and just likes attention). If we're totally hitting it off with you: your bitch friends are going to ruin it (bonus: that means you're the hot friend!) You know why your periods line up with each other? Because women never miss an opportunity to make each other miserable.
Somewhere you probably heard it is ladylike to have a high voice. Do you know the difference between high and shrill? No. You don't. Because you decide that when party gets loud and everyone's talking loud and the music's too loud: you are going to forget how to speak and just try and shriek. One time I wrote a song about that. Then we get a headache and are starting to squint every time you hit another high note. We excuse ourselves and you go back and squawk with your little herd about how there are no decent men in this city.
The water thing. Somewhere one summer you got your first girlie mag and it was your bible. It was full of stupid advice like, "flex your instep when you walk up stair and you'll always have toned calves." No you won't. Another place you kind of vaguely remember it saying, "Water. You should totally drink water." As if no one had ever told you that before. And even though fresh clean water flows out of the taps everywhere in New York City: that water is somehow fattening? So you buy it in bottles. All over the fucking place. I live across the street from the most gorgeous movie house in New York City. My house has two sinks and a refrigerator. When we walk across the street I buy the tickets (because I'm such a fucking gentleman) for $24 and then on the way upstairs I casually ask if you would like anything. We're educated people who know how to make popcorn. There is a Korean store right across the street where we can buy candy. And yet at that moment suddenly you are on an international flight: "Water." Yes, god forbid two hours and $4 go by without water.
I'm still not convinced about women in the workplace. First of all I'm convinced that you make career moves based on who in your office has clothes you want. Second: there you are at work, doing the best you can, not having hard-nipples in the AC, and when you leave work: all you fucking do is talk about work. You know what men do? We think about work, all the time. Each day we do it better because in transit we are plotting, organizing. We're sure as fuck not spending two hours talking about the off hand comment made by the bitch at the other cubicle.
We spend all of our time carrying your bags, buying your movie tickets, listening to who in your office is so mean to you, being nice to your friends, complimenting the shoes, seeing your terrible movie choices, pretending to give a rats ass about cheeses in fancy restaurants, walking slower than we'd like to, helping you pick out which black belt to wear and yet somehow you always think we have the time and imagination to cheat on you. Seriously? Right. As if we want one more fucking woman in our life.
Last Saturday was fucking awesome.A while ago I was interviewing a friend and we were talking about just the most snotty thing we could: which hotels in the Morgans Hotel group we liked best.
You see, I am a huge fan of Shore Club in Miami and Justin is looking forward to his upcoming trip to Modrian in LA.“I was at the Royalton New York last winter,” I said.“I felt like James Bond with my sexy bachelor pad and had dinner at The Modern.”
“I’m doing some marketing for them by throwing some parties.”
“Do you need a DJ?”
“Sure!It’ll be you and Starlight.”So right away this was just awesome because, ha, Starlight and I used to be in the same band.Only one of us replaced the other.We don’t ever really talk about it and we leave it at that.
So I was DJ’ing the roof of The Hudson hotel in preparation for (fingers crossed!) DJ’ing the same party at the Modrian LA next month.Ms. Dyson came and met me in the booth.
This funny thing happens to me when I do big parties: I totally get PMS.Even just thinking about it now I’m getting kind of irritable.This is extra awful because the six hours before a party are when all of you friends suddenly need directions.Also, no matter how new a DJ booth is—something is always fucked up.
The great part was: Starlight’s the same way.Maybe it’s because I’m Irish, but when I get really pissed of I start to find it funny.We were in the booth together setting up and laughing about how pissed off we were.Over what?Plugging in needles?Yikes.
I also had to pick up Andrea in the East Village because we were going to go see Julia’s comedy show.We got caught in a downpour and we were half an hour late anyway.I pulled over and just bailed.I went and got a veggie dog and tried to chill out.
I use Serato now, but I brought my eighty pound 45s case because I know that Starlight only DJ’s vinyl.“I know Serato is better and easier but it’s just so…so unflattering,” she said.And she’s right.I can’t tell you how many pictures of me DJ’ing are just pictures of me standing in front of a laptop.It looks like I’m updating facebook with headphones on.Grandmaster Flash uses Serato, but he still brings cases and cases of records with him.I assume that this is so we can all gawk at his record collection.
The editor of Scallywag and Vagabond came to meet me, which was cool because I might start writing for him.
Also, this was fun: I got there for soundcheck and the whole band went through the unbelievably boring process.“Okay, let me hear the bass drum.”
BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM
“Okay, now snare…”
SPW was all checked out and the soundtech said, “All together now.”They went straight into their self-titled song which was on my mind at the time because the first line of course is, “I can’t pay my rent, but I’m fucking gorgeous.”
They cut the song at the first chorus and Justin was only going half-force because he hadn’t done his vocal warm up yet (he’s now Ms. Dyson’s unofficial vocal coach so we’ve seen his vocal warm up.It’s an hour on the piano.Awesome).
So the band is on stage, the lights are on them.I’m in the DJ booth on stage left.And I throw on the remix I did of “Magnetic Baby.”The whole band turned momentarily in disbelief (I pulled the drums apart into a dance beat, so for a second it sounds like a new SPW song played by SPW) and they were all smiles.“What was that?”
I enjoy positive feedback.It made me want to go back and make more remixes.
The show was awesome and the party was great and for a couple of hours they hired waitresses to strut around with trays of free cocktails.As much and I completely hate all waitresses in general (why you gotta break my heart, bitch??TALK TO ME!!) I think the thing that kinda blows about being part of the underground scene is we’re all too cheap to go places that have waitresses.So it was a nice change.
My overexposure to waitresses means that I am incapable of being attracted to a woman in a black dress and heels.
But for some reason I kind of liked that the hotel paid a bunch of twenty-year-old Parsons drop outs to stroll around my party in little dresses.
The show could not have possibly been better.The opened with a kicker and at the end of it everyone was screaming and cheering.Justin took a deep breath, demanded more applause and then screamed, “Now shut up!!”
I think the coda for why my friends and I are having a good year is Justin.He has this infectious confidence which is only an act if you don’t believe it.He was a big part of getting my old singer to believe in herself and strive for fame.If you ever read a post by me about how fucking tall and handsome I am: you have Justin to thank.
Ms. Dyson stayed with me in the booth the whole night in a gorgeous sequined dress.Peter kept snapping pictures of us and smiling, “This one is your next album cover.This one is the liner notes.This one is going to be the cover of SPIN.”I know you have to believe in yourself to make anything in life but it really, really helps to have a whole scene of supportive friends who can trick you intobelieving you can do something more than just bartend.
Cole at one point leapt onto a speaker with his bass in hand and dove into a six-foot high planter.
Later we all went upstairs to the band’s hotel rooms (two bottles of Veuve Cliquot waiting for us on ice!) and I asked Cole about it.“I knew it would look awesome from the crowd, but what I didn’t know is that there would be four spiked metal lights in the planter.”Ouch.Still, he didn’t miss a note.
Alex and Jocelyn ordered pizza and we had a nice little rock’n’roll fantasy night in the hotel room with groupies and champagne.
None of us got paid, but I’m sure whatever they paid me would have been pathetic and it was way more fun to just do it in the name of Awesomeness.
A couple of weeks ago I was tagged in a photo on facebook and I have never untagged a photo faster. It was a typical Motor City shot where me or Alicia or Crisinda were being drunk in a shitty bar. But there was a girl in the background of this shot. I can't have pictures of me with this girl existing on the internet. Because this girl and I have a history.
Ready?
On June 20, 2006 I posted about a pot-brownie I had eaten with some friends at Coney Island while Annie was in the Hamptons with Matt Lauer (on business). I was unhappy and upset with our relationship, but I was not a cheater. I went to Coney Island with the Tuesday crew from my bar and one girlfriend. That girlfriend is the problem.
But, since I had nothing to do with that at the time, I still went out after.
Pat and I went to Niagra on our night off together and we got wasted. I realized at one point that I was hovering with my face just inches away from my beer. This was because there was a girl sitting in my lap with her skirt hiked up. I have no idea how we came to this point, but I do remember that I figured that as long as my face was in the beer I couldn't make out with this girl.
I stepped outside to smoke and I found her out there on the phone with a good friend of hers. I must have (for once) made a good impression because she was taking about me. "Ohmygod he has such cute glasses. He reminds me of Seth Cohen on The OC. " (WHAT??) "He must be a writer or an artist or something."
This never happens to me, but she crawled out of her barstool, hiked up her skirt, and basically just drew her face into mine until I forgot not to make out with her. Which didn't happen.
"I'm tired. You wanna go home? Where do you live? Can you walk me home right now?" It's never that easy. But tonight it is. Tonight being the night where I have a girlfriend that I live with and I'm not a skeazeball.
"I can't go yet. I'm in the middle of a story."
"Brendan, what do you do? What's the Brendan story? Why don't we get out of here so you can tell me the Brendan story."
It wasn't well defined then. Now I have two stories. One I don't want to bring up with strangers. And another that strangers only believe in if they don't know the first story (most people mistake my hope story as my life story).
Anyway, then I only had a pretty good job and a weekly DJ gig.
As it turns out: "That's so funny!. My best friend in the world works at an art museum in midtown. "
Oh? I work at This One.
"Ohmygod my BEST friend in the WORLD works there! Do you know Perri?"
I couldn't lie. I told her I did. She girls-out on it. Two minutes later she walks back from inside with the full scoop on me, "Don't do that to girls. It's not nice. It's not nice to flirt with a girl when you have a girlfriend and..."
[It's pretty obvious where this story is going. I don't make out with the girl. I'm not that kind of guy.]
So after the last ever Motherfucker Party I came to this realization about Coney Island Girl. She fucks her boyfriends friends. But never me? Am I fat? What am I doing wrong?
We were at Beauty Bar on Halloweeen and I wanted to wear fake eye-lashes with my Brendanstein Monster Costume I had made up. We walked into the back bathroom at Beauty Bar so she could do my eyelashes.
Her boyfriend walked in with us to chaparone. And then there was this totally extraneous girl who didn't know anyone else there.
So there's four of us in the bathroom with the door locked. Two of us are employees. Someone bangs on the door and the other employee screams back, "GO AWAY!!" That guy is the original and reigning boyfriend of Coney Island Girl.
The next knock on the door is from a Maglight. It's the manager. We open the door and he sees two girls and two off-duty employees in the back bathroom on Halloween. "She was fixing my eyelashes."
"Right."
"Whatever, Justin. Fuck off."
It's a terrible thing to be an awful person and get in trouble for the one time you weren't doing anything wrong.
I don't remember when the last time I saw this girl was. But at my pre-birthday party a few months ago I walked into Motor City and there she was. We both went wide-eyed. "What are you doing here?" We were so excited!
We caught up and this meant she had to blurt out, "This is my boyfriend, Travis."
The second he turned away she said, "He's not really my boyfriend. We've only been dating a month. Not even." Why? Why would she tell me that? "I'm going to take out money to do more drugs. Is that bad?"
Minutes later she pulls me into the bathroom and opens the bag. I don't do drugs anymore, but I still do girls. She looks at me and shouts, "I always had a crush on you. Even when I was dating [Friend]. Ohmygod."
A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine was having a bad day so I told her this story:
She pulls me into the bathroom while he's not looking. This is, I should add, totally okay in my culture. Everyone outside thinks we're doing drugs. She grabs me and says, "Ohmygod I had such a crush on you--even when I was dating [Friend]." She's clawing at my tie and I just go for it. She's in a short black skirt and I ram her up against the wall for our makeout. If there were drinks on a table by the wall on the otherside of the door: totally spilled.
It was crazy and wild and birthday fun. But that was all. Birthday kisses and squeezed butts. It could have been a gum commercial.
She was wearing a skirt and I wrapped my fingers around the waistbands of her thong. She smiled. This little hairdresser from Soho and I kissed for the first time since that wild day in the summer of 2006. We made out for three wonderful minutes and that was it.
Working in nightlife has ruined me for love. Who's going to fall for the Nigerian dishwasher who carries the slipmats and hoses them off every night? Who?
