There is never anything I want to do more on a Friday
night after the show than go home. But my world has been shattered since the death of James last week and it has created a certain fever pitch of
impetuosity on my part. I thought about the last time I saw him, sweating like
a whore in church at XL a few months ago. And maybe it was the magical thinking
that if I just went out to every bar in town, eventually I would see his
hulking frame lumbering through the space like an elephant moving slowly through
the jungle, a catastrophe of casual destruction in his wake. Like the months after 9/11 when I would gaze
down Seventh Avenue at Times Square hoping to catch a glimpse of the twin
towers, I think I will forever be looking over my shoulder with a sense of
maybe.
In my grief, I sent a flurry of messages to my local
friends that I had been remiss in seeing these past few weeks. I guess the arrival
of spring had made me anxious to wring every second of delight out of my house
that I can and my friendships, long on nightlife support, finally faded away.
Ryan White and I planned to get together this week and then never did, but MattKugelman and I shared a delightful late meal at Vinyl on Monday. My friend Erik
and I made plans to venture down to The Park on Thursday but fearing the zit on
my nose would get worse, I pawned him off to a Friday party in SoHo.
