So I decided to surprise my mother on Mother’s Day by making a spontaneous trip to Los Angeles. After all, not only was it Mother’s Day but this year as it occasionally does, Mother’s Day also fell on her birthday. So really I had two reasons to want to surprise her. I live in New York City and host a radio show, so dropping by the left coast is no easy feat. And it is not exactly the kind of job where keeping a secret happens naturally. But somehow I managed to keep my big mouth shut and headed to the airport with a reasonable level of confidence that I could sneak into town unbeknownst to her.
I lived in Los Angeles for fifteen years, starting with my sophomore year of high school. In many ways, LA feels like home. Well, as much as the city not known for its hominess can feel. Sometimes I miss the constant barrage of sunshine and the chalk-like air that you can practically taste in the back of your dry throat. Having lived for the last three years in the rustic wilds north of New York City, I am now used to a kind of Technicolor green in the spring that might remind one of an early MGM color spectacle of the late 1930s. To juxtapose that with the perennially dusty muted tones of nature in Southern California, the pallid greens always thwarted by sandy yellows and nutrient-starved browns in the background, can be jarring.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Man of the House
I have long thought that the only thing missing at my house is a wife. Not a woman, per se, but a 1950s vision of wifeliness. Someone who will cook and clean and greet me at the end of the day with dinner in the oven and a drink in her hand. And of course she’ll look fabulous doing it. I have even thought it would make a good business idea. Hire-A-Wife. Because sometimes you (this includes both men and women, mind you) just need a woman around the house in a very anti-feminist way. But this weekend, I learned it is just as important sometimes to have a man around the house.
Aside from a second bathroom, the weekends are the real reason Roommate and I moved to the suburbs. Yes, not waiting to pee is important, but it is quiet and peaceful. We can sleep in on Saturday and Sunday without the threat of homeless men screaming “White Jesus” just under the window or horns honking or impromptu street fairs. I can mix up a big country breakfast and when the weather is better we can sit outside in the Adirondack chairs with the New York Times and a steaming cup of coffee and watch the deer forage for food in the backyard. It is a little slice of heaven and it’s all mine.
Heaven of course doesn’t come cheap. There is always a price to pay. The commute to my little paradise is long and occasionally arduous, especially in the winter. The house was sold with all prior bad taste fully intact and like an ugly fetus, nine months later most of it is still there. During the long cold winter months, we took a break from remodeling and mostly got used to seeing ugly carpet and bad light fixtures. But on Good Friday, the microwave inexplicably died and showed no sign of rising again in three days. Suddenly, in the throes of a new Spring, it was time to make some serious changes.
To combat a serious lack of counter space, Mike has long campaigned for an over range microwave, but upon closer inspection, the hood and fan assembly I have are hard wired into the house and it will take an electrician and an exorcism to get it out. But even though we were replacing one under $100 microwave with another one, Mike still wanted to shake some things up. So we decided to also install a shelf in the nook of a hallway off the kitchen and seriously reconsider some of the older, never used appliances clogging up the counters.
Years ago when I was married to Craig, I somehow in the divorce ended up with his bread maker. I guess I was upset that he kept so many of the nice gifts my immediate family gave us, like the knife set my mother bought us and the espresso maker that Veronica got us. And even though in the ensuing decade and a half, I have only made bread in it once, I still dusted it off (mostly) and put it on the counter when we moved into the new house. It has just gotten dustier since. Mike thought it was time for an appliance intervention and cornered me in the kitchen about it. Off to the garage it went, along with the electric can opener that we never use because we both have full use of our hands. I want to put them on the lawn, along with the boxes of other crap the former owners left behind, in a free yard “sale” where people just take whatever is there. I don’t want any money for it because I don’t care and I would donate it to charity but our town only has a Salvation Army and the Goodwill (at these gas prices) is just too far away.
At Home Depot picking up shelf supplies, Roommate and I talked paint chips for the kitchen and dining room that are being redone before my upcoming Cinco de Mayo party. And I made an impulse buy of new light fixtures for the dining room and front hall. The previous fixtures were both Wal-Mart Tiffany knockoffs that made me resent the very existence of stained glass every time I saw them. The sad thing about remodeling a house is that the more you do, the more you hate what was there before that is still left behind, and the more passionate your hate becomes. When I first saw the house, the kitchen and dining room were the least of my worries, but as the rest of the house has transformed, they have turned into the most offending eyesores. The clunky ceiling fans and shimmery gold cabinets are too much for me now to bear.
We switched things around in the kitchen, removed the door to the basement and Mike labored to put the shelf together. By the end of Saturday, the kitchen was already 1000% more livable. Yes the light fixtures were still in the boxes, but things were already so much better I didn’t care. The next day, hottie Zach was coming up for Easter. Originally I planned to do a whole Easter dinner thing for him and his fun roommate and this dog. But at the last minute, he didn’t bring the dog or the girl and we switched it to a more low-key BBQ. I picked him up at the train and took him to the house. We sat in the living room and he asked the eternal question:
“So what do you guys do around here?”
Mike and I looked at each other, sitting there in the living room. “You’re looking at it.” Mike said, leaving out the part where normally I am not wearing pants and I haven’t showered yet. Zach being a man of action, we took him downtown to the lesbian coffeehouse and a walking tour. Then we drove down to the river to see the old firehouse I desire to turn into a gay bar and discussed the history of the area. An hour later we were back at square one.
“So if I wasn’t here, what would you guys do today?”
“Install some light fixtures.”
“Sounds fun! Let’s do that.”
Suddenly, we were motivated for round two of house remodel weekend. We got out the step ladder and shut off the power and set about to change the two light fixtures. While Zach and I busied ourselves with the electrical, Mike created a tool area in the basement and completely transformed that too. I felt like I was on Trading Spaces! While changing the chandelier in the dining room, I decided that the dining room furniture could use a changing around too. When it was all put together, it was suddenly like living in a different house. I couldn’t believe how happy we all were in our sense of accomplishment. I think even Mike smiled for a minute.
Then we fired up the grill and Zach went to town grilling the steak, sausage and corn on the cob he brought as well as the BBQ chicken I pulled out of the fridge. Meanwhile, I built a roaring fire in the fireplace that lit up the living room and warmed the house. An hour later, we had a grand BBQ feast to end the day in the newly gorgeous dining room, with the glow of the fire in the background. And the whole time I marveled at how handy Zach was, in a way that I am merely a rank amateur. Yes, there are things I can do and fix around the house but I just don’t have the patience for it. But all of us getting together and doing it made quick work of the project and it was a lot of fun.
When I drove Zach down the hill, I was so sorry to see him go. It was like saying good bye to Mary Poppins if she had a sexy smile and killer arms. I hope he had fun working on my house because I know I enjoyed it. It is hard to admit sometimes that you need help, but in this instance I am not shy. I do need a man around the house, if only to motivate me to get off my lazy ass. And a wife too. Because at the end of the day, you just want someone else to make dinner while you put your feet up, and just enjoy the life you have.
Aside from a second bathroom, the weekends are the real reason Roommate and I moved to the suburbs. Yes, not waiting to pee is important, but it is quiet and peaceful. We can sleep in on Saturday and Sunday without the threat of homeless men screaming “White Jesus” just under the window or horns honking or impromptu street fairs. I can mix up a big country breakfast and when the weather is better we can sit outside in the Adirondack chairs with the New York Times and a steaming cup of coffee and watch the deer forage for food in the backyard. It is a little slice of heaven and it’s all mine.
Heaven of course doesn’t come cheap. There is always a price to pay. The commute to my little paradise is long and occasionally arduous, especially in the winter. The house was sold with all prior bad taste fully intact and like an ugly fetus, nine months later most of it is still there. During the long cold winter months, we took a break from remodeling and mostly got used to seeing ugly carpet and bad light fixtures. But on Good Friday, the microwave inexplicably died and showed no sign of rising again in three days. Suddenly, in the throes of a new Spring, it was time to make some serious changes.
To combat a serious lack of counter space, Mike has long campaigned for an over range microwave, but upon closer inspection, the hood and fan assembly I have are hard wired into the house and it will take an electrician and an exorcism to get it out. But even though we were replacing one under $100 microwave with another one, Mike still wanted to shake some things up. So we decided to also install a shelf in the nook of a hallway off the kitchen and seriously reconsider some of the older, never used appliances clogging up the counters.
Years ago when I was married to Craig, I somehow in the divorce ended up with his bread maker. I guess I was upset that he kept so many of the nice gifts my immediate family gave us, like the knife set my mother bought us and the espresso maker that Veronica got us. And even though in the ensuing decade and a half, I have only made bread in it once, I still dusted it off (mostly) and put it on the counter when we moved into the new house. It has just gotten dustier since. Mike thought it was time for an appliance intervention and cornered me in the kitchen about it. Off to the garage it went, along with the electric can opener that we never use because we both have full use of our hands. I want to put them on the lawn, along with the boxes of other crap the former owners left behind, in a free yard “sale” where people just take whatever is there. I don’t want any money for it because I don’t care and I would donate it to charity but our town only has a Salvation Army and the Goodwill (at these gas prices) is just too far away.
At Home Depot picking up shelf supplies, Roommate and I talked paint chips for the kitchen and dining room that are being redone before my upcoming Cinco de Mayo party. And I made an impulse buy of new light fixtures for the dining room and front hall. The previous fixtures were both Wal-Mart Tiffany knockoffs that made me resent the very existence of stained glass every time I saw them. The sad thing about remodeling a house is that the more you do, the more you hate what was there before that is still left behind, and the more passionate your hate becomes. When I first saw the house, the kitchen and dining room were the least of my worries, but as the rest of the house has transformed, they have turned into the most offending eyesores. The clunky ceiling fans and shimmery gold cabinets are too much for me now to bear.
We switched things around in the kitchen, removed the door to the basement and Mike labored to put the shelf together. By the end of Saturday, the kitchen was already 1000% more livable. Yes the light fixtures were still in the boxes, but things were already so much better I didn’t care. The next day, hottie Zach was coming up for Easter. Originally I planned to do a whole Easter dinner thing for him and his fun roommate and this dog. But at the last minute, he didn’t bring the dog or the girl and we switched it to a more low-key BBQ. I picked him up at the train and took him to the house. We sat in the living room and he asked the eternal question:
“So what do you guys do around here?”
Mike and I looked at each other, sitting there in the living room. “You’re looking at it.” Mike said, leaving out the part where normally I am not wearing pants and I haven’t showered yet. Zach being a man of action, we took him downtown to the lesbian coffeehouse and a walking tour. Then we drove down to the river to see the old firehouse I desire to turn into a gay bar and discussed the history of the area. An hour later we were back at square one.
“So if I wasn’t here, what would you guys do today?”
“Install some light fixtures.”
“Sounds fun! Let’s do that.”
Suddenly, we were motivated for round two of house remodel weekend. We got out the step ladder and shut off the power and set about to change the two light fixtures. While Zach and I busied ourselves with the electrical, Mike created a tool area in the basement and completely transformed that too. I felt like I was on Trading Spaces! While changing the chandelier in the dining room, I decided that the dining room furniture could use a changing around too. When it was all put together, it was suddenly like living in a different house. I couldn’t believe how happy we all were in our sense of accomplishment. I think even Mike smiled for a minute.
Then we fired up the grill and Zach went to town grilling the steak, sausage and corn on the cob he brought as well as the BBQ chicken I pulled out of the fridge. Meanwhile, I built a roaring fire in the fireplace that lit up the living room and warmed the house. An hour later, we had a grand BBQ feast to end the day in the newly gorgeous dining room, with the glow of the fire in the background. And the whole time I marveled at how handy Zach was, in a way that I am merely a rank amateur. Yes, there are things I can do and fix around the house but I just don’t have the patience for it. But all of us getting together and doing it made quick work of the project and it was a lot of fun.
When I drove Zach down the hill, I was so sorry to see him go. It was like saying good bye to Mary Poppins if she had a sexy smile and killer arms. I hope he had fun working on my house because I know I enjoyed it. It is hard to admit sometimes that you need help, but in this instance I am not shy. I do need a man around the house, if only to motivate me to get off my lazy ass. And a wife too. Because at the end of the day, you just want someone else to make dinner while you put your feet up, and just enjoy the life you have.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The In N Out Urge
I have spent more time in downtown Manhattan in the past few months than I have in all seven years I have lived in New York City. Part of this is Jonathan, who lives deep in the thick of the trademarked real New York experience I never had. I had wanted to live in Manhattan for my whole life. My mother’s tales of living there as a child and later visiting her grandfather and Aunt Caroline, turned it into a magical storied place of excitement and wonder. Living here has not disappointed. It really is more like the movie Enchanted than you could possibly imagine. However, I always knew it was expensive and endeavored to not make the leap until I was able to live in grand style. Fatefully at the end of the last century, my wish was granted and I packed up my hopes and dreams and moved alone into a gorgeous apartment building on 42nd Street and the West Side Highway.
My palace in the sky was a brand new two bedroom corner apartment on the 26th floor with beautiful views of New Jersey across the Hudson River. In the evenings, the cruise ships that docked just North of me would sail past my window, flashbulbs ablaze on the deck as hundreds of passengers took my picture simultaneously. I would throw myself on the mercy of the divan in my living room as Ella Fitzgerald sang “Manhattan” and wondered how little me ended up in such a delicious tub of butter. The fourteen months I lived there were, without a doubt, the nearest thing to heaven. Of course it was very lonely in heaven, thousands of miles from my family and friends, with no boyfriend to share it all with. But it was hard to ask for the moon when I had the stars.
When I first got to the city, I was averse to taking the subway. I would walk or take cabs everywhere. This limited my movements to primarily just the center of Manhattan. I joked that I never went South of Houston unless I was fucking a celebrity, and I have yet to fuck a celebrity. But lately, I have been veering closer and closer to star sex land, and I have even grown to love the subway. It is desperately efficient, and not just because the smelly underground platforms have the uncanny ability to retain both all the heat in the summer and all the cold of the winter. A subway ride is an extension of the general magic of the city. The wonder you experience at turning a corner and accidentally encountering a street festival is extended to a subway car when you unexpectedly ride for eighty blocks with a mariachi band. Tonight on my subway ride downtown there was a man playing the saxophone, first on the platform and then later actually in my subway car. He was doing a rendition of My Favorite Things which I am certain he thought was the Birth of Cool when in fact it was the Cesarean of Suck. It is magic here, just not always top quality magic.
I was heading downtown tonight to join Josh in his final fling in the city before he heads to West Hollywood. He showed me, quite casually mind you, his new apartment using Google Earth on his iPhone, his arms flexing in his tight t-shirt as he worked the numbers. Something tells me he is going to fit right in there in my old stomping grounds. When I arrived at Urge, drag queen Gusty Winds was perched, legs akimbo, on a stool on stage preparing the first round of drag queen bingo. I have been trying not to drink of late and from her first riff on the joys of Oprah’s Big Give, I knew this night would be the ultimate test. Josh was joined by his friend Dann, and two straight girls, but I don’t remember their names and no one is reading my blog to see links to the Connexion pages of women. No offense. Barton joined us midway through the first round, although I could tell by the look on his face that he could have lived his whole life without being there.
The first game required players to get “two lines.” I muttered to Dann that I was wish I had done two lines before I got there. Dann guffawed loudly, and never hearing such a thing before while performing, Gusty Winds seized on his laughter like she was having an aneurysm. “Someone is laughing,” she half-asked, which frankly is not a flattering reaction to give when you are performing on stage. Dann and Barton much enjoyed my antics from our banquette, while Josh and his female friends earnestly played the first round of bingo. The girl closest to me won and handed the card to Josh, who collected the $30 prize. This money went directly to the charitable fund that supplies drinks to needy alcoholic New Yorkers, primarily those in and around a small banquette inside the bar Urge.
In the second round, you needed to get a plus sign. I was half paying attention, mostly tossing bon mots at Barton, and reacting with both real and mock horror that in all his 36 years, he had never seen the lesbian episode of The Golden Girls where Dorothy’s friend falls in love with Rose. It was especially painful because he didn’t know who Danny Thomas was and I tried to use Blanche’s reaction to the news that Jean was a lesbian to remind him of who he was. Since he runs a non-profit, the pop culture touchstone that wedged his memory free was St. Jude’s Hospital. I wish I had been paying closer attention to the game and hadn’t tried to find the bathroom during the calling of numbers because I ended up one number away from a win without knowing if the last number I needed had already been called. As it turns out, Barton won that round, splitting it with another guy, and leaving the $12.50 in winnings back in the needy drunks fund at the center of the table.
His insistence that he is a “good guy” was tested moments later when he won the third round all by himself, and somewhat reluctantly, dropped the $65 into the center of the table. It was only fair since Josh was the one buying everyone their bingo cards all night. But still, I felt his pain at parting with all that delicious money. After all $65 can actually get you pretty far in this town, though primarily from Manhattan to JFK Airport. Maybe even Newark if the traffic is light.
I guess the lesson here is that life in the big city is fueled by money. The more money you have, the better your life can be. You can have apartments too big for one person to live in, and cars that take you anywhere you want to go. But in the end, it doesn't matter where you live or how big your apartment is, what matters most in Manhattan are the little moments. It's a song on a lazy afternoon, the laughter of friends, sunset along the river. Yes, the $65 could have been very helpful in hailing a cab out of Urge and off to an apartment for him and the train home for me, but then we would have missed that delightful walk up Second Avenue on a quiet cool evening in New York City.
My palace in the sky was a brand new two bedroom corner apartment on the 26th floor with beautiful views of New Jersey across the Hudson River. In the evenings, the cruise ships that docked just North of me would sail past my window, flashbulbs ablaze on the deck as hundreds of passengers took my picture simultaneously. I would throw myself on the mercy of the divan in my living room as Ella Fitzgerald sang “Manhattan” and wondered how little me ended up in such a delicious tub of butter. The fourteen months I lived there were, without a doubt, the nearest thing to heaven. Of course it was very lonely in heaven, thousands of miles from my family and friends, with no boyfriend to share it all with. But it was hard to ask for the moon when I had the stars.
When I first got to the city, I was averse to taking the subway. I would walk or take cabs everywhere. This limited my movements to primarily just the center of Manhattan. I joked that I never went South of Houston unless I was fucking a celebrity, and I have yet to fuck a celebrity. But lately, I have been veering closer and closer to star sex land, and I have even grown to love the subway. It is desperately efficient, and not just because the smelly underground platforms have the uncanny ability to retain both all the heat in the summer and all the cold of the winter. A subway ride is an extension of the general magic of the city. The wonder you experience at turning a corner and accidentally encountering a street festival is extended to a subway car when you unexpectedly ride for eighty blocks with a mariachi band. Tonight on my subway ride downtown there was a man playing the saxophone, first on the platform and then later actually in my subway car. He was doing a rendition of My Favorite Things which I am certain he thought was the Birth of Cool when in fact it was the Cesarean of Suck. It is magic here, just not always top quality magic.
I was heading downtown tonight to join Josh in his final fling in the city before he heads to West Hollywood. He showed me, quite casually mind you, his new apartment using Google Earth on his iPhone, his arms flexing in his tight t-shirt as he worked the numbers. Something tells me he is going to fit right in there in my old stomping grounds. When I arrived at Urge, drag queen Gusty Winds was perched, legs akimbo, on a stool on stage preparing the first round of drag queen bingo. I have been trying not to drink of late and from her first riff on the joys of Oprah’s Big Give, I knew this night would be the ultimate test. Josh was joined by his friend Dann, and two straight girls, but I don’t remember their names and no one is reading my blog to see links to the Connexion pages of women. No offense. Barton joined us midway through the first round, although I could tell by the look on his face that he could have lived his whole life without being there.
The first game required players to get “two lines.” I muttered to Dann that I was wish I had done two lines before I got there. Dann guffawed loudly, and never hearing such a thing before while performing, Gusty Winds seized on his laughter like she was having an aneurysm. “Someone is laughing,” she half-asked, which frankly is not a flattering reaction to give when you are performing on stage. Dann and Barton much enjoyed my antics from our banquette, while Josh and his female friends earnestly played the first round of bingo. The girl closest to me won and handed the card to Josh, who collected the $30 prize. This money went directly to the charitable fund that supplies drinks to needy alcoholic New Yorkers, primarily those in and around a small banquette inside the bar Urge.
In the second round, you needed to get a plus sign. I was half paying attention, mostly tossing bon mots at Barton, and reacting with both real and mock horror that in all his 36 years, he had never seen the lesbian episode of The Golden Girls where Dorothy’s friend falls in love with Rose. It was especially painful because he didn’t know who Danny Thomas was and I tried to use Blanche’s reaction to the news that Jean was a lesbian to remind him of who he was. Since he runs a non-profit, the pop culture touchstone that wedged his memory free was St. Jude’s Hospital. I wish I had been paying closer attention to the game and hadn’t tried to find the bathroom during the calling of numbers because I ended up one number away from a win without knowing if the last number I needed had already been called. As it turns out, Barton won that round, splitting it with another guy, and leaving the $12.50 in winnings back in the needy drunks fund at the center of the table.
His insistence that he is a “good guy” was tested moments later when he won the third round all by himself, and somewhat reluctantly, dropped the $65 into the center of the table. It was only fair since Josh was the one buying everyone their bingo cards all night. But still, I felt his pain at parting with all that delicious money. After all $65 can actually get you pretty far in this town, though primarily from Manhattan to JFK Airport. Maybe even Newark if the traffic is light.
I guess the lesson here is that life in the big city is fueled by money. The more money you have, the better your life can be. You can have apartments too big for one person to live in, and cars that take you anywhere you want to go. But in the end, it doesn't matter where you live or how big your apartment is, what matters most in Manhattan are the little moments. It's a song on a lazy afternoon, the laughter of friends, sunset along the river. Yes, the $65 could have been very helpful in hailing a cab out of Urge and off to an apartment for him and the train home for me, but then we would have missed that delightful walk up Second Avenue on a quiet cool evening in New York City.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Alive For Now
Well, I passed another birthday and nothing horrible happened. A few years ago, while doing a News Google search on myself around this time, I discovered I was dead. A man with my name in England (there are apparently many) was murdered, but nothing makes you more confident growing older than seeing yourself dead. This year, another Derek Hartley in England didn't die, but he was missing! I have been anxious for weeks hoping I would be found safe and alive, not dead in a ravine somewhere. Then, on Monday, he was found alive, starving, and somewhat mentally ill. Thin and crazy? Sure beats dead!
Originally, I had planned to join some of the gang from work at Six Flags today. And as much as I love a rollercoaster (and using my season pass), it just didn't feel like how I wanted to spend my birthday. Roommate works Sundays now and I shoved off any real birthday celebration plans to next Saturday when I wouldn't have to compete with Halloween. Being born three days before the notorious holiday, my mom has often joked that if I had been born three days later she would have named me Jack O'Lantern. Except I don't think she was kidding.
Last night, Roommate and I hauled our old selves down to Manhattan to see The Kingdom, which wasn't nearly as bad as the miserable box office and tepid reviews would have you believe. It was directed by actor turned director Peter Berg, whom I have had something of a slow burn crush on since Linda Fiorentino grudge fucked him in The Last Seduction. He was also quite frequently naked (especially for a ski movie) in his big break movie Aspen Extreme. If he could spend twenty minutes of that movie stark naked in the snow, I think the CW can find a few minutes for those Supernatural boys to shower off.
After the movie, we decided to take the late drunk train and have a quick drink before we left town. We wandered down to Barracuda, which was packed to the rafters with gays. It wasn't so crowded that Terry Goldman didn't find me. He kissed me and his lips tasted like strawberries, like he was wearing lip gloss made for a nine year old girl. But he tasted good, so who am I to complain? But we immediately decamped from the madness of Barracuda and made our way to the relative quiet of XES, somewhat around the corner.
During the summer, I forced Erik Rhodes and his fabulous boyfriend Danny to meet me there for a quick post-show drink. They live not far away and they thought I was joking at first that there was even a bar at that location since apparently their dog has crapped outside it a thousand times without them noticing it. Once inside, Danny still thought I was joking, but the upscale dankness and casual neighborhood vibe I think won him over. Then again, it was the last time we went to a bar together, so maybe he thinks my taste is permanently suspect.
While at XES, I had my usual Sex And The Beach after first checking my look in the mirror. I spent a few minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, reviewing the merchandise and giving a buyer's assessment of the bill of sale. Not bad I thought, for something that has been in the bargain bin for so long. Mike and I parked on stools, transfixed by the horribleness of a shitty horror movie playing on the flat panel TV over the bar. We decided it was probably The Hills Have Eyes since it was terrible, just terrible, and neither of us had seen it before. The sound was muted so we had the distinct pleasure of reading the dialogue as it scrolled across the various dismembered performers. The screenwriter clearly loved movies, as the internal movie references were seemingly endless, and I wondered why, if he loved movies so much, that he had inflicted this particular piece of garbage on the world.
While wrapping up our drinks, a listener, who had recognized me, came over to wish me a happy birthday. This is extremely rare in NYC and, as has been the case in the past, he was originally from Miami but had recently moved to the area. He was very nice and I will be honest that it did make me feel good, almost like a real celebrity, on my birthday. But the drunk train was calling and we beat a hasty retreat.
Once home, I couldn't fall asleep. It was already several hours into my birthday and I considered just not sleeping at all for the entire 24 hours. I spent a fair amount of time wading through the seemingly endless birthday wishes emailed and posted to MySpace, corresponding with the adorable, argyle-loving Jackenroth, stars on his elbows and in his eyes as he awaits the upcoming season of Project Runway and texting at 4am with an ex-boyfriend actively sorting out his emotions after a break-up earlier in the evening. Then, I decided to watch Mrs. Miniver, which I had DVRed from TCM.
I haven't seen Miniver in 20 years but I had remembered it fondly. I was struck however by what a horrible performance Greer Garson gave in the movie. Her bizarre expression rarely changed and she seemed to be Acting with not just a capital A, but also with lights around it and a brass band. But you have to love MGM at the height of its power. There wasn't a close-up where she didn't look like a million bucks waiting for change. Teresa Wright was terrific and it seems crazy to me now that she could have been in three of the biggest classic movies of all time right in a row (Miniver, Shadow of a Doubt, Pride of the Yankees) and then had very little else to show for her career from then on out. The movie itself was a good story to watch on a birthday and in the midst of a war. An important reminder that life is short and at all turns unexpected, but there is still time in between bombing raids for a flower show or a little romance.
It was well after dawn that I finally threw in the towel and went to sleep. Promptly at 11am, my cell phone started to ring with calls and buzz with text messages. Wisely my mother waiting until 7pm to call. "I didn't wake you, did I?" I barely had the heart to tell her I was just up from a nap. Whatever. It's my birthday.
So what if I puttered around the house, hammering on the keys of the piano trying to learn "I'm Old Fashioned", trying to meet the neighbors by hand-delivering some misdirected mail (they weren't home), and grilling up dinner outside in a parka for likely the last time of the season? No one said you have to celebrate a birthday in only one way. I like being alone. And having the house to myself on a beautiful fall day to wander around in my underwear and eat ice cream was just what the doctor ordered.
Originally, I had planned to join some of the gang from work at Six Flags today. And as much as I love a rollercoaster (and using my season pass), it just didn't feel like how I wanted to spend my birthday. Roommate works Sundays now and I shoved off any real birthday celebration plans to next Saturday when I wouldn't have to compete with Halloween. Being born three days before the notorious holiday, my mom has often joked that if I had been born three days later she would have named me Jack O'Lantern. Except I don't think she was kidding.
Last night, Roommate and I hauled our old selves down to Manhattan to see The Kingdom, which wasn't nearly as bad as the miserable box office and tepid reviews would have you believe. It was directed by actor turned director Peter Berg, whom I have had something of a slow burn crush on since Linda Fiorentino grudge fucked him in The Last Seduction. He was also quite frequently naked (especially for a ski movie) in his big break movie Aspen Extreme. If he could spend twenty minutes of that movie stark naked in the snow, I think the CW can find a few minutes for those Supernatural boys to shower off.
After the movie, we decided to take the late drunk train and have a quick drink before we left town. We wandered down to Barracuda, which was packed to the rafters with gays. It wasn't so crowded that Terry Goldman didn't find me. He kissed me and his lips tasted like strawberries, like he was wearing lip gloss made for a nine year old girl. But he tasted good, so who am I to complain? But we immediately decamped from the madness of Barracuda and made our way to the relative quiet of XES, somewhat around the corner.
During the summer, I forced Erik Rhodes and his fabulous boyfriend Danny to meet me there for a quick post-show drink. They live not far away and they thought I was joking at first that there was even a bar at that location since apparently their dog has crapped outside it a thousand times without them noticing it. Once inside, Danny still thought I was joking, but the upscale dankness and casual neighborhood vibe I think won him over. Then again, it was the last time we went to a bar together, so maybe he thinks my taste is permanently suspect.
While at XES, I had my usual Sex And The Beach after first checking my look in the mirror. I spent a few minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, reviewing the merchandise and giving a buyer's assessment of the bill of sale. Not bad I thought, for something that has been in the bargain bin for so long. Mike and I parked on stools, transfixed by the horribleness of a shitty horror movie playing on the flat panel TV over the bar. We decided it was probably The Hills Have Eyes since it was terrible, just terrible, and neither of us had seen it before. The sound was muted so we had the distinct pleasure of reading the dialogue as it scrolled across the various dismembered performers. The screenwriter clearly loved movies, as the internal movie references were seemingly endless, and I wondered why, if he loved movies so much, that he had inflicted this particular piece of garbage on the world.
While wrapping up our drinks, a listener, who had recognized me, came over to wish me a happy birthday. This is extremely rare in NYC and, as has been the case in the past, he was originally from Miami but had recently moved to the area. He was very nice and I will be honest that it did make me feel good, almost like a real celebrity, on my birthday. But the drunk train was calling and we beat a hasty retreat.
Once home, I couldn't fall asleep. It was already several hours into my birthday and I considered just not sleeping at all for the entire 24 hours. I spent a fair amount of time wading through the seemingly endless birthday wishes emailed and posted to MySpace, corresponding with the adorable, argyle-loving Jackenroth, stars on his elbows and in his eyes as he awaits the upcoming season of Project Runway and texting at 4am with an ex-boyfriend actively sorting out his emotions after a break-up earlier in the evening. Then, I decided to watch Mrs. Miniver, which I had DVRed from TCM.
I haven't seen Miniver in 20 years but I had remembered it fondly. I was struck however by what a horrible performance Greer Garson gave in the movie. Her bizarre expression rarely changed and she seemed to be Acting with not just a capital A, but also with lights around it and a brass band. But you have to love MGM at the height of its power. There wasn't a close-up where she didn't look like a million bucks waiting for change. Teresa Wright was terrific and it seems crazy to me now that she could have been in three of the biggest classic movies of all time right in a row (Miniver, Shadow of a Doubt, Pride of the Yankees) and then had very little else to show for her career from then on out. The movie itself was a good story to watch on a birthday and in the midst of a war. An important reminder that life is short and at all turns unexpected, but there is still time in between bombing raids for a flower show or a little romance.
It was well after dawn that I finally threw in the towel and went to sleep. Promptly at 11am, my cell phone started to ring with calls and buzz with text messages. Wisely my mother waiting until 7pm to call. "I didn't wake you, did I?" I barely had the heart to tell her I was just up from a nap. Whatever. It's my birthday.
So what if I puttered around the house, hammering on the keys of the piano trying to learn "I'm Old Fashioned", trying to meet the neighbors by hand-delivering some misdirected mail (they weren't home), and grilling up dinner outside in a parka for likely the last time of the season? No one said you have to celebrate a birthday in only one way. I like being alone. And having the house to myself on a beautiful fall day to wander around in my underwear and eat ice cream was just what the doctor ordered.
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