It's All In My Mind

Tony had a quiet presence about him, as if he were made of marble, or a statue found in Tutankhamen's tomb, come to life. I sometimes got close to him to check if his chest was actually moving up and down. He was tall and thin and still, and moved with the slow grace of a redwood swaying in the breeze. His presence also had a timeless permanence to it, like all the extra comet dust floating around space was gathered up just to create him.
Was he on drugs, or naturally this way? I asked myself one afternoon in Berlin. We were meeting the other Tony, Tony T, to talk about a fashion show he was putting on- Tony was going to model, I was going to present an outfit.
As we chatted, I realized this was the first time I had spent time alone with him, and it was a little overwhelming for me.

What is his deal? I thought, as we made small talk. Is he depressed or serene? I asked him questions to gauge where he was coming from, without directly saying it, because I didn't know him very well then. We talked a long time that afternoon, in 1991, and I came to the conclusion he was either wearing his eternity on his sleeve, or just plain tired.

The fashion show was a lot of fun; I had my friend Siobhan model a pre-Gaga football girl satire ensemble. (Lady Gaga is a cute weird dresser, but I like Roisin a little better...)
I bejeweled and spray painted gold metallic a set of football shoulder pads from the thrift store, gave her a bee hive hair do instead of a helmet, and paired it with bright orange stretch pants, the word 'hell' sewn to her butt, in big floral letters. Of course she played on Hell's team. To top it off, I gave her a Jewel shopping bag to carry down the runway, as an homage to Wickie-Poo, because no matter where I ran into him, he had on an amazing out fit that turned heads, and elicited jeers. I hope Renee has a picture of it laying around somewhere...

Life with Chris and Cath began pretty well, but I soon grew discontented with our arrangement. I guess I was at the start of my search for a life without drugs and alcohol, but didn't realize it at the time, and I couldn't bear being in the apartment with them very much, between Chris' all night mini drug parties, and Cath's wake and bake-edness (rhymes with nakedness). They drove me nuts because I wanted to be doing what they were doing all the time. Don't get me wrong, I was no saint, and I kept up with them, but only a day or two at a time. I was yet again around 24 hour party people, and resenting their abilities at it. I knew my addictions enough to know I couldn't hold down a job if I partied like I wanted to, and begrudgingly only went out a few nights a week.
So to avoid them , I got up early and went to a coffee shop on Broadway, aptly named Coffee Chicago, and hung out a few hours before work started, at one pm. (It's where Joy's Noodles is now. I spent countless hours next to that brick wall...)
I can't remember what I did for all that time, besides drinking tons of coffee, but I must have read books. After breakfast I walked the fifteen blocks to work, which took me an hour or so, and after walking back to the coffee shop after work, I stayed til close, which was midnight. I liked the nights there better, because they played old movies in a side room. A cup of coffee and a movie for a buck? Not bad. The kids who worked there got to know me pretty well, but I wasn't in the mood for any new friendships, I couldn't handle the ones I already had, so I kept to myself for the most part.
Friday nights were the worst. I had to be up super early to walk to work, to not drive in with Cath, because her smoke wouldn't kick in until we got to work, which was too late, for being with an unbaked Wake and Bake on a Saturday morning is just about the most dreadful way one can start one's day.
Chris' sounds of a party trying to not make a sound in his room, kept me up for hours. Then, just as I fell asleep, his ex showed up drunk on our buzzer, pressing it a hundred times, begging to be let in. No amount of threats or swearing ever dissuaded him from doing it again the next week. Maybe that's why he gave us so much free weed. That stuff was amazing. I had never got anything but paranoid from it in the past, not from lack of trying, but this guy's stuff became my reason for living. One puff and it was hours of happy laughy time. I seriously considered turning my life over to it, and did, for that whole year.
On the weekends, I went out with Renee and we'd do normal things like go to the movies or karaoke, and going to Scoozi or Hat Dance, and brunches at Queeny Mark's place in River City, and tea dances with the Berlin gang.
BUT, if Renee wasn't around, I hung out with Chris and Tony, and their scary friends. Their friends are just a blur in my memory, just a flash, because of all my consumings. I don't mean Chris's old friends you can still find at Berlin. I freak out a little when I see them, for they are still together, tied in their forged familial bonds, all these years later.
No, these people were scary in their commitment to ruin. Hour after hour, drug after drug, it was too much. One night the Mark I was dating was with us, and the next day he told me a the guy hosting the party turned to him and said, in a horrid monotone voice, with a shit eating grin on his face: Soon, very soon, most of the people in this room will die. And you wanna know why...? Mark was to afraid to say anything. Because of the decisions they are making right now...
Mark was so perturbed by that guy, he wouldn't be around him again, even thought it meant a free party. He'd ask me if the You Wanna Know Why Guy was going to be there, whenever I asked him out after that.
Mark, I'd say, that freak always has that look on his face, his brain is fried. He's a mess. Don't listen to him.

But no matter what happened that week or over the weekend, Chris and I would wind the night down together, sometimes with Tony and Cathy, by watching movies on Cath's VCR, her super-expensive early Eighties gift from her dad VCR. Usually the same movies: Female Trouble and Glen or Glenda, and/or Desperate Living. We had them all memorized, but we never tired of them. I guess it always helps when you know somebody else has it worse off than you, and no one had it worse than Dawn Davenport...
No one knows suffering like Lana Turner! (I think that's from Polyester)
I was just looking at the list of movies from 1991, and Chris and Renee and I saw so many of them in the theater, I can't believe it. How did I find the time or energy? None of use could stop talking about My Own Private Idaho, we really loved it, and Whore made us laugh our ass off. (At the funny parts. Or Theresa's blunt performance. I'm not sure which.) To this day, whenever I see a limo, I assume Theresa Russell's in there, nonchalantly working a three way.





Tony, Chris & Renee, 1991
vcr

A Promise to Be Found

Tayler walked into the apartment a wreck. She was crying, and her face was a smear of snot and mascara and lipstick. Her leggings were ripped at the knees, where some blood trickled, and under one arm was a smashed cake box.
"Tayler, what happened?! Are you hurt?!" Cathy and I shrieked. (Well, as much as two could shriek, who had been hitting the bong all morning, anyway.)
"Some bitches robbed me! I'm alright, I guess. I got off the train at Sheridan, and they came out of no where and pushed me down at took my purse and ran off!"
"Oh man, on Easter?!" I said
"Yea. On fucking goddamn Easter. Here's your cake." Tayler said handing over a smashed mess. "Ooo, it smells good. I'll get some forks" Cathy said.
"Dammit! Where's the bong!" Tayler yelled.

Sometime in early '91, Cathy moved in with Chris and I, and I was right, our new solidarity kept us on the right track for a while, and we didn't indulge in night life activities as much as we had been. Chris found a job as a receptionist at a salon on Belmont, B Vamp, where he earned the moniker Pancake, because he was in his compact every two seconds, reapplying. I was loath for him to work there, for I still hadn't forgiven the B in B Vamp, for his jumping on my back and trying to ride me like a pony, not once but three times, bombed out of his mind, at the Midwest Beauty Show, in 1989.
"He was probably just excited being around so many hair stylists." Chris said, laughing.
I pushed those feelings aside, however, when I saw how well they took care of him there, and when I kept hearing the tails through Chris of how much fun they had everyday, I debated applying for a job there.
My work situation turned into one headache after another at the time, and I dreaded going there, and complained to whoever would listen, but I hadn't the nerve to quit. If I hadn't been working with Erin at Neo that year, hosting Sunday nights, I'd have lost it.

Soon after Cathy moved in, we had a party. A 'get to know each other's friends' kind of party. I hoped it would be better than the one I threw for Erin for her birthday, when three people showed up- I told you no one comes to my birthday parties because there's too many Christmas parties going on, but thanks anyway! And not as good as the last one Scot and I threw, where I had sex with Skip after I broke up with him, in Scot's room, after barracading the door, not realizing there was some else in the room, who, it turned out, didn't want to leave. Yes, not that much fun, but not too little, either. In all honesty, if I hadn't pictures from the party that night, I would not remember it. I guess that's good.

My relationship with Mark was slowly fizzling out, and turning into a friendship, and that was bumming me out.
I liked sleeping with him, and wanted to continue our affair, but the night he wriggled out of cuddling with me, while watching Silence of the Lambs, only allowing my temple to rest on his thigh, I realized it was over.
It should have ended the night I realized I was in bed with yet another h addict with an inferiority complex, yet I kept going back to him for a while, because he told me he liked to smell his sheets after I spent the night, because he never smelled anything like it. When I told him I wore Dali, he bought some, too.
He lived by a Green Line el stop, in and old carved up mansion, on the west side. It was one of the few residences left in the area at the time, stuck in a corner, and easy to miss; the once grand homes of the 1880's giving way to industry in the 1950's, and to the street walkers in the 90's. Despite the fact the entire building was surrounded with a chain link fence, the building and their cars were constantly broken in to. I hated spending the night there.
When I couldn't sleep for fear of a midnight murder, I snuck out of bed and smoked in the living room, quietly lit by the blue Italian lights strung on the wall, next to the drafty front window. This was early winter of '91, and I watched the snow fall on the empty lots across the street, and on the unused factory buildings across the other streets, everything stained a piss yellow by the street lights, annoyed by the silence of the car-less road, wishing I were stoned, and wishing there were vitamins in cigarettes; I felt so unhealthy lately.

That was a habit I started at an early age: staring out at a snowy landscape at 3 in the morning, cigarette in hand, wondering how my life got so fucked up, and fighting with every fiber a desire to be normal. Ahh, the introspection winter inspires in me.
I was in a handstand and cart wheel phase at the time, and my constant gymnastics annoyed him, which wasn't hard to do. (I am the oldest of five boys, so I know how to annoy, and he was bullied by his older brother. It made for an interesting combo at times...)
I sat at his typewriter and typed, over and over, ala The Shining, S-T-E-V-E-N, P-U-S-H-O-FF. (Ouija Board is my favorite.) We actually used the Ouija board in his place, but I did not like who I met doing that, so we only did it once.
Mark was a great story teller, and a brilliant writer, but he wouldn't believe me. I often thought to myself, Does he think I'm dumb? Does he actually not believe he has a gift for writing?
We sat together in many dive bars, and divey gay bars, and downed a lot of scotch, and talked about writing and art til all hours of the night. I still have the e.e. cummings book he gave me.

Speaking of Morrissey, I have Rene to thank for rekindling my love of him. One night driving in her car, she played a mix tape, and The Boy With The Thorn In His Side blew up in my brain, and I cursed myself for ever doubting him. Oh God, I gotta get some more of this! I said to her. She also made me fall in love with Pet Shop Boys and Vivaldi.

One Sunday, Cath, Chris and I realised we were about to get the tattoos we had been discussing for the past few weeks, on the same day. Tranay, who was a friend of Cathy's, talked us all into getting inked by the man she worked for, Guy. His newly opened studio, Guilty and Innocent, was across the street from our apartment, and we debated for weeks the designs we wanted and finally chosen: Chris, a belt of vines, Cath, an art deco figure, and me, a Sphinx. We each were present at some point during each other's tattooing, Cath's being first that day, and the sight of all that blood dripping down her white back, gave me pause. I had no idea how much tattooing bled!
When it was my turn, they walked me across the street, stone cold sober, as Tranay suggested, and stayed a few minutes, before leaving me alone with Guy and The Best of Blondie. Needless to say, tattooing is very, very painful, despite what you've heard, and I had an out of body experience the entire time. Guy did an amazing job transforming my tiny picture of an idea into my tattoo, and I regret breaking the creative spell he was under, after I saw what he had started to do free hand, outside my design idea. It was just too painful to stay under the needle any longer than I had to.
I didn't know how Chris kept going back to get his tattoo completed after Guy started his that Sunday, because his was around his entire waist, and required many hours, and mine was finished that night.
I still love my tattoo, and whenever I look at it, I'm reminded of the permanent ways our friends can change us, despite the passage of time, distance, or death.






At Cathy's party, 1991:
Tayler & Cath
Tony & Philip
Yours truly
Rene, betwixt Scot's artwork
At Erin's party, 1990:
Scott & Erin
Me & Erin
Scott & Scot & Rhine
Neo, 91
Guy's card
Kiss Them For Me

Life Without Buildings

The scene opens with a long shot of our hero with his head lying on his folded arms, asleep on his desk, in front of his active computer monitor. Zoom in. You can tell by looking at his rumpled clothes and scruffy face, he's done this many times before. In fact, he spends most nights here sleeping, if you can call it that. As his brain crawls it's way through as much REM time it can get, the computer monitor flashes an endless parade of images and stories related to the object of his search, his raison d'etre. He's read them all, they barely scratch the surface. His months of searching only reveals what he already knows: not much. He hopes his vigilance will yield better results. He hopes if he stays at his computer twenty hours a day, he might find what he's looking for. He hopes if he closes his eyes just for a second, he might find some peace. And the object of this search? If you saw The Matrix, you might guess Morpheus. If you knew our hero, you'd say a pink rhinestone bracelet he bought at Kohl's in 1984, that he just knows is lurking somewhere in a sixty piece 'buy it now' jewelery lot on ebay...


Chris and I floated around our large, sparsely furnished apartment for a couple months or so after Scot left, like two drunk ghosts, before Cathy moved in. Our place was so empty, it reminded me of the many 80's videos set in a smokey, fake street at night, newspapers caught in the wind. Or sometimes, it would look robbed. We'd come home to find our few possessions left askew, everything seemingly rifled through. When you did as much drugs and drank as much as we did, you got used to your life looking like that. We kept our couch and TV in the dining room which was next to the kitchen, and left the living room empty. We hadn't the money to furnish it.
Rex's curtain was still up in the dining room, from when he stayed there, when Scot was still living with us. Chris' friend Tony stayed there for a while, too, after Danny did. I forgot how many glamorous and wonderful people lived behind that curtain.

Looking at the curtain, I often thought of the night, we all were there. Rex, Danny, Scot, Chris, Tony, and I had a little pre-party before hitting the clubs, and went to "Danny's place". (Rex had moved out and was just visiting.) We lay on his futon, dreaming about our futures, sharing some sad stories from our childhood, (Tony in particular; his parents kicked him out at a young age for being gay.) smoking, drinking, and laughing, but there was someone else there with us, unseen. We all felt it; we knew this was a special moment in our lives, all of us coming together like this. It was a cold night in December, yet we were together and warm and safe- I think we knew that we were in the presence of people who would be there for each other when we needed them. We also knew on some level this would be our last night together as a group: in two years, two of us would be dead.
But that was yet to be, and Chris and I tried to go on with our lives as best we could. For me, Scot's moving was the latest in a long line of friends who had left Chicago, and I felt lost and overwhelmed. The life I began creating for myself in 1985 when I moved to Chicago had crumbled around me. And if my friends hadn't moved away, we moved in different directions with our lives, and that can be just as distant. I knew we still cared for each other, but we weren't building our lives together any more.
I became, as much as I could, the stable person in Chris' life, and helped him save his money, made dinner and breakfast when I could, and scolded him when he 'kept the party going' in his room with bar friends til daybreak. I say as much as I could, because I knew this was the role Chris wanted me to perform for him, and I was up to the challenge of the part of a responsible adult, but my coping mechanism at the time was drugs and alcohol, and I easily dashed any amount of respectability I managed to build for myself, and joined Chris in his all night binges.
My irresponsibility came to a head one night after a particularly close K call, and one too many out of body experiences bearing witness to my shocking and embarrassing behavior.
"Oh Christ, what am I doing- put down the straw and put some clothes on??!! "
Chris' actions started to disturb me, for his life seemed to turn into one long continuous binge, and I didn't know how long he could keep it up. We would get into these long talks about his behavior, like I did with Brad, and one day I learned he was an accomplished trumpet player. I begged him to go back to music; to make his life about that, something other than partying. I told him having my hair career and hobbies gave me something other to focus on than going out, and I told him about the friends I knew that hadn't anything else, got into trouble or ODed.
He just looked at me, as you would a child who asked you why the sky was blue.
"It just is, honey."
He would then describe his plight to me, that he was a 'victim of himself'. The damage was done. He was resigned to that idea, no matter how much I pleaded to the contrary.
We needed another person to live with us, and I had someone in mind, and I hoped Cathy's motherly instincts would kick in, and help me help Chris...




Chris & Roxy, above
twentysomething, and hating it, 1991

Left To My Own Devices

Once upon a time, I did so much laundry with Todd, I can't help but think of him every time I do mine now, in my murky 1910 basement.
When I was sixteen, I lived down the street from him, and during that summer of '82, I bore witness to his every waking moment. Happily so. Like Tonto, or 'the Professor and Mary Ann', I was never center stage, but enough for a supporting role, in his story. Yes, Todd saw himself as a star. He was beautiful after all, with his bright green eyes, curly blond hair, and quarter back's build, and he loved the attention it got him. He transformed himself into the role of a 'star' from the one he was forced into as a teen: that of the town pariah. If you grew up gay in the 70's, chances are you know what I mean.
He lived above his landlady Bernie, who smoked despite her oxygen tank, who would shout quit smoking Brian! whenever I passed her door on the way up the stairs to Todd's. I would smile and nod and wave.
We walked the few blocks to the laundromat lugging his baskets. (Both the Laundromat and Bernie's house have since been torn down.)
We would talk about guys we liked, and school, and I would help him shake the lint and wrinkles out each piece of his wet laundry before it went into the dryer.
"Doesn't it all get smashed up in the dryer, anyway? Doesn't the lint trap catch it all?" I would ask.
"I don't care! Every piece must be shook out!" He'd reply.
Todd was a few years older than me, and starting culinary school, and I envied his independent life, and asked myself internal questions about my own, as I watched him live his. Would my life be like his, after high school? What will I study for a career? Where will I live?

His apartment was a little threadbare and depressing, with it's greying white paint and bare bulbs. The few pieces of furniture were clean but over used, and cheap when it was new, in the sixties. Littered about were hand me downs of hand me downs, small attempts by his mother and sister to add a sense of home. But it was his.
To cheer the place up, I painted him a picture of Marilyn Monroe, based off of a photo of her with Carl Sandburg.
Todd was often overwhelmed by the demands of school, and cursed his plight, and instead of studying, ran out to the gay bars every chance he got. He eventually ran off to Colorado for a year with his boy friend Opey, so he could quit school without listening to the wrath of his family, who payed for it.
I moved out of state later that year to finish high school, and watched, through the letters he wrote to me, his enthusiasm for Colorado, and Opey, wane.
Todd's is a long story I hope to tell in more depth sometime, but hopefully you get an idea of him. I don't know if it's Todd's or Bernie's ghost, or just my imagination, but as write here in the Viceroy, and breathe deeply, I get the distinct waftings of their old Memorial Drive duplex. I mention where I am right now because I am meeting two old stars of my story from the eighties, tomorrow for lunch. What, it's only been twenty years since I've seen them?!

Now why did start telling you about Todd? Oh yes, because I saw him as a kind of mentor, and I studied his life as a way of figuring out my own, and that reminds me of my state during 1991. I hated I hadn't a person in my life like Todd, because I had no idea what the hell I was going to do with me life any more. I felt so stagnant and stuck somewhere I didn't want to be, but I had no idea where to start changing.
So when Erin asked me to co-host eighties night at Neo with her and Carlisa, I jumped at the chance. I was nostalgic for a life yet lived, and went back to the past to live for a while. I knew the answers to any question about my life back then, and I basked in the warmth of old news.
They were fun, crazy, drunken nights, and we dressed up to the hilt. Neo is where I got my first taste of performing on stage. We paid homage to our idols by lipsynching to their songs to a mostly disinterested audience.

At the time, my past had little comfort for me, but it was all I had, so I stuck around...

At Neo 1991
'Nona Hendryx & Boy George' at Neo
'Nina Hagen & Boy George' at Neo
Disinteresting: Boy George
Disinteresting: Nina Hagen

It All Started With a Phone Call From Brett...

The following is a guest post from my friend Sarah, about her infamous night with Bowie, in 1990. If you would like to guest star on my pages, please do... send me a story. Scroll down in a few minues for a new episode from my saga...





It all started with a phone call from Brett. Around 5pm Saturday, he rang me up wanting to know if I wanted to go to the Bowie concert. The concert was in Tinley Park. We had no tickets. I had already seen Bowie twice. This was not a do or die sort of situation for me. My response was not positive.

However, after some momentary cajoling by my smooth talking friend I had agreed to drive from my parents’ North Shore home to his parents’ Northwest suburban home and then to Tinley Park to see David Bowie.

As we had a bit of a time crunch, I rushed about threw on something…well, I don’t remember what I wore, but let’s assume it was black, and I was out the door and on the road in my recently received college graduation present. About an hour later I was in Brett’s kitchen when realized I had made a tactical error. “I forgot to stop for beer,” I said.

Brett began rooting about in the family fridge. Much to his teenage brother’s horror, Brett emerged with a box of white Grenache. “Man, they’re going to blame me!”

“It’s okay,” I soothed, “We can replace it.”

Somehow, someway we got to the arena before the show had started. We pulled into what was by now a very short line up for the parking lot. A fresh faced college kid asked me if I was going to the VIP lot. “Yes,” I answered and we were directed to a three row strip of blacktop near the arena entrance. After parking in the front row, we downed a glass of the white Grenache and made our way to the box office.

Two women were in line before us were asking for theatre seats. The ticket agent was valiantly trying to locate a pair but could only find two seats with an obstructed view. The women began to debate the value of these seats versus sitting on the lawn. My friend jumps in and says, “I was here last week for Depeche Mode and had seats behind a column. It sucked! You’re better off on the lawn. Really.” Did I mention Brett had the velvet tongue of a con artist? A moment later the women were moving away with their newly purchased lawn seats in hand.

Brett leapt to window and said, “We’ll take those two seats.” The agent said she’d try and see if there was anything better and typed away on her keypad. “I have two seats in the tenth row,” she smiled.

After stopping for a couple giant beers, we found our way to our awesome seats. Bowie rocked. We sang and danced. For a short time life was good for two recent college grads with no job prospects during the recession.

When the show ended, we climbed atop the hood of my car and enjoyed a couple glasses of boxed wine. VIP parking does not mean VIP exiting so we hung out there looking at the moon and chatting. At some point we began to refer to ourselves as Ron and Carol. I think it was the cheap, warm, stolen wine talking. During our conversation, I casually mentioned that I knew where Bowie was staying. One of the other Planned Parenthood volunteers knew somebody in security at the Ritz who was not all about discretion and had told her that the Thin White Duke was in residence. Upon hearing this tidbit, Brett jumped up and said, “Let’s go!”

An hour or so later we were on the Gold Coast and had secured a miracle parking spot in front of Holy Family. With no more of a plan than “Let’s go” in our heads, we made our way to the Ritz where we waltzed past the doormen and into an elevator. The doors closed.

As we stared at the floor buttons not knowing what to do next, the other elevator occupant, a woman, said to us, “Are you looking for David Bowie?” Seeing as how one word kept working for us that night, we said it again,” Yes!”

“He’s at Buddy Guy’s. I’m a producer with CBS and I’m doing a story on Buddy Guy. Adrian Belew is there and so is Paul Reiser [the comedian]. Phil Collins is rumored to be coming, too.”

We thanked the woman for the information and hightailed it back to Holy Family. Now, we had to have a discussion. I had four dollars in cash left. Brett had an Amex. Would this be enough to get us into the club?

We shot over to the south loop and secured yet again another convenient parking space. Approaching the doorman, I asked, “What is the cover and do you take Amex?”

“Two dollars per person and we take Amex,” was the bouncer’s answer. I don’t think we hugged him but we should have. I unloaded my cash and we entered the bar. Brett went to get beer and I headed towards the stage. A woman was sitting up front and I noticed she had empty seats at her table. “Are these taken?” I asked. She shook her head no and I sat down just feet away from where Buddy Guy and Adrian Belew were jamming on guitar and Paul Reiser (I know, Paul Buchman) was playing the piano. Off to the side of the stage, in a roped off area was David Bowie. I was in love.

Brett found me and took his seat. The woman at the table noticing my fixation on the former Ziggy Stardust said he’d been singing earlier. She started chatting about how she’d just like to talk to him. I said, “He wouldn’t have to talk to me. He could just point.”

Bowie never did get up to sing again that night but Adrian Belew was on fire playing with Buddy Guy and Paul Reiser (really) was doing a fine job on the piano so it was well worth the $4.00 and Amex charges. Phil Collins never showed up but I really didn’t miss him.

Sometime after 6AM, I was back in bed on the North Shore rerunning the night through my head til sleep took me.

Five years later, Brett and I had a huge falling out and we haven’t spoken since. Regardless of what actions ruined our friendship, I’ll always be glad he talked me into going to see David Bowie that night and I hope he feels the same way.

Here Comes The 21st Century

When Scot moved out, in January of 1990 -no, wait, '91. He moved in 1991. I'm on a new year now. I told you all about my 1990: New York, London, gun shots, being slutty, etc. There are some stories I haven't told you about yet though: Rhineland, Mark, a good Ronnie story, the party I threw for Erin, or the night I almost died buying Boy George records. I'll tell you those sooner or later...
So in 1991, I needed to get a stereo, because Scot took it and his TV with him.
For me, music comes first, so Chris and I went a few months with out TV, til Kathy moved in, now that I think about it, and brought hers. I had somehow managed to trash the stereo system Jody bought for me in the mid-eighties. Too many nights coming home drunk and "accidentally" kicking it, I imagine. It was very compact, like an end table, and I kept it on the floor near the front door. I knew that was a mistake.
I wanted to be a modern, a hip and now, and to buy a CD player, but a whole new stereo system was more than I could manage at the time, so I settled on a CD boom box. I loved it. I had that thing for years.
Erin drove me out to the suburbs to buy it, because she said I could get a better price out there, so I bought it in Elmhurst. My first CD was a Boy George single for One on One, which sadly, I sold on Ebay a few years ago for movin' money. (And oh yea, I hope you like Boy George, because my story is going to get very Boy Georgie for a while, because of Renee.)
I hated to replace that player- all those memories and cool stickers, about to take up space in a landfill. (Where else are you going to put stickers?)
...All those nights coming home from work and turning it on, only to have it blast so loud I jumped out of my skin.
This is how loud Chris plays this thing when I'm not here? I'm surprised we haven't been kicked out of here yet. I thought to myself.
...All those hours spent with my boom box and Listen Without Prejudice, I Do Not Want What I Have Not Got, Kill Uncle, ABC's Up, You Can Dance, Anarchy in the UK, Louder Than Bombs, Def Dumb and Blonde, The White Room, but to name a few.
I bring this up now because I just got my replacement boom box in the mail, for the one I replaced my first one with. I guess a new one every ten years is pretty good. And my new one has an MP3 wire, along with the very necessary cassette and CD players, so I'm still a modern, even though I'm dragging a lot of the 20th century along with me. I happen to like the 20th century. My old one has this great sticker I bought at the Checkpoint Charlie Museum in Berlin in the nineties, and I hate to part with it, so I will try to pry it off.
(I just saw this sticker story in NY Mag, and it got me on a kick. I lifted this one recently myself, because I passed it for months whenever I ran in the park, so I took it to put on my fridge to remind me to run. I call it A Viking Wants To Blow You.)


When Tony introduced me to Renee one night in Berlin in late 1990, we acted more like we were long lost friends than two who had just met. Almost like we picked up where we left off. We went to Berlin that year for Halloween, the bar, not the city, and she said she was coming in costume. I hadn't made plans to dress up, but when I saw her walk in the door, I wished I had. She drove for an hour from the 'burbs as Laura, the dead girl from Twin Peaks. Plastic wrap and all. Now here's a girl I can relate to! I thought to myself.
"I want to marry you!" I told her. "Right now! Let's drive to Vegas!"

The year before, Scot put a personal ad in the paper, to meet a guy. Back then, people mailed responses with pictures in care of the paper, and they then sent you a big envelope of replies, if you were lucky, a small one if you weren't. At first they had put his 'I'm a skater boy looking for love' in the boy meets girl section. Oops. The best reply, other than the one from the 'I'm a jeans and lace kinda gal', was from this cute Asian girl, Oyster. I begged him to respond to her, just as a friend, but he refused.
When the next batch of replies came, it took us hours to sift through them all. There were dozens. A letter at the bottom of the pile caught my attention most. It was short and to the point, and came with some great photo booth shots.
"Wow Scott, I want this guy!" I said
"You can have him. He's not really my type."
"Alright!" I said
I never did respond to him, for he sent the letter to Scot after all, and I forgot about this event until one night I was sitting in my boyfriend's kitchen, and a light went on.
I remembered back when Scot and I were looking at the letters and pictures from the men who wanted his company, and I saw a guy in a photo booth, I wanted him so much, I felt like I time traveled to the future for a second, just a second, to take a peek to see if I would ever have him, almost like I was cheating at the game of life, and turning to the back for the answers.
"It was you, wasn't it! Last year, did you respond to a Reader ad from a 'blonde skater boy', and send him a photo booth picture?" I asked Mark
"Umm, yes? How did you know!"
The night I met Mark at Berlin, in the winter of 1990, he was leaning against the wall, wearing a black motorcycle jacket with a Soviet t-shirt, tight blue jeans that accentuated his long legs, and his gorgeous ash brown hair tumbled down his forehead, obscuring one eye. He was so beautiful and perfect to me, and I was so afraid of him, so extremely terrified, that I ran right up to him and introduced myself, and not out the door. This is exactly how I initially felt about all the guys I cared about and loved, in my past. Sometimes, in spite of myself, I make the right move.



Debbie the Hobo

Wrong b/w In Sympathy

I finally figured out what my problem is: to write, I need to read. I had that long dry spell from posting, because I hadn't been reading. Well, I read a little. I finally finished that book I bought in Paris last January, at Shakespeare and Company. I bought Paul Auster's New York Trilogy only because it was affordable and had great graphics, because the store is pricey- great, but pricey, and I have to read before bed. I really liked the book, and took my sweet time reading it.
Then life gets in the way, and takes up a lot of my psychic energy, and head space, and there's only so much to go around.
So now, because I want to get back writing, I'm reading two books: Kafka's The Castle, and Touching From a Distance by Deborah Curtis, both of which amaze and transport me instantly into their worlds, so I pass that along to you...


Michael, or Lady My Kill, as we used to call him, used to show up at the most annoying times. Either early in the hung over mornings, chain smoking and eating up our kitchen, or just as we were about to go out, killing the voyeuristic mood we liked to lapse into. By 'we' I mean Scot and I.
My Kill's was the threat that we used on each other to motivate out the door: If we don't leave now, Lady My Kill will show up, and you know what that means!
That meant loud, grating acid trips. If he was on acid, which was usally all the time, he wanted your attention, and to scream in your face. Scot and I are pretty mellow guys, and have very high pain thresholds, unless we were drunk, so his presence was a little much sometimes. A lot much, often, actually. At first we tried to scare him away, by lying to him and saying we were going to church before we went out, or the police station (he was on acid after all) and when that didn't work, we'd lay around in our underwear, trying to act weird.
Alas, nothing scared him, and even though we told him his behavior was difficult, and to call before he came over, which he did for a while, we eventually accepted his presence, for I think we were the only stable people in his life.
He did have a pretty funny Boy George story:
Hey hey Brian Brian Brian!!! Did it tell you I saw George on a bridge one night in Paris, and I screamed at the top on my lungs HEY BOY GEORGE, YOU'RE A FUCKING BITCH!!!
Which he then did, in my apartment, for effect, I suppose.
What did he do? I asked.
Nothing. He said.
I looked at him and thought It must suck to be famous.
Lady My Kill got his act together a few years later, and started taking the right kind of drugs, you know, the prescribed kind, and went to hair school. (There are a lot of kids out there who went to hair school when they made the decision to do something constructive with their lives, and I can't help but feel a little responsible for that. Did I look like I was having my cake and eating it too? You be the judge...)

As I told you earlier, I met Renee just as Scot was getting ready to move away from Chicago. He said he was leaving because he didn't make enough at Medusa's to live off of, and didn't get enough support from his friends, but I think it must have been more than that. Chris, his on again, off again, was back in the picture.
Chris and I hit it off well, and we subconsciously, and consciously, fed each other's self-destructive habits. Watching two people you love live so destructively crushes your soul after awhile, especially when they claim to' just be having fun'.
Scot never did the things Chris and I did, but I do remember us having many pep talks with him, after that confession, about giving a good job interview, and believing in himself, because he was (and is) so incredibly talented artistically.
I know! But I can't talk to people! Why can't I talk to people! He would answer in frustration.
Because you're an artist, Scot. You don't tell, you show. Show people how great you are. I said.
Looking back, it took special people to see his abilities, and many did (I think his Medusa's job was a two day gig that lasted a year: they quickly saw his talent.) His biggest mentor was Nunzio, but when he died and Orbit closed, it hit Scot hard, and it took him awhile to recover.
Chris and I let him go with our blessings; we let him go where he needed to go. I wish we could have given him more, but we barely gave anything to ourselves as it was.
Chris moved into our dining room, and then into Scot's room after he left. It was a cold and deary day as we packed up his moving truck. Chris and I hoped he'd change his mind, but as he drove away, our apartment, and our lives never felt so empty.



Scot, in our Sheridan Road apartment, Chicago, 1990


Wrong

In Sympathy