Somewhere in Time

This morning I woke up like Christopher Reeve did when he saw the wrong dates on the pennies in his pocket in Somewhere in Time. But instead 1912, like in the movie, it was 1988, and 1988 was my lover. "1988, COME BACK!! DON'T LEAVE!! 1988......my love...come back...(sob)"
And 1988 was looking at me, like Jane Seymour did in the movie, while getting smaller and smaller and saying: "What the fuck?! Where are you going?! Why are you disappearing?!"

Turning 40 really messes with your mind.

But it's over, 1988 is over. Never to exist again. My apartment, the furniture, the things I owned, most of the people I saw regularly, my worries, and fears, all gone. Almost, almost, like it never existed. It did, of course. The apartment I lived in back then is still there: 3728 North Pinegrove. I can look into the window where my bedroom was. The room where I had pictures of Marilyn Monroe and Boy on the wall. Where I hung my Verte Valle and my Martinique. Where I spent hours and hours reading i-D magazine. Where I kissed Jeff and Robert. Where my friends Bryan and Doug slept when they visited me. Where I had long talks with Erin on the phone and long talks with Jody face to face. Where Cocteau Twins or Sade would help me to fall asleep. Where Steve would drunk dial me: " WHY!! Why don't you love me?! I love you Brian, I love you. Why can't you love me, TOO!!" I don't know, Steve, I don't know. My skin cells and hair are probably still embedded into the cracks of the hardwood floor! Gross! I want them back! I can still see the place where all this took place, where my life was, but it's not there any more. My life isn't there anymore.
In 1987 the visually stunning John Sex and his gal pals performed at Berlin. He was the darling of Details (when it was a cool NY mag) and Paper mags. I secretly take credit for him performing at Berlin because I would always torture the DJs to play his songs and videos. "Hey! Got any John Sex stuff! He's great!" The rare nights I go out these days, I still love talking to the DJs. Do it the next time you go out. They have a wealth of information to share: The next great band, who's fucking who, the next good party, etc. Anyway, I think I went with Erin and Danny to see John. It took me a long time to get ready, as it usually did. I spent hours on my make-up, not my clothes. I wore the same thing every night. For about a year. I called them my "Andy Warhol" phases. Not that I dressed like him, but when you see photos of him, his clothes look the same each decade. He had a couple looks and stuck with them. It makes sense, really.

So I really wanted to talk to John and hang out with him. My "idea" was to ambush him and put some lipstick on him. (?) Well, he wasn't too thrilled. He graciously turned down my request of a drunken, smeary lipstick-job. I gushed my love of him for a few seconds and slowly slunk away. When people asked how John Sex was that night, I told them his show was great, but "he is kind of a snob, 'cause didn't want any of my lipstick!" John died a few years later. I didn't know him, but I think about him a lot. He was a performer who, to me, wanted a career in show biz on his own terms. He was truly his own creation, derivative of no one. His uniqueness was his charm and ticket to fame. But he is gone. From a moment in time, never to be experienced again. You know what the wierdest thing is, though? It is happening to us right now. Yesterday will never be again. I think that is the greatest gift life has to give us: understanding of it's finality.

p.s. If someone could turn that Boy link pic into a t-shirt, I'd love you forever.