All Aboard for Funtime

Are you ready for some videos?! Hope ya got some time to kill...

You know how a song can trigger a memory? To this day, whenever I hear Dear Prudence, any Blancmange, or Sensoria, I'm at Berlin, it's 1985, and I'm with Jody and Scot, running the three steps to the tiny "dance floor". I say "dance floor" cause they technically didn't have one. Just a 12' by 12' "area". Or Universal Radio. Or French Kissin'.
Four blocks of School was all that separated us from Medusa's and Berlin. Back then Berlin was half the size it is now. It was tucked away among the old, dusty stores that used to surround it. Showcase One, formerly Tut's, soon to be Avalon, which is now Milio's, was across the street. Brian C. would regale us with stories of the bands that played Tut's: Klaus Nomi, Bauhaus, Specimen, to name a few. Showcase One was a male stripper club for men. It was very hard for us to combine the space-age magic that was Klaus, with the drunken, half nude, sweaty reality that it was, but we took his word for it. I have my hair cut now a days at Milio's, with Vlad, to soak up the aura from the underground 80's legends that passed through it's doors.
We went to Berlin whenever we could. It was a shining beacon to everything that was yet to be; the latest New York and European fashion and music trends always appeared there first. We, of course, tried our damnedest to be apart of that newness, rather than to just look at it. The rare times we walked in when it was dead, our disappointment would be replaced with excitement. Berlin's djs always found the latest and best music and videos. And if they had a great song without a video, they showed an inspired wallpaper choice to complement it: 50's "gay porn" or burlesque, or a spliced-up movie; it was as if Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant were peering down at us into our mid-eighties world from the huge video screen. The next day, Scot and Jody and I would run out to the used sections of our favorite record stores to try and buy what we heard the night before. There were a couple around the Belmont and Broadway area, who's names escape me, but we usually went to Wax Trax. (I'm saving talking about Wax Trax in further detail for a later date.)
What appealed to me most about Berlin was it's lack of a sexual label. It was a place for all who had an open mind, as long as you were into the new and different and creative. I made-out with many a straight boy there in my day! I don't know how they do it, but whenever I go there now, 21 years later, it still retains that feeling.
We had Berlin and Medusa's "friends" and "icons" we always hoped we would see. Our friends were Ted(?), a dancer from Showcase One, who befriended Jody one night, who would tell us hilarious tales of his desperate 'fans', "Pee-Wee", (he looked just like him) who was a blast and usually had some new music for me on a mixed tape. Pee Wee gave me my first copy of Marcia Baila. That was the Berlin video. We would beg the djs to play it a million times a night. I still can't get enough of that song. And Madonna is still mining that video for inspiration. Les Rita Mitsouko put Gaultier on the 'cool' map, not her.
(I could really go on and on about how much I love this song and video: How she moves her body, what she does with her face, the setting the video takes place in, the clothes and hair, and above all, the seemingly effortless execution of the intense mish-mash of information caught on film. They wrote this song as an homage to their friend Marcia, who danced in their early shows, who died at an young age due to cancer. They turned the sadness of their loss into this incerdible work of art. And what better way is there to honor the memory of a dancer who has died, but with a song every one loves to dance to?)
More friends were Terri and Leo, Brian C.'s fun friends, and "Grape Girl". (She always wore a grape brooch.) We never saw them in the day light, or outside of those places, but we needed them in case a great song came on and our 'real' friends were other-wise occupied.
Explaining our "icons" is a little more difficult. These were people who either had a sense of style that was mind-blowing, or like a train wreck. The good ones were "skirt guy" (John. OK yes, it was John, you dragged it out of me.), who always wore a long black skirt, who inspired me to eventually do the same, and a waist-long braided fall. During his phase of wearing that look, he made sure to stand at the bar with his back to the dance floor, for all to see. Yes, I'm wearing a skirt, so what.
Grant, who is now a big fashion designer in L.A. (Grey Ant), whose out-fits and hair were beyond perfection in their execution and creativity (he sold his clothes at Wax Trax back in the day), and Louie Verdad and his gang, another big L.A. designer [I recently saw Paris Hilton extolling the virtues of his clothes on an itunes download, and almost threw up]. I eventually became good friends with Louie, and we would hang out at his place and make clothes together. 1318 West Roscoe! he would say when he answered his phone, in his thick Castilian accent.
The 'bad' ones were: a hair stylist from Halsted we nick-named Holiday Horror. A picture of him in one of his outfits had some how made it's way into a paper we were fond of reading at the time, Weekly World News, which then made it's way into Scot's 'collage of freakiness' he clipped out and put on our kitchen wall. His outfits were bizarre beyond description in their horribleness. They were creative in the sense that you never saw anything like it, a mini Christmas tree as a hat, for instance, but his superior attitude (or twenty hits of acid) kind of wrecked the whole thing. There was just no sense of whimsy to his chicken wire ball gowns. He could've been a very nice guy, and we had the wrong idea about him. I don't know. We never did have a conversation with him.
Another bad one was "Robert Smith Guy". He thought he was Robert Smith. When a Cure song came on, no one could enjoy it because he cleared the dance floor with the righteous indignation that were his flailing limbs: How dare you dance to my music! Later that summer, at The Cure concert for Head on the Door, at the Aragon Ballroom, what is the first thing we see but a sobbing "Robert Smith Guy" being dragged out by four security guards. Only four? I think to myself. And only ten minutes into the show? I'm surprised he made it that long. Poor thing.
But the biggest 'good' icon to us was CARA. Ohhh, Cara. She was amazing. She turned into a designer, too. Today she makes impeccable hair ornaments, and is now, I hear, branching out into jewelry. I would say a little prayer every night in hopes of seeing her walking around the Belmont area. She never seemed to be going to the same places we were, probably because her level of coolness afforded her entry to events barred to lesser souls. Whenever we did spot her, we would trail behind her for as long as we could. To us she was a work of art. I get like like that around certain women. She reminded me of the senior girl in my high school band class in Brookfield, Connecticut. This was 1980, and she dressed like a combination of Marcia Brady and that Sex Pistols Girl, with a bleached-out section on the side of her head she dyed a new color each week. She was stunning right down to her black patent-leather flats, and if you were around in 1980, that is the equivalent to wearing Little Debbies snack cakes as shoes today. People are gonna STARE.
Back then, Cara had clipped bleached hair on the sides and back, and dyed black, spiked hair on top, with a stenciled-on skull and cross bones on the back of her head. My mind reeled.
I was content to admire them from afar, for it would be a bit like talking to the painter of a great painting, or a writer of a great book. I knew I had nothing to communicate to them, but they had volumes to communicate to me! What could one say to Salinger or Michelangelo, really? You're cool? No shit!
Taking the cue from them both, I bleached a paisly onto the side of my head, and had my roommate color it in for me everyday. I felt I achieved my glamour goal when the college girl at Wallgreens struck up a conversation with me one day:
"Do you live around here or something?" She asked.
"No, I work across the street at Demuel's hair salon." I said.
"Well, I just have to say we love your hair here. We talk about you whenever you come in. We call you Paisly Guy. We whisper Paisly Guy's here! when we see you." She said, laughing.
I thanked her, and left the store with a big smile on my face.



p.s. I was going to write more about Medusa's, but I guess I'll have to do that next time.
p.p.s Special thanks to Dan at Ragstock!

Party Fears II

Tony, my friend who worked at Paradise, was changing jobs.
As I wrote a few posts ago, in Despite Straight Lines, Limelight opened in Chicago in the summer of '85. Yay! Now I can be famous!
It was where Excalaber is now. ( I think it is still called that!? I don't get out as much as I used to...) Not long after it opened, Tony got a bartending job there. All my how the hell am I going to get in there cause I'm only 19 stress went away when Tony said he could sneak us past the doormen, if we got there early enough.
It, of course, took me a long time to decide what to wear. I finally went with my motorcycle jean jacket, adorned on the front with about twenty vintage brooches, Jody's long, fitted black skirt, which we usually fought over, with white socks and used black oxfords. I was very into Robert Smith's look from the videos for Japanese Whispers: spiky black hair, but not too big, with big black eye brows, whitened skin, and the perfect shade of red lipstick. A cool red, not an orangy one. (Whenever the Lovecats video came on at Berlin, people would always comment on my resemblance to Robert. "Hey! you look just like him!" I would just smile and nod..)
I went with Jody and Scott, and I had forgotten that Limelight was downtown, so we had to train it down there. At night. As soon as I walked out the door, I said wait! I want to change my outfit! Ignoring me, they grabbed my arms and dragged me to the Belmont El stop. I was nervous to take the train, cause I didn't usually dress so severely for it. It was ok for the quick walks to Medusa's and Berlin; I didn't feel like a gazelle separated from the herd when I did that. I worried the harsh lights of public transportation would expose my Miss Maybellene ways. I wanted to appear naturally made-up. With my bright red lipstick. And I didn't want to get beat up.
Thankfully, the train ride was uneventful, and we made it to Limelight. The building was a huge, castle of a place. It used to be a museum of some sort. Tony got us in, and we wandered around like Alice after she fell down the rabbit hole. One giant room led to another, til we found ourselves on the dance floor. They were playing the music we did in our living room! We were on that dance floor for hours, with kids dressed like us. And kids dressed better than us. And kids dressed cooler than us. Yes! I thought to myself. Someone to emulate!
The tourists hadn't found Limelight yet. Oh, they eventually did, and I'll tell you about that later.
After tiring ourselves out dancing, we found the Dome Room. It was the size of a football field, and four stories tall. This room turned out to be our regular hangout. There was something about being in that room that stimulated my imagination:
It felt like being in a living movie. Or forgotten French chateau. But it mainly felt like a decadent waste of space and resources; as though my friends and I were contributing to the downfall of society.
"We, the young people of today, don't want museums or schools, we want nightclubs! And drinks! And some drugs! And Benson and Hedges Menthol Lights!"
There was something else about the vastness of Chicago's Limelight that called to me, and if I had a way to see into the future, I wonder if I would've ever gone back:
A huge, huge nightclub meant, for me, huge, huge liqour and drug comsumption. And I wasn't the only one. It's size hid a myriad of sins. You could get away with anything there. Little did I realize this was probably the owner's intent.
Whenever I was there, my bad habits knew no bounds. Especially my delusional fantasy world, which was the main reason for my asshole behavoir. I usually had to be carried out of there, night after night. (I think I went there every night for two years.)
Each morning I would think to myself: I can't belive what I did/said that last night. Now I know I'm really banned from that place.
But they always let me back in. Another reason why I was so out of control there was because I wanted to work in the "cages". They were display windows, like for department stores or natural history museums, except the living occupant dressed up in a freaky/cool outfit, and did "odd" things in a bizzare setting, to entertain the patrons. It was the ultimate symbol of Chicago coolness to work in one, and I wanted to badly.
I would dress wilder, put on more make-up, make my hair bigger, do crazier things; everything but ask the manager for the job. I was hoping to 'get noticed' and then get the job.
That never happened, but I did eventually get offered the job of doorman for the VIP lounge.
But that was all yet to be. During the week of my first night there, Limelight hosted Erte's 85 birthday party. Does he live in Chicago? Why is the party here? Who asked who to have the party? Would he be bombed? Would he want to draw me? These were the dorky thoughts that raced through my head. The VIP lounge was so crowded that night, I never did get a good look at him. But he was there. The memories of art deco and the '30's were living and breathing in 1985.

Youthquake

The day came, hot and sunny, to leave my first Chicago apartment. I had very mixed feelings about leaving, cause it was where I had planned on living with Doug. For the rest of my life? I don't know. Maybe. I hoped so. I guess I was wrong.
I was walking out the front door with Gidget, Steve's cat, and one of the few boxes of my stuff, when I ran into Tim. We almost collided.
Tim was Doug and Steve's original roommate. I hadn't really spent much time with him, even though I lived with him for that first month. I had totally forgotten about him, actually.
"Whoa! Oops!" I said.
"Are you Brian?" Tim said.
"Yes" I said, a little stunned. "How did you know?"
"I used to live here, remember?! Steve told me about you. Are you leaving?" He was nice looking, and his wandering eyes weren't shy. I was almost regretting having to move.
"Yea, yea, I remember you. Yup, I'm moving. Right up the street to Belmont. Me and my friends found a cheap place. We're poor!" I said, laughing.
"That's too bad...well, it was nice meeting you, again!"
"Yea, you too. Can you tell Steve we'll call him when we get our new number?" I asked.
"Sure." He said.
Jody and I bring up our few possessions to our new room. We would be sleeping in the same room and bed. Scott paid a little more, so he had his own room.
As I unpacked my clothes, I held them up to myself and looked in the mirror.
I wish I looked good in black. I thought as I held up my lone black shirt.
I can't believe I still have this shirt. I think to myself. It was a brown plaid button-down, that had, to me, a Richard-Gere-in-American-Gigilo vibe to it. It seems like only yesterday when I bought this. With my parents money.
I let my mind wander back to two summers ago, when I was happily buying new clothes for school at the Kohl's across the street from my dad's house in Appleton. I was looking forward to spending my senior year of high school in Arkansas.
A life can change a lot in two years. I thought.
Putting that shirt away was another reminder I wasn't a kid anymore. My parents gave me some money last month, but if I asked for more, they said they were driving to Chicago and bringing me back to their house in Arkansas. I was determined, even if I had to starve, to stay here.

Jody and I took on the task of trying to clean our new place, on our hands and knees, with scub brushes and buckets. She gave up after an hour, I gave up after three. The dirt wouldn't budge. It's hard to clean something that needs to be ripped up and replaced.
The apartment had all it's original fixtures from 1901 or 1895 or 1910 or whenever the hell it was built. My guess is pre-WWI. And not the good, huge New York City pre-war style, but a midwest, next-to-the-factory apartment building. Let's just say I never saw a kitchen like that before. It would have been a cool place had it been taken care of over the years, but that apartment had to get through the depression and hippies, so I guess it could have been a lot worse.
We resign ourselves to the state of our new pad, and go with the 'vintage flow'. Scott took charge of the interior design:
We found a pristine two-piece 1950's couch with matching endtables and lamps at Value Village for a song. It was as though a trapped-in-the-50's neat-freak had just died. Cutains from the 50's, and huge, colorful ashtrays from the 60's clogged up every thrift store back then, too, so of course we had them in every room. We couldn't believe our luck. I'm sure all that mid-century stuff would cost a fortune today. Scott's grandmother's depression era kitchette and accessories were a perfect fit, too. His art-nouveau posters mixed well with the enlarged xeroxs of Kato and fashion models from JIL magazine he made at work for the apartment. I put up local band fliers in my and Jody's room, and I tacked up a 'Smiths' page from the phone book next to the phone on the wall.
We put Jody's tv and Scott's stereo in the living room. Our favorite shows were Moonlighting, Dr. Who, Batman, The Green Hornet, and Dynasty reruns. We didn't watch much tv back then, mainly because we loved to hang out on our new couches and endlessly play our music, gab about boys, and smoke and drink. They always teased me about posing on the couch. I think I was an odalisque in a former life, because the art of laying down came so naturally to me.
(I mention this now because someone accused me of posing on their couch last week. Old habits die hard...)
"Look Jody! He's doing it again!" Scott would say, and they would laugh.
"Aww, come on! I'm just layin' here!". I said as I made a mental note to try to 'butch up' how I layed down.
We blasted Changesone and Hyaena and The Head on the Door. But we were mainly obsessed with Pete and his look (which is odd for me to say these days...) from Youthquake: white lipstick, tall dark hair, and a smoking jacket. Jody bought me a beautiful purple one from the 40's, just like Pete wore.
When I left the apartment, usually on my way to Berlin or Medusa's, I did finishing touches to my hair in the living room shadow-box mirror. I found old wigs at thift stores and cut them up and pinned them into my tall, spiked hair. And on more occasions than not, said to myself: My hair is too big; I just can't go out like this!... but I always did.

What's a Girl to Do?

In June, 1985, Scott was still living on Diversey, in that mini Flatiron-like apartment building, where Diversey meets Lincoln, but he needed to move out. I was walking by there the other day, and I really wanted to go in there and look around, cause I hadn't been there since he lived there. He needed out because he couldn't afford to live there in the first place. He had moved in there with a roommate, but he took Scott's first month rent and security deposit, and skipped town. And his meager wages weren't cutting it. He told this to me over dinner one summer night at his place, with his boyfriend, Philip. Philip worked at Vidal Sassoon, and I was quite jealous of him. (It seems like I was jealous of everyone, doesn't it? Well, I was.) Philip, despite his glamorous aura and excessive drug use, was very down to earth and easy to talk to. I found him and Scott an odd couple. I guess because Philip was all 'Guitars and Cadillacs', and Scott wasn't.
Philip asked me why I worked at such a ahem, slow salon (his code word for lousy) when Jimmio's was right across the street. I confessed to him I did have an interview with the manager once, but I was so intimidated by the scene in the salon when I went in and asked for a job, I never showed up for it.
I never showed up for the interview because these people were living a life a had only dreamt about; this was the fast-paced salon in Desperately Seeking Susan!
(I saw this video a million times in beauty school, and although the hair salon scene is only shown for two split seconds, that was all I needed...)
At Jimmio's, their clothes were real, their attitude was real, their homes, their lives were real. When I walked in there, I realized everything about me was pretend. I didn't have this life yet, this life I had dreamt about, a life Madonna and Rosana Arquette had so glamorously portrayed on the silver screen: a fun life in the big city!
(Desperately Seeking Susan really wasn't the inspiration for my career. I was inspired to become a stylist when I discovered how hair and make-up could transform people into abstract art, as they looked in my mother's avant-guarde style magazines from the early 80's. People get paid to do this?! Sign me up! She owned a salon then, when I was in junior high.)
To me, that was too easy: I couldn't just walk in the door and have a life! I felt had to start small, so I chose the lesser salon across the street. I would work my way up.
"Maybe it's for the better. A lot of scary things go on there behind the scenes, if you know what I mean..." Philip said. He had recently left Jimmio's to work at Sassoon.
"I wasn't going to mention it, but Doug told me about that. He didn't want me to work there." I said.
I also knew, despite how perfect the salon looked to me, it's nefarious reputation kept me at bay. I told no one this, but my past history with mind-altering substances taught me I had only needed to know they were around me, and I was off to the races. And in the races I ran, honey, everyone came in last place.
So Scott asked me if Jody and I wanted to get a place together.
"Yes!" I said. I liked living with Steve and Jody and Karen, but Tim was coming back to Chicago for school when summer ended, and he wanted his room back, and Karen was about to move in with her boyfriend. I slept on the couch, so a bed sounded good to me.
"I already found a place, just up Racine by Belmont. $ 275 a month! Want to see it tomorrow?" Scott said.
"Yes!" I said again.
The next day we show up and the owner buzzes us in. He's big and smelly, but very sweet, in a 'slow' kind of way. He walks us through the two bedroom apartment. It looked like very little had changed since the building was built in 1910. Really. It did have electricity, though. Not a lot, but some. It was dirty in there, too. Seventy years dirty.
"Can we paint?" I ask.
"Paint? Ya mean decorate? I already decorated!" He said. Scott and I give each other not in this gay's opinion looks.
Against my better judgment, I ask if we could sign the lease now. It was a hundred bucks each a month! I had no choice. I could barely afford that.
We cross the hall, trying to avoid his pungent wake, to Dean's (we called him 'Dean', cause the dumpy bar on the corner used to be called Dean's Place) apartment, to finalize the paperwork.
Upon entering, it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Dean runs in and sits down at what I guess to be a table, facing us.
"Have a seat. There's two chairs there." He said to Scott and me.
I pulled the chair up to the table, and sit on little of it as I can, because for what I at first took as a poorly lit room, I realized now, was really a filthy room. It was like a film noir movie, but instead of shadows creating the mysterious mood, it was dirt. Film saleté, if you will. And do I mean dirt. The few patches of clean, or less dirt, were from the placing and removing of plates and forks from the table. Wear marks!
How can anyone, why would anyone, how is this possib..., oh my God... I think to myself, as I start to feel dizzy.
A TV was on in the other room, and I think I saw an occasional flicker of someone's eyes on me, but I can't be certain. I start to imagine a deformed creature of a child, dragging it's self from room to room, when I force myself to stop my hyper imagination.
Scott and I look at each other, and sign the lease. This mess will be across the hall from us, and yet we sign the lease. His job situation was worse than mine, so his hands were tied tighter. I wish Jody had been with us that day. She never would've let us move in if she had seen Dean's apartment.
Later, after we left, we vow to scrub our new place from top to bottom, hide Dean and his apartment from Jody for as long as we could, and to furnish it ultra-cool.
"It's only for a year" he said. "We will be making more money then, and can get a better place." He said sadly, trying to cheer us up.
Scott has such amazing taste and furniture, so I knew if anyone could transform the dump we were about to move into, he could...







p.s. Click the eponym in the link in the title; you won't be sorry!
p.p.s. And this one.
p.p.p.s Some names have been changed to protect the innocent. (Or not so innocent)

A Three-Way Tie for Last Place

Living on Racine and Addison that summer of '85, there never was a dull moment. Those 'not dull' moments were usually courtesy of one of my roommate's friends who came to visit Chicago.



I
I came home one morning from a night out, to a very loud, bizarre noise coming from Tim's recently abandoned bedroom. (He had just moved home for the summer.) Do I mean LOUD. Like a dozen passenger jets taking off loud. Or a hundred cars sounding-their-horns-at-once kind of loud.
What the hell is that? I think as I creep up to the bedroom door. I open it and find a lone guy in a sleeping bag on the floor in the middle of the room, snoring like there's no tomorrow.
How is that possible? That noise was so unnatural in every way, it defied a rational explanation. I laid down on the couch and prayed I had drank enough to make me pass out.
Things only got worse when he woke up.
The next morning, Sunday, Steve introduced me to his friend from back home, in Missouri, Alan. He was in town for a few days for his first visit to the Windy City.
After a loud morning of them catching up on the news and gossip from home, as told over Steve's music, (whenever Steve had a friend over, he commandeered the living room stereo, it was his after all, and blasted his music. His taste ran a little more hardcore than mine, and I tended to run out the back door and chain smoke in the courtyard whenever he did that. This always reminded me of A. how tolerant Steve was of me using his stereo and B. how much our taste in music differed, and how tolerant he was of that. Now I like the music he listened to. It just took me twenty years to appreciate it...) We set off that warm, summer day, excited to show a new visitor our beloved northside neighborhood.
"What's with all these shitty-looking buildings?" Alan said, as we walked on Sheffield.
"Why is everyone wearing black when it is so hot out? Black clothes will just make you hotter!" He complained to Steve and me.
"And everyone is dressed so well. I don't get it. They all have to be in debt. Those clothes look expensive. Everyone in Chicago uses credit cards too much." He whined on: "And what's with all these crappy, dumpy buildings? If there were houses like that in my town, they would be long gone!"
Again with the buildings! I think to myself.
I snuck 'I hate you right now!' looks to Steve whenever I could. How does he know someone like this, let alone call him a friend. Steve was the most easy-going person I had ever met.
"What's wrong with that guy?" Alan said, as he pointed to a grimy looking man sleeping next to a dumpster.
"He's homeless! What's wrong with you!" I couldn't take it any more. An hour of his crap was enough. I stormed away from them, to Dunkin' Doughnuts on Clark and Belmont. I sat down with my back to the window, so I couldn't see him, and ordered a cup of coffee. Back then they had a counter, like a diner, and you could sit and smoke, just like that painting. I wondered if they were trying to avoid someone, too.






II
Because Doug beat such a hasty retreat from Chicago when I first moved here, (see post "Pleased to Meet Me" from April, 2006) he forgot his friend Mimi was coming for a visit. She was stopping in Chicago for a few days, on her way home to Wisconsin from Paris. Doug asked me if I could spend some time with her while she was in Chicago, because by then he would be back in Oshkosh. Mimi and I met a few times back home, but I forgot how outrageous she could be; Diana Vreeland with the mouth of a horny truck driver:
"Wow, Brian, you look great, let's go to bed! Wanna? Let's have sex! It'll be fun!"
For lack of a better response, I laugh. I'm not sure if she was trying to make me laugh or not, but I knew she wasn't kidding. She looked a lot like Diana Vreeland, too.
"Where's the bedroom? Over there? Let's go, come on. Ya wanna?" She said, smiling and nodding her head. I say nothing, my mouth hanging open.
"Wanna? Yea? Yea?" Nod, nod.
"Nooohahahhah!" I laugh nervously some more. I still couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had just walked in the door not two minutes ago!
"Now come on, tell me about Paris!" I plead. She tells me about going to school there, and how glad she was to be home, for a about ten seconds, and launches right back into the raunch:
"Come on, let's fuck." She motions with her head to the bedroom, with that weird smile, nodding some more. "Sex. Over there. Bedroom. Vagina. Penis." Emphasizing each word with a motion of her head.
"Mimi, come on, you know I just broke up with Doug! Let's go to..."
"Omigod! He didn't tell me!" She interrupts.
We spend the rest of the afternoon together, and I tell her the whole story about me and Doug. She was able to get an earlier flight home, so her visit in Chicago was only for a few hours. I ended my story by telling her I felt Doug hadn't told me the real reason he left Chicago, and I half-heartedly asked her if she could try to get the real story out of him. Mimi and Doug grew up together, so I knew her allegiance lied with him. She was a blast to be around, most of the time, but I often felt 'less than' whenever I was around her. I don't know if I was just intimidated by her mega-wealth and style, but after I saw her, I wanted to burn all my thrift store clothes, and start shoplifting in fine department stores. She had that kind of effect on people.








III
"Here's that shampoo I made for you at work today, Brian." Jody said as she handed me a bottle. She worked at a chem lab at the time.
"I still can't believe you can just make shampoo at work." I said.
"It's easy." She said. "Oh yea, my co-worker Jerry wants to meet you."
"Oh yea?" I respond. "Who's Jerry?"
"My boss, a gay scientist." She smiled. "He's ten years older than you, though. He likes new wave boys, and I told him I live with one now."
"Well, is he cute? Would I like him? Do we have anything in common?" I said to her.
"I think so... you should just meet sometime and see what happens." I could tell she wasn't telling me the whole story.
Was he gross? Disfigured? Fat? Maybe just plain boring? I thought to myself.
Jody comes home for the next few weeks with "Jerry updates". She said he makes her tell him what I wore that day, what I did, what we talked about, etc. Each day, she said, he gets more and more anxious to meet me.
"Well, why doesn't he fucking come here, then!" I playfully yell at her.
"He can't durning the week, but he wants to come to with us to Berlin some weekend night. I tell him about all the fun times we have there."
Many weekend nights came and went, and he never showed up. A message of apology was always passed through Jody to me about how 'something came up' and he couldn't come.
Me and my insecure self thought he had secretly went to Berlin, saw Jody and I, and didn't like what he saw. I told Jody this, knowing she would tell Jerry.
(That story was just the tip of the iceberg: I have a way, when I like someone, of unintentionally coming on way too strong. Too strong in a 'love me because I hate myself, your love can cure me' kind of way, or in a 'starting now, for the rest of our lives, we'll always be together' kind of way. Jerry probably thought I had already picked out matching his/his coffins.)
He, of course, denied my paranoid Berlin scenario. We talked a few times on the phone, I think, but it obviously wasn't a memorable experience.
One day I realized I hadn't heard any new 'Jerry' news in a few days, and asked Jody about him.
"Um, he thinks you're mad at him for blowing us off so often, so he doesn't talk about you all that much any more." She said.
"Well then, what do you talk about?"

A Song from Under the Floorboards

This story is a little out of sequence, but I just heard that Magazine cover...
I was living on Pinegrove with Jodi in November of 1986, when I got a phone call:
"Brian!" said a voice in a whisper. "It's me Kelli. Look, you gotta come over right now! I mean it! Right now!"
It was after ten p.m., and I had just settled in for a quiet evening with my Benson and Hedges menthol lights, Tinderbox, and my sewing machine. I made all my own clothes back then.
"Kel, it's late, I'm tired, I don't wanna come over now. How about tomorrow?" I whined.
"Brian, you HAVE to come over now! I need your help! You're the only one home tonight!
I have a crazy guy in my house!" She panted.
"Kelli, call the police! Why are you calling me! I'm blocks away" I yelled at her.

Kelli lived on Belle Plaine and Broadway, in the same building as my friends Donny and Erin. All the apartments had an odd shape and feel to them, cause I think when it was built, it was a grander building in a grander neighborhood, but now the area was pretty rough, and the grandness was chopped up to make way for more tenants. Whenever I was there during the daytime, I often heard an opera singer and a french horn player rehearsing, sometimes together.
I didn't know Kelli very well, for I had only recently met her through Donny, them being neighbors and all. She had dyed-black, curly bobbed hair, bright blue eyes, and her generous mouth, usually painted a shocking pink, set off her big round head. She achieved a level of vintage with her 'look' many of us could only dream of. She worked for Baroni make-up, and had recently given me a ton of samples. I felt I owed her.
(I just tore apart my apartment looking for the empty Baroni containers I know I saved, but I think I threw them away a few years ago. I could puke, I hate myself so much right now.)

"No, I can't call the police, it's my old highschool boyfriend; he ran away from his home: he's off his lithium! You gotta help me, I don't want him to get in trouble. Just come over for a couple hours, please!"
"Ok, I get it. I'll be right there. I walked in the November cold for a few blocks, smoking and contemplating what I was about to get myself into, and then hopped into a cab.
Kelli buzzed me in, and I opened her door to find them on the floor, sitting around a little burgundy cassette player, smoking furiously.
"Hey guys" I said as I took off my coat.
"Brian! What a surprise! Come in the kitchen and I'll get you a beer. Be right back, Ron!" Kelli said as she dragged me out of the room.
"Thanks for coming." She said, her face inches away from mine. "I called his dad, and he should be here in about an hour to pick him up. He's not violent, I think, but I just didn't want to be alone with him now, with the state he's in. He should be taking his pills, and he told me he hasn't for a while, and that's probably why he ran away, to my place. He's done it before. He doesn't know his dad is coming, so don't say anything! He can't leave til his dad gets here!"
We walk back into her tiny living room, and join Ron on the floor. He takes a tape out of the player, and puts in another and presses play. The Sweetest Chill comes thumping out of the little player, with a sound quality I didn't know existed in a boombox that small.
What did he do, time travel to the year 2000 and bring that back? That thing must've cost a fortune! I think to myself.
"Hey! I was just listening to that before I came over" For a crazy guy, he sure has great taste in music.
As we talked, I studied Ron. He was a good-looking kid, my age, although a little disheveled. He had fine, naturally black and curly hair, and big brown eyes. I could tell he came from a family with money. The expensive piece of electronics was a big clue, but he also had that look of someone who would never want for anything. He looked cared for. He had a clear complexion and a glint in his eyes. Regardless of his behavior or his mental state, he was loved, and rich, and he knew it. He had an enviable coolness, even in this state he was in.
Oh, what I could do with only half his looks and money...
Conversely, at the same time, I could tell his money and looks and family didn't have any value to him. He didn't hate these things, per say, but his priorities were on a level I knew I could never understand.
Behind the Sun comes on next.
"This is nice. What is it?" I ask.
"Eric Clapton. I like this song. I listen to it a lot. " He replies.
He continues on, talking a mile a minute, about things I don't understand. Kelli and I often exchange puzzled glances. All I can think about is how deeply unfair life can be. I wish I knew him before he 'got sick'. I wish I could talk to him when he was taking his medicine. I wished for him to get all he wanted from his life.
Rattlesnakes starts to play.
Where does he get this amazing music?
We play Rattlesnakes over and over, and lay down on the hardwood floor, and sing along with the chorus "...she looks like Eva Marie Saint, in 'On the Waterfront'...", filling up Kelli's ashtrays.
I think about how nothing can protect us from who we're meant to be; how we're given our life's cicumstances, regardless of who loves us or how much money we have. I also wonder how my parents would react if the roles were reversed. Then I realize I've truly had many moments similar to this in my young life already, and how they've passed by unnoticed by anyone, save for a few friends. I think how lucky he is to have medicine to take, because I don't even know what the hell is wrong with me!
We ask him where he wants to live; where is he going? We ask him how he'll do anything without cash or a job. We suggest he go home to his parents house first, then figure out a plan.
"Ok, I'll go home. But not to the hospital." He sadly replies. Soon his dad is at the door, with an expression of relieved gratitude, and they leave without incident.

The next day Kelli called to thank me again, and told me the story of them dating in highschool; how she loved him and thought she would marry him one day, but how that all changed as his personality deteriorated; as she watched him slowly get sick. He rejected any kind of treatment so much his parents felt they had no choice but to put him in a hospital.
"Donny told me you were gay, Kel" I said.
"Yes...well... yes, I am." She said.

Ball and Chain

I woke up one morning to find several beer cans on my window sill. We lived in a garden apartment on Racine and Addison, and our window sills were level with the sidewalk.
"Did you see all that crap by the windows this morning?" I asked Steve later that day.
"Cubs game yesterday. We're only a few blocks from Wrigley Field, remember?" He said.
The next day there was another game, and I happened to be home. I was watching tv in last night's eye make-up and hair-do, wearing my highschool English Settlement t-shirt, and nursing a big nasty hangover. It was a sunny day in June, so all the windows were wide open, and our couch faced the windows.
"Hey! Whatcha wachin'!" A guy asked as he crouched down to talk to me through the window.
"Letterman on tape." I humorlessly replied. I didn't want to be too much of a smart ass, seeing as he could easily take a dive through the screen into my living room.
"Hey! You should come with us to the Cubs game! We have an extra ticket!"
As he said that, I noticed his friends milling about, swigging cans of beer.
"Who are you talking to, ya idiot!" One of his friends said.
"No thanks. Gotta go to work." I said back.
As they walk away, a group of girls walks up:
"Heeey! Wathcha doin', cutie!"
"Watchin tv!" I reply.
"Oh yea?!"
"Look, I gotta get ready for work now".
"Aww! Don't go!"
I get up and pretend to leave the room. Five minutes later, another group was at the window:
"Hey, you!, you know how to get to Cubs Park from here?"
This went on all morning. I try closing the windows, but it's too hot, and we didn't have curtains, anyway.
"I FUCKING HATE BASEBALL!!" I scream as I slam the door to Steve's room, where I throw Sisters of Mecy on his stereo and blast it.

I few days later, I was walking north on Sheffield, by Belmont, with Scott and Jody, all of us in our black-clad, tall, spiky-haired, brooch-y glory. Ahead of us were two big gorgeous guys.
"Check 'em out!" I say to them.
Just then, two other guys start yelling at us:
"Look at the fags! Going to go suck some cock?!" They start laughing.
"Oh shit! A Cubs game!" We say in unison.
The two sexy dudes heard what they said, and turn around and run back to them, and come to our defense:
"What did you just say to them? Nothing?! Bullshit! We heard you call them fags. You can't do that in this neighborhood. We see you around here again, we'll beat the shit outta you! GOT IT!!" They say as they push them around a bit.
"Wow!" We whisper to our selves. "Cute and courageous! I wish they could always walk ten paces ahead of us!" But our mood quickly changed:
"We better get outta here and home fast." Scott said.
A few blocks later, a guy walking with crutches, lugging his bright white, toe-to-hip leg cast, screams "FAGGOTS! GODDAMN FAGGOTS!" at us from across the street. Actually, from across two streets, cause we were by where Clark and Sheffield meet; he was that desperate to yell at us. We all stop for a moment and look at each other, because the look of utter disgust on his face was more shocking than the expletives.
"Jesus, what's wrong with him? It's one thing if we were having anal sex on the sidewalk, but we're just new-wavers; two guys and a girl! Why be so disgusted! How did Boy George ever have a career!" I say to them.
"Boy George?" Jody said.
"JESUS CHRIST I FUCKING HATE FUCKING BASEBALL!!" We scream as we walk through the gate to our court yard.
I learned quickly that if there was a home game, I had to walk the long way to work, and take the long way home.
Later that night, we walked to the 24 hour 7-11 on Sheffield and Addison for some ciggs. As we got closer to the Cubby Bear, we saw the long line of combat boot clad skins and mohicans that regularly appeared there. (Back in 1985, the Cubby Bear, kitty corner to Wrigley Field, hosted many hardcore rock bands. Hard to believe, I know...)
"Uh-oh, look at the line..." I said to Scott and Jody. We were too intimidated by the crowd in the line to walk past them, so we crossed the street. They didn't like us, either. I guess we weren't extreme enough for them. Back then, a 'line' was crossed if you shaved your hair down to the skin, as opposed to 'just short'.
I was always so stunned to see those extreme looking kids so close to 'the enemy'. I couldn't imagine the carnage if there was a night game (night games didn't start 'til the 90's) or a daytime punk show. It was like a fucked-up ying and yang, or like seeing a zebra and a lion on the plains of Africa, oblivious to each other's presence because there is an elephant between them: a potentially explosive situation diffused by a simple phenomenon called timing.
Those vocal reactions were always so odd to me, because I was always very extreme looking in my little hometown, and I rarely encountered any harsh comments. (HIGHSCHOOL, in another town a few miles away, is an ENTIRELY different story.)
My grandpa called me a lot when I first moved away.
"Hey Bri, have you gone to see the Cubbies yet?"
He's a life-long, die-hard fan of the Cubs. I remember spending many Sunday afternoons as a kid watching the game with him. I was secretly more fascinated by the odd commercials for Bert Weinman Ford. They spun the cars around on a spinning stage, in a brightly lit, blue studio, and the announcer's voice was very cartoon-like.
"Bert WEINman Ford!", emphasis on the 'wine'.
My ten year old brain ran amuck: How did they get those cars in there! How can the stage spin those heavy cars like that! Why are they spinning so fast! Why is he talking so weird!
"No, grampa, I haven't seen the Cubs yet, but they've seen me..."

32 Short Stories About Racine and Addison

One Day Steve came home with a beautiful little golden kitten. He told me I could name it, providing I picked a name from his independent magazine. It took me all day, but I finally chose Gidget.

I stole that cat from Steve. I never had a cat before, so I swiped her. As she got older, I taught her how to do 'yoga'.

Whenever I was bored or had some time to kill, I would pierce my ear. Used an ice cube and a potato. I used things from the 25 cent machine at the grocery store as earrings. The most piercings I did in one ear was seven.

Whenever Jody and I were home at the same time, and it started to rain, we would walk in the rain until it stopped.

I bought Jody gladiolas one night on my way home from work. That made her really happy.

One day Steve yelled at me for doing our other roommate's dishes too often. He said he needed to take care of himself and not rely on us to do his chores.

Steve was a big fan of Matt Groening way before anyone else was. He had all his books in 1985.

Steve also owned a frame-by-frame book of the movie Psycho. I read it almost everyday.

I kept all my brooches on the window sill in my room, in our garden apartment.. I had about two dozen. That window's lock was broken.

I was weirdly happy whenever Ramen noodles went on sale at Jewel. I ate a lot of Ramen noodles.

One night, I was up with a pain in my stomach, when Steve came home. He asked me what I ate, and I told him scrambled eggs and a coke. He said he heard somewhere you shouldn't mix 'eggs and pop'. I believed him. I remember thinking he'd be a good dad someday. I've never mixed eggs and pop again.

One day I commented positively on the hand painted mural on that weird little nostalgia store on Addison by Racine. (They both are still there) Doug thought less of me ever since. I know I saw him cringe out of the corner of my eye!


I told Doug I wanted to grow and bleach my hair so it looked like Marilyn's during her last photo shoot. I thought it would be cool. He had a positive reaction. (I didn't have the patients to grow my hair, and he knew it!)

The first movie I saw in Chicago was Amadeus at the Music Box. The theater and the movie seemed, to me, to be made for each other.

Besides our couch, I also found my dresser in the alley. It was painted a hideous, yet some how attractive, pinkish-purple. I taped the Musicbox schedule to the side of it. I kept that thing for at least 10 years.

I searched the neighborhood alleys every week for 'good' garbage.

I spent way too much time thinking about that dresser. Did someone's child die? Did she just out grow it? Did she move away to college? Or maybe she ran away, and the parents just couldn't bear look at it any more. Was it just too damn ugly and the grandma bought a new one...?

Steve was a big fan of The Replacements, and played them loud and often. Doug was a big fan of Songs From the Big Chair, cause he liked the title. I played Bauhaus and Siouxsie whenever I could.

Caren and Jody slept on bunk beds after they moved in. Whenever I saw them in bed, I had flashbacks to my and my brother's bunkbeds.

Caren and I liked to do laundry together and smoke and gab while we sat on the machines. The laundry room was right outside our front door.

Caren once said to me sex was better when you didn't do it too often. I remember thinking to myself "I hope to God one day I will be able to say that to someone".

Jody had very interesting toes, and I would stare at them a lot. Interesting isn't the right word. Cute- that's the right word.

We never ran our central air, cause none of us could afford it. Our rent on our newly rehabbed, huge two bedroom was 400.00. I made about 70 bucks a week at work.

Jody tried to teach me how to drive. I would make her do it at 2 in the morning, so there would be little traffic. Back in '85, there was little traffic near Racine and Addison at 2 am. I never did get my license. I'm not sure why.

I am getting ready to move my blog story to a new 'chapter' and I'm cleaning up some loose ends, or 'loose memories', if you will.

Yes, I do have a post brewing about living near Cubs Park. I think I will end my "Racine and Addison chapter" with that story.

Yes, I'm a little Marilyn crazy these days.

Ok, so there's not 32 stories. 32 is a lot.

Despite Straight Lines

Not long after Jody and Caren moved in, my roommate Steve had a visitor. His nickname was PJ, and hey! I just now this second remembered his name, after wracking my brain all week. Wait, that might not be it . Oh well, let's just pretend I'm right.
The day before he arrived in Chicago, Steve asked me:
"Brian, would you spend sometime with PJ tomorrow? I have school and work all day. I think you'll like him; you have a lot in common. I think he may be gay, too."
"He might be gay? He's your friend, right? You don't know?" I said.
"I'm better friends with his older brother. Just ask him!" he said.
"Yeah, like I'm just gonna say 'I'm a gay homosexualle are you one, too? I wanna kiss your tinkie'" I said.
"Oh Christ... he wants to see Chicago on his summer break! Bring him downtown, ok?" He yelled.
"K." I said, as I inwardly screamed. I didn't know how to get downtown. On my last attempt, despite written directions, I failed miserably. I ran out of the Addison station, convinced my directions should have read 'north' instead of 'south', because an ominous warning echoed in my head:
"Never go to the south side, white boy!!"
And I was way too dorky to ask for help. (To finally cure myself of the fear of trains and getting lost, I went to Paris alone for ten days in 1993. It changed my life.)
I confessed this to Steve, and he promised to show me how to get there with PJ, using a map, drawing a map, writing extremely detailed directions, and making me sign a piece of paper that said, on the crazy chance we get lost, 'I promise to ask a cop for directions'.
"Alright, alright, thanks. I'll be ok" I said.
That night I got The Reader, and we all sat around the table to see what was going on that weekend.
"Oh my God Oh my God!!" I screamed.
"Andy Warhol is going to be at the opening of a new store on Halsted and Armitage, called Ringo-Levio, and that same night he's going to be at the opening night party of Limelight!!"
(I still have the first thing I bought from Ringo-Levio: a pair of Matinique pants. And a great Hugo Boss tie. I'll show you some photos once I get my scanner hooked up!)
I was a life-long fan of Andy, because of his glamorous antics at Studio 54 in the 70's, and from reading Edie: An American Biography when I was 16. Oh yeah, the art. I love his art.
"Wow. Cool. Too bad you're 19." Steve said.
"Shit, that's right." I said.
"What about going to that store? It shouldn't be too hard to find." Caren said.
"It's late, I'll write out the directions tomorrow" Steve said.
Well, with all the commotion the next day with PJ's arrival the directions to the store were forgotten. PJ and I immediately hit it off; he was very cute and adorable, and I was smitten. We took the train from the Addison station to the Chicago station. I wore my resale-store Girbaud jeans and a paisley shirt from the 60's. We spent the day at Water Tower, 'cause he wanted to find some cool clothes. At the Express store, he found some great pants. They were a green plaid, with paisley accents. The girls were cool with us and let him try them on, because we were in a women's store, and probably due to fact they were a hundred bucks.
"I never spent that much on pants before!" He said.
"Well, they're super-cool, you should get them..." I answer back.
He hemmed and hawed, and after 20 minutes, he decides to buy them. After hanging out on Michigan Ave for a while, I felt confident enough with my sense of direction to walk us over to the Parachute boutique on Maple, cause Doug took me there once. After drooling and not buying, we take the train to Belmont. Next to the train is the Belmont Army Navy Surplus store.
I was at the Belmont El stop today. They tore down the Army Navy store to expand train station. I thought that the building for the store was the only one on that lot, but on the upper part of the building next to it was revealed a very old and faded advertisement. I can't make out what it was advertising, but it got me to wondering what was there before the Belmont Army Navy Surplus, and all the lives lived there, and all stories I will never hear; stories that I never even knew existed!
Uh-oh, I think to myself.
Soon PJ starts yelling at me.
"Why didn't you tell me about this place! Why did you make me spend all my money on those pants! This stuff is way cheaper and cooler!" He went on and on, tearing through the store.
I walk outside to smoke a cigarette. He comes out of the store a little while later, with a new bag. "I thought you spent all your money" I said.
"No. I'm sorry I yelled at you. It wasn't your fault I bought those pants" he quietly said.
"No, I'm sorry. I totally forgot about Army Navy. Did you get something cool?"
We continue our conversation as we walk down Sheffield back to the apartment. Later that night, Steve asks how Andy was.
"Oh shit, I forgot all about him! And, well, we didn't know how to get there."
I was pretty upset I didn't get to see Andy, but I was very distracted by PJ. We instantly fell into a rhythm of a couple who's know each other for years. I really liked him and didn't know if he was gay or not, but he didn't live here anyway, so what was the point of starting something, especially when he said he was starting school next month in Missouri or some shit like that?
I told all that to Jody and...
The next day, Jody pulls me out the back kitchen door and starts whispering a story to me:
"Brian! Brian! When I got up at 6 this morning, PJ was up, and we started talking! You were asleep, so we snuck up to you , and I said 'Isn't Brian the cutest sleeper?' and he walks closer to you, bends down, and put his face like, three inches from yours, stares at you for a while, and turns to me and says: 'Yes.' "

Seventh Dream of Teenage Heaven

It's funny, when you try and remember someone you knew twenty-one years ago, it's the little things that stick in your mind. When I think of Jody, I recall her Virginia Slims. Her Doc Martins. The way she dances. The sounds she makes sleeping...
Ringing Scott's buzzer at his place on Diversey and Clark one night in June, 1985, a girl asks:
"Who is it?" In a sing-songy voice.
"Aaa, Brian. Is this Scott's place?" I answer back.
"Yes it iiis, come on uuup!" In the same voice.
I enter Scott's place to find two girls encamped at the kitchen table, giggling, giving me the "once over" and playing The Walk way too loud.
"This is Caren and Jody. I met Caren at Berlin a few nights ago. Her and Jody go to school together." Scott says.
I didn't know if I was more shocked that Scott was at Berlin without me, or meeting strange girls.
"I'm trying to convert Scott into a hetero and make him sleep with me." Caren says, taking a drag on her cig.
Scott turns beet red and starts laughing.
"Oh, I see. Are you having any luck? Do you need any help? I hear He has a nice basket." I reply. Scott just laughs louder and starts screaming.
We goof around a little longer, watching Scott fix his fake i-d, drinking beer, getting ready to go to Berlin.
"Why are you in school?" I ask Jody.
"I'm there for biology." She replies.
"Jody wants to be a doctor!" Caren interjects. "She's smart."
"No I don't. Research maybe. It's too cut-throat at school to be a doctor." She says.
"Let's go." Scott says.
"Ooo, you're wearing your Fiorucci shirt. How glamorous. Can I wear your Perry Ellis shirt? I promise to wash it!" I ask him. He found the beautiful white shirt at a thrift store a few weeks prior.
"Alright." he answers back.
After I change, we head out his door down Diversey to Sheffield.
"We never take Racine to Belmont any more. Those bars on Belmont are waay too scary. We don't like to walk past them. Especially when we're dressed up. Or our hair is big. Or both."
We're having a great time at Berlin, watching videos and dancing and requesting songs (I was going through an Aztec Camera phase, and Scott a Love and Rockets phase), when Jody mentions how she wished she lived in the city so she could come to Berlin more often.
"Where I live is so boring!" she says.
I tell her I am looking for a roommate, and we both get very excited. We hadn't known each other more than 80 minutes, and already we're living together. That's youth for ya. Or fate. Or just knowing when something feels right.
Her and Caren move in a few weeks later, into Tim's (our seldom seen roommate had moved back home) old room. It was mine, so my new room is the couch. The alley couch. I didn't care. As long as I didn't have to move back to Wisconsin. Steve was excited to have two straight girls across the hall.
We had countless late nights at Medusa's and Berlin, or just hanging out in the apartment, but they were always up early everyday to get the train to school. That's youth for ya, again.
Their first weekend at my place, we go to Medusa's. Scott and I glam up Jody and Caren in our best DIY chic, and I wore Jody's long, black, fitted skirt from Express (remember the chick with sunglasses on their labels?) the Perry Ellis, and a jean motorcycle jacket, some dead old man's wingtips, and another military-style hat,(a-la-Boy Georgie), and, of course, many brooches.
We all go: Scott, Steve, one of his friends, Jody, Caren and I. Walking down the street like a new wave band in search of a venue. Or extras in some freaky movie.
Scott and I had been cultivating a rapport with Blue, Medusa's door man. We had an unspoken agreement that if we showed up in an "outfit" and big hair, he let us in for free. The five buck cover was a big deal for us back then, for five dollars was our grocery budget for the week. We climb the huge stair case, get in free (yay!) and dance dance dance. My favorite song comes on, No Shuffle, and we run out to dance some more. During that song, someone runs up to me and hits my hat off my head. I was mortified. Like, run home mortified. I don't know why, but I was.
"Do they hate me? Do they want my hat? Am I not welcome here? Should I leave?" I think to myself.
We stay til ten am or so, and walk the few blocks home in the morning sun. I lay down for a little bit, because I had to be at work in a few hours. I show up to the salon in the same outfit.
"I thought I said no skirts at work, Brian!" My boss says as I walk in the door.
"Oh Christ, I'm wearing a skirt..."

Sometimes

"What good is sitting all alone in your room..."
I don't know! hee hee
"Come, hear the music play..."
OK!! I will!!
"Life is a Cabaret, ole chum..."
I know!! I know!!
"Come to the Cabaret...."
I will! I am!! I'LL BE RIGHT THERE!! WAIT FOR ME!!
Have you ever seen yourself walking down the street? It's weird, believe me. Especially when you think to yourself: "What a goofball..."
The other day I saw this doughy, spotty kid wearing an old-fashioned, military type hat; you know, like they did in WWI. With his Converse and thrift store pants, and an air of youthful bravado.
"Oh yea, I can't think mean thoughts, that was me once."
My first Memorial Day here in Chicago was in 1985, a year I'm sure you all associate with me by now. Scott and I spent it together, at a barbecue. Doug was still living here, but not with us that day, so I wore his Parachute blazer. And the military hat.
Scott picks me up at my place, and we begin the walk over to the party. He's excited to go, because his newest crush asked him to meet him there.
"His name is Dave, he has a white flat top and he's really cute. I met him at Berlin, but I don't know if this is a date or not. It'll be a fun time, anyway."
"Then why am I going if you're going to talk to him all day!" I said.
" I don't know him! I don't know if he likes me! If you're bored we'll leave early" He answers back.
It was a cold and misty day, and it took us forever to find the house we were looking for. We walked north on Racine, past Addison, to the cemetery, and walked around it. We get to Irving and Kenmore, by the El tracks, and decide we are in a bad neighborhood. It was like walking on to a movie set: The street was lined with old mansions with large front yards that had some how turned into a slum street. It was just like when I was 14, driving with my family through the bad parts of Hartford, Connecticut, in 1980, on our way to the good parts, when I spied a lone, obscenely tall, man's platform shoe standing on the sidewalk among the crumbling buildings and trash-filled lots.
"Wow, the 70's are really over" I say to myself.
A few families were out grilling on Kenmore, trying to make the most of the bad weather, and I wanted to stop and stare with bulging eyes and mouth agape, for it was unlike anything I had ever seen, but Scott was pulling at me, telling me to walk faster, through his clenched teeth. My parents wouldn't let me out of the car "to look around" that day, either.
We finally find the barbecue, and because of the lousy weather, it had turned into a house party. Feeling a little (ok A LOT) uncomfortable among the glamorous guests slouching around the snack trays, we make our way to the TV after finding some beer.
Someone had put Pink Flamingos in the vcr. EGGS! EGGS! EGGS! This was my first time seeing a John Waters movie. If you ever need to break the ice at a party, that's the best way to do it. I recommend one from the 70's. It's hard to feel insecure about yourself when the Pink Flamingos gang was licking furniture and mailing people poop and making their assholes whistle and tying hotdogs to their dicks and...well, you get the picture.
After the shock of knowing the existence of such a movie wore off, Scott and I laughed till we cried.
A little later, white-flattop-Dave finds us on the sofa and joins us. Scott and him seem to hit it off ok, but when Scott learned someone put acid in the punch, he wanted to leave. The movie was a trip itself, and I think he was getting a little nervous.
We had a long walk home, with Scott taking pictures along the way. He has an easy laugh, and I remember having fun trying to make him laugh the whole way home. We said our goodbyes at Diversey and Racine, and when I got home, I found myself alone. I looked through Doug's records and put on Scary Monsters. His copy came with a lyric sheet, and Ashes to Ashes freaked me out. I knew and loved the song, but I didn't know the words. I played it over and over. I felt I knew exactly what he was talking about. What I liked best about Bowie back then was the package he wrapped his genius in: 1909-Romanian-Circus-freak-drag
"I'm gonna do this! I'm going to write an amazing song like this! RIGHT NOW!!"
I wanted so much to pull something that brilliant from me. I knew it was there somewhere!
I wish I had kept what I wrote that night. Alas, I felt I had failed miserably, and threw it all away.
As I write this, I have Pink Flamingos in the dvd player.
WHAT DOES IT SAY? 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FATSO!' AAAAH!!
Liza sings again:
"...that's what comes from too much pills and liquor..."
I used to not know the good of sitting all alone in my room.
"When I go, I'm going like Elsie!"
I used to want to go like Elsie, too
When Liza sings that song now, she adds the word "not", as in "not going like Elsie".
"Sometimes" is a word I would add to that song, somewhere....

Glowing in the Darkness

Slacking, slacking. Sometimes I slack. I wish I lacked slack, but I don't...
To pick up the cliffhanger from a few weeks ago, I had an idea that would help my roommate and I with our rent problems. Our lack of rent problems. Now, I bet you think I am going to talk about Jody and Caren. Well, I'm not. They come later. Not much later, but later. I am going to tell you about Terri.
Terri was the old-school queen I worked with at the hair salon on Halsted, who told me the Paradise "stories". When I worked with him in '85, he was close to 40. I started going to gay bars when I was 16, in '82, and that was a "changing of the guard" time in the gay bar world. Changing from the '70's disco scene to the '80's new wave scene. Not to get too off subject, but maybe it's just me and my self-sabotaging ways, but I find gay bars to be very pop-culture and youth obsessed. Either you pick up the pace and change with the times; you comb your hair the right way and wear the right cut of pants, or you will be ignored and talked about. And not in the good way. Are straight bars like this? Murphy's Bleachers or Mother's? I'm sure as long as the game is on, and the chicks have some semblance of a chesty-breasty area, I doubt any of the guys care that you're wearing last season's Prada. (Unless you're in a dance club, I suppose.) As a friend of mine recently said about a gay cruise he took: "Who wants to see a bunch of fifty year-old queens dance to Brittany Spears, thinking they're hip?" Sad-but-truer words were never spoken.
I mention this because I understood Terri, and won him over during the job interview. I had to convince them their salon needed to hire this small town kid with 12 inch spiked hair on top and a paisley bleached into his shaved side (my roommate Steve colored it in for me every morning). His prime was in the 1970's, and that was when I fantasized about the day I was an adult and could go down the lane to the disco, (preferably Studio 54) and be cool and dance and have fun. Back in the small town gay bar I went to, it was still very disco oriented. Feathered hair and polyester shirts ruled the night. So he was like all the queens back home.
We were fast friends. He was so much fun to work with and to be around. But he was a little aloof; you always left him too soon.
"Bye girl, bye! Bye! Get out!"
It was funny to watch him scam our bosses out of 40 bucks with each of his client's bills. I think they were on to him, because they would always "just happen" to show up at the pay-desk at the right time, to try and catch him "in the act". He was so good at double talk though, the bosses would walk away shaking their heads, not sure what had just happened. He tried to teach me to do it, but I didn't have the nerve, let alone the clients. (I'm my own boss now, so just calm down.)
He rarely said a word to his clients while he worked. He smoked, he had a cigg going at all times on his station, and he whistled. But he did his job well, so he was always busy.
One day he asked me if he could stay at my place for a while, so his could be painted. At first I thought he was trying to scam a way into my pants, because I was a red-head at the time, and his attraction to red-heads was no secrect.
"It's like they have see-through dicks!" He said to me once. "Umm, ok..."
Well, ploy or no ploy, I needed the money. But Terri came on a bit strong with his loud, queeny, albeit endearing, personality, and I needed to be sure my roommate Steve could handle it.
I decided honesty was the best way to go, and Steve was more than happy to have anyone there, as long as they were paying.
Terri showed up on our doorstep with a lone suitcase, and stayed with us about a week. I think I saw him in our apartment two or three times. He was always out! He was out every night to find the perfect balance of coke and grass and gin. He went to the grossest gay bars he could find. Every night! He took me with him once, to Cheeks, yes Cheeks, on Clark. It was about where that vitamin shop is now, by Diversey.
He dressed me in some "normal" clothes of his, and when we entered the bar to the tired sounds of Alicia Bridges, me not having an ID didn't seen to be an issue. (I was 19.) He right away runs to the back somewhere, and I try to keep up, because I didn't like the looks I was getting from the guys who seemed to be growing out of those barstools.
He ran out the back door to an outdoor, pitch-black, maze-like "patio".
"What the hell is this?" I whisper. Standing still, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, it didn't take me long to figure out what was happening: moaning silhouettes standing on oddly damp asphalt...
I hated myself back then, but I didn't hate myself that much. I ran out and caught up with Scott at Berlin.
The next morning, I wake up to the sound (I slept on the couch we took from the alley) of Terri putting quarters into a large, clear bag that contained hundreds of them.
"That is a shit-load of quarters you got there, Ter."
"This is how I keep track of what I spend and how much I drink when I go out. My drink costs a dollar seventy-five, so when I come home with a pocketful, I know it was a fun night!" he said as he walked into the bathroom for his shower.
When the door shut, I was in that bag of quarters, taking enough for breakfast and some smokes. I was into that bag of quarters like I was ten years old, and this was my step-dad's dresser. I was into that bag of quarters like I was 13, and it was my dad's work pants, hanging on the hook on the bathroom door.
"I'm gross." I think to myself.
Sitting on the curb in front of the little store, eating and smoking, I vow to never take money like that any more. I was sickened to realize I was always sneaking things from the important men in my life. I would ask for what I needed from now on. I they said no, they said no. I could handle it. I'm an adult now.
When Terri was out of the shower, I told him what I did.
"Oh hon, take the whole bag! Just leave me some for laundry..."
Terri has sinced passed on, but I still have the bracelet he gave me his grandmother wore. It was the start of another famous Terri story:
"Girl, my grama wore this and a mink coat and nothin' else during those blazin' Louisiana summers.."




p.s. Glowing in the Dark by Experimental Products is a great song from the 80's that can be found on itunes.

Get the Balance Right

So I know I left a "cliffhanger" a few weeks ago, but I can't continue that story until I tell you this story. I'm a little off "deadline" anyway, so you won't have much of a wait for "closure".
I am trying to tell this tale in the order it happened, but it gets difficult, because it was so long ago, and memories, alas, fade, or pop back into my mind at the wrong time...
I remember going to Paradise for the first time with Scott and Doug, wearing Doug's shoes, because his were one size smaller than mine, so they hurt my feet, but they matched my outfit perfectly, so, of course, I had to wear them. He really didn't want me to wear them, because they were a cream color, and he didn't want them scuffed.
"Be careful! You can wear them if you don't dance in them!" He said.
I was torn. I loved dancing.
" I don't think that would really be an issue at Paradise, Brian. Not unless you have to dance to Laura Branagan or The Pointer Sisters. The music sucks!" Scott said.
"Oh, I see..."
"It's a cool place that was great in 1980, but not any more. It has so much potential to be a really great place, and we keep going back to see if we were there on a 'bad night', but every night seems to be a bad night. I guess we go there now to imagine what it was like, or could be like, than to deal with what is really there." He grimaced, shaking his head.
"Then why are we going again?"
"I want you to meet Tony. And the weekday crowd is ok, I guess."
"Do you have your offering, Scott, or do you need to borrow something? Don't worry, Brian, I got you covered" Doug asked.
"No, I'm all set." Scott said. I said nothing.
Paradise was shabby disco on Broadway, that closed in '88 or so, where that Linen and Things mall is now, near Diversey. It really was a relic leftover from the 70's disco heyday, even though it opened in 1980. Now, don't get me wrong, I love disco, but it was the music of my childhood, and it didn't really fit in with my relax, don't do it lifestyle any more.
I worked with a guy who used to go there back in the day, and he had many stories to tell me when he found out I was going there. (I didn't have the heart to tell him we went there for the kitch and camp value only.) The best 'story' was the one about the night the thousand pound lighting system came crashing down onto the dance floor, killing one and injuring a half dozen. That was usually my day dream of choice whenever I went there: imagining if the music would still be on during the pandemonium of feathered hair and polyester dresses and broken strappy highheels and spilled drinks and "macho men" screaming...oh I could just go on and on in my morbid fantasy world.

Scott and I weren't 21 at the time, so we had to go really early, to get there before the bouncer did. We'd sit in the front bar and nurse a beer for two hours til the dance floor opened.
When the dance floor opened, the coat check opened. Year round. They made you check something. You had to check something if you wanted into the dance area. No choice. And if you bitched about it, you were asked to leave. We called this "the offering". Some article of clothing that wasn't necessary to your ensemble you could "check". I never understood why they just didn't charge a weekday cover or a higher cover, but it was really funny watching people freak out over this rule. I think maybe it was a way to get cute guys to take off their shirts? I dunno.
If you were a regular, they would sometimes ask if your shirt was part of your look, "Um, yeah, my shirt is part of my 'look' " and let you slide. But this wasn't guaranteed, so you had to be prepared. I guess if the coat check guy got his "fix", he was nice. (Kit-Kat bars? Baby casserole?)
This where I met Tony and David. (Yes, Cerda.) Tony and David both worked there. I didn't meet David right away, though. I was so in awe of him and jealous of his look, I was a afraid to meet him for fear he wouldn't like me, and I really wanted him to like me. "Gasp! I want to be his best friend!" I said to Scott.
He was tall and thin and was a speedy blur of all black tight clothes with fishnet hose in weird places and hair extensions, toting his barback tub on his shoulder, and his make up was exactly like Nina Hagen's! (I think I was mainly jealous of his ability to pull off black lipstick.)
Well, not exactly like Nina's, cause he wasn't in drag per say, he still looked like a boy: a Nina Boy. He was able to take Nina's look as an inspiration, a jumping-off point, if you will, and make it his own.
When I was a senior in highschool, my secret shame was that I would tie dozens of different colored bandanas in my hair til it looked like Boy George's hair, and put on Color by Numbers and dance dance dance like I was George at a concert, taking bows and waving to my fans in between songs in my room with the door locked. I always felt sorry for the kids who would dress up like him to see his concerts. There were seas and seas of bowler hats and braids and pouty lips and big white shirts. They looked like they had costumes on, not clothes. George wore those clothes because he was a fashionista, not because he was playing a part in a musical. I could see the difference. Other British bands dressed in a similar way. Visage. Haysi Fantayzee. Etcetera.
I would pretend to be him in my room, but never I had the courage to dress like that all the time, though I wanted to. Besides, George was "George" first. And I wanted people to dress like me!
So when I saw David, it all clicked. You can dress similar to your favorite star; dress with "Bowie undertones" or with "shades of Debbie" to get across the general idea, without it being a costume or being a clone. Your "look" was very important in the 1980's, and it was very important for truly creative people to respect other people's ideas and to be original. Otherwise, you were labeled a WANNBE. The label of death.
David and I are good friends to this day.
Also, Tony (Chris' roommate) worked at Paradise, and through him I got my first "real" job, and met my current close friend and co-worker Anthony.
I guess I owe a lot Paradise and it's inability to live up to it's potential. You never know where your life can be changed.

Sidewalking

During the weeks after Doug moved back to Wisconsin, I was a little freaked out. I guess because I felt rejected and hideous, and I would miss him, and felt to blame for him leaving Chicago. And with him gone, it meant I had to do this by myself. By this I mean live a life: I had to pay my own bills and feed myself and bring home the bacon and meet friends and do things. I wasn't all that confident I was up to the task.
It was just Steve and I for the summer of '85, because Tim, our seldom seen third roommate, took his summer break at home. The weather was so beautiful that year; it had such a sleepy serenity, like a peaceful summer of a care-free childhood. Maybe it seemed that way to me because mine were such a recent memory.
Doug had paid for the rent for a few months, so after that it was up to me. I spent a lot of time during the day alone, because Steve was at school. I would get up early and go buy a dollar's worth of doughnuts and some cigs, if I had the money, or walk the streets looking for "good" cigarette butts to smoke if I didn't. Yeah, I know it sounds gross, but when you're hooked, you're hooked. Gotta feed the monkey(s). There were a lot of factories in the Addison and Racine area back then, and those guys never had time to finish a cig.
And those streets were empty back then, if you can believe it. No one on the side walk and rarely a car on the road. It was almost like being back in Appleton. I usually walked down Addison to look in the windows of the cool vintage furniture stores that were near Southport, and at all the pretty greystone houses that looked like little castles.
When I got back I would watch two or three Lettermans. (See my past post: "Well it Was the Eighties..." from January, 2005.)
In the afternoon, I would sometimes walk down Racine to Diversey and visit Chris. She was Tony's roommate, and Tony went to art school with Scott in Pittsburgh, and Scott and Doug met out one night at Trianon. Got all that?
Trianon was a gay bar in a unique vintage building that played fab music which no one went to during the week but us. It later became Club La Ray and later yet a futon store, then obliterated to make way for Marshalls and DSW on Halstead by Belmont. (On that same block was also another gay bar, Windy City, and if you've ever been there, you'll understand me when I say that that is an entirely different blog for another time. I swear, proof of multiple addictions was required for entry. "Yikes!" is right.)
Anywho, Chris was going to school, too, and was a doctor's kid. She was obsessed with Bowie, and had all his rare posters and albums in her room. I never really "got" 70's Bowie until I met her. She had the most gorgeous skin: silk and suede somehow combined.
"Look at your skin! Look at it! It's just so...look at it!" I said as I gently squeezed her arm with both my hands.
"Whaaat!!??" She would giggle.
Tony told me later, after I would leave, Chris would squeeze her arm and ask:
"What does he mean by that?"
All the action took place in the back of their apartment. The kitchen was always a mess, food and dirty dishes everywhere, over-flowing ashtrays and magazines cluttering the kitchen table. Their bedrooms were the same way. Stuff everywhere. Typical student apartment. But the front of the house, that was a different story. Totally immaculate. And not a stick of furniture. Only a stereo. They said it was "cool" that way. You would walk in and get this minimalist Japanese vibe, which was promptly shattered when someone said "let's hang out in the kitchen."
We would spend some time in the empty living room smoking and getting high and blasting Joy Division and Bauhaus and Beethoven.
"Come over and watch some Lettermans with me. We have chairs." I said.
"No! No. Noooo....(whimper)"
"Aww, come on. Let's go to the water, then. It's so nice out. Sunny even. I know how you like some sun."
"Well, yeah I do, but..."
"Come on Chris, I can't handle this hardwood floor any more."
Chris was afraid of the city, so it was hard to get her to leave the house.
"Well, how do you get to school?" I asked.
"I run to the El."
"Run. You run to the El." I said, not believing her.
"Yes! I run as fast as I can down Diversey! Then run back home!"
I just stare at her.
And there's Tony standing behind her, quietly nodding his head, buldging his eyes, giving me that "she's-not-kidding" look.
I refused to let her fear be anything more than a tiny blip on my radar, and I would drag her down Diversey to the lake front, kicking and screaming. Tony was grateful whenever I came over.
"Get her out of the house before she dies of scurvy!" He would yell.
We had a great time once we got there. Smoking and gabbing and playing our headphones and getting in the way of the bicyclists. One time on the way back a car load of Mexican guys found her quite alluring, and told her so.
"Do you have your gun money? Get your gun money ready" She said.
"What?!"
"You know, gun money! I need a GUN!"
"Oh for Christ's sake, Chris" I said as I rolled my eyes and grabbed her hand and quickly walked her home.
Scott would come over after work, and we'd head to his place. He lived across the street. We would eat up all his food and try on his clothes and use his artist's chalk for make-up, and stink up his place with our cigs and laugh laugh laugh while we got ready to go out. He didn't have a working tv, just a very cool plastic red and white decorative one, so another way I would pass the time 'til we left was to make hats. Fez-type hat were tres chic back then, and they were easy to make with a needle and thread and a groovy 60's tie and a piece of cardboard. I would usually add a few Boy Georgie-type braids to the back. We'd wear them, a little back on our head, and tease up our bangs nice and big, usually off to one side to cover over an eye. Then Scott and I were off to Berlin. Always Berlin during the week; dancing in their little corner of a dance area.
Get up the next day and do it all over again, like that song.
By the third month, Steve, sadly, had to give me an ultimatum. He very sweetly, very gently, asked me to pay my share, or move out. He was floating me for the past month.
"Sure, Steve, of course," I said. "But I have an idea that may help us both....."


p.s. The comments are back!

Pleased to Meet Me

When I wrote about my and Doug's break-up a few posts ago, I didn't tell you the whole story. I didn't take the break-up very well. He moved back! Back to Wisconsin! He left Chicago, left our relationship, left me to sink or swim! How dare he! I took it very badly, truth be told. I thought everything was ok with us before I moved here. I really thought he wanted me to be with him here in Chicago. I asked him point blank: "Do you want me to move in with you?" He said yes. But after a month, he was gone. I liked him soo much. I, dare I say, loved him. When he was away at class, I would open the closet to feel and look at his clothes. He had the most amazing taste. Everything was beautiful and everything fit him perfectly. "Don't spray cologne on my shirt! It will degrade the fabric over time!" He would chide me. His tattoo was perfect. His haircut was perfect. His art work was perfect. Maybe it was the writer/actor in me, but I would stare at his being and contemplate his existence when he wasn't looking. (And when he was.) "How does he do this? What is a person like this born from?" I would marvel to myself. He could walk into any store and find the most wonderful things. Our first month together here was really special. We did so much in that short time. Everyday was a new friend in a new bar or restaurant or neighborhood. One time on the train I was writing a letter:" Dear Dad, As I write this I am riding on the Loop..."
"We're on the El, not the Loop. The El is a train; elevated, and the loop is a place."
"Oh, I thought L was short for Loop."
" Uhh, no."
He half-heartedly asked me to go back to Wisconsin with him, because, as much as he wanted to go to the Art Institute, he couldn't afford it. Maybe by "it" he meant me and school. I told him to stay and to try to make it work, because I could have a job any day now, and because he took me there with him a few times, and he fit in so well at that school. But I knew I couldn't go back. As a goodbye present I copied his understated brown Parachute blazer in a wild paisley fabric he picked out. (I moved here with my sewing machine.)
When the day rolled around for him to move back, I had had a job for a few weeks at a salon on Halstead and Diversey. It didn't pay very well because my awful, mean co-worker (who's sister was pregnant by the boss) got all the walk-in business, and I got the stray "freak" spill-over from Milio's she was too afraid to even talk to, let alone do their hair. I was a fool to stay there, but the other stylists were great. When they found out what was going on, they had a little "party" for me the night Doug left.
We started the night at my apartment with some beer and wine. After a while, they wanted to go to Waterworks, but I had heard way too many war stories of their all-night acid trip dance-a-thons there, and opted out. Wateworks was hot in the early days of "house".
Instead, Scott and I went to Octagon on Clark Street. It was a pretty quiet night, so we danced (alone) to a song or two, and watched videos. But when Heaven by the Psychedelic Furs came on, and I felt the rain drops on my skin, the ones that were falling on Richard's skin in the video, I knew I was in trouble. My co-workers were trying to help me "forget" my problems with Doug.
I was unwittingly dosed once before, about three months prior to this with LSD. It was not fun. Control freaks do not have fun on acid or LSD. I saw God. I saw the Devil. I saw little white mice marching on my blankets. I saw polka dots, each with a different cartoon going on in them, then felt them on my skin, too. So I knew what was going on. But the first time I was dosed I had smoked it, and this night, I had ingested it. Someone put it in my beer. Taking it that way makes it a lot more intense and longer lasting.
So I said a quick good bye to Scott and ran home. I didn't want him to have to deal with bringing me to the hospital (or the police station) in case I flipped-out.
"Look at MEEE!! I can FLYYYYyyyyy.......Splat!"
I jump into the bathtub, turn on the shower, sit down with all my clothes on, and start bawling. After a moment, I get up and walk into the living room, dripping water everywhere, grab the wine, walk back into the shower, and proceed to drink the entire gallon, hoping it will quell the effects of the drug. "MY LIFE SUCKS!! Doug is gone, I have no money, I can't pay my rent or my bills, my parents will make me come home if I ask them for any more money, and I'm fucking tripping on fucking acid AGAIN. And I'm drinking a whole gallon of wine IN THE FUCKING SHOWER LIKE A LUNATIC!!"
The next thing I remember was my roommate Steve nudging me awake. "Brian. Brian. Where's the TV. Where's the VCR? " I start laughing, thinking he's joking. "Huh? What? Whadda ya mean?"
"I'm serious, they're not here." I get up and try to look for them.
"Oh my God, one of Sarah's friends must've taken them! But I saw them leave, so they must've come back, or, oh shit, took stuff out when I was in getting ready in my room! Oh fuck. I'm so sorry Steve, I'm so stupid."
"They got us good, 'cause my cameras hidden in the kitchen are gone, too. But hey, don't freak out over this. My parent's insurance will replace what was taken. And what's all that stuff in the bathtub? Wet clothes, wine bottles, ciggarette butts...?"
"Welcome to the rest of your life..." I think to myself.