A Kiss in the Dreamhouse

Look. The first guy I dated in Chicago after my break up with Doug was Brian C. Not to be confused with Bryan O. or Brian B. I know a lot of Brians. My name is Brian. Anywho, we met at Berlin. My friends Jody and Karla and I would ogle him every night, wishing we had the nerve to talk to him. He was really tall, and usually wore a black motorcycle jacket with long fringe on the sleeves, which accentuated his broad shoulders, and he had big, spikey, dyed black hair. He had pale white skin, and wore silver eyeliner! He looked fantastic. Especially when he danced in his black leather pants. We would try to dance by him, giving him furtive, longing glances. But he was usually there with a girl. Either a tiny petite one, or a zoftig gal. Both were cool beyond words. Cool in that aloof, bored, perfect way, because they knew no matter what happenend, they would always look fabulous. They could fall out a 10 story window and still look great. You know the type.

So there's the rub: was he gay? was he straight? was he single? We were dying to know. One night we found out that one of the girls he was often with wasn't. Plus in my column. The petite one was actually a very pretty boy, named Leo. Whom I still see around on occasion. And the zoftig girl was caught by Karla making out in the bathroom with a different guy. A plus in their column.

Finally, one night, we get to Berlin, and there is our friend Brad talking to him. He was the type of person to do whatever he wanted, and to talk to whoever he wanted, so it was always a fun time when he was around. After Berlin we would often pile into Leona's for a late night bowl of pasta; 7 or 8 kids with too big hair and too much junk jewelry, smashed, and smashing into one of their booths, laughing too loud and spilling stuff everywhere. Brian asked me out later that night. I think our first date was shopping at Bonwit's. I didn't know how to use the trains or busses to get downtown, so he showed me how to take the train there, and the bus back. Bonwit Teller was a glam department store that was where the Cheesecake Factory in the John Hancock is now. Then we went across the street to I. Magnin (H&M), and Mark Shale (they tore it down to build the Bloomie's mall) and finally, to City. City was an amazing modern furniture store near the Mag Mile. It may sound trite now, but I fell in love the second I walked in, for the first thing I saw was a giraffe-skin-patterned dining table. "That's the coolest thing I ever saw!" At Bonwit's, he bought me an amazing pearl necklace with a jeweled crown pendant. (Sadly, I was to quickly lose it one night when I was bombed out of my mind at a party at a Holiday Inn in Wisconsin. [were you there, Jody?] I searched the snowbanks the next day to near frostbite, to no avail.)

Later, we went to his apartment. It was a gorgeous place on Sheffield by Cubs park. It was immaculate, with low lighting. There was a Zen-like perfection to his cool vintage furniture that was everywhere. It was my dream."What is that?" I said pointing to a big clip holding several pieces of paper.
"Those are ticket stubs to all the concerts I've been to."

He named some of the bands, few of which I had heard of. And most of the shows were in London. He'd been many times. He was just as fascinated with London as I was. But he'd actually been there. And he wasn't much older than me. There was a copy of I-D magazine on his coffee table.

"What is this?" I asked.

"I-D. The best magazine about London. I've kept every issue I've ever bought." He starts pulling stacks from a closet. "Look, Madonna's cover before she was famous here. Want me to make you a sandwich or something?"

"Food? You have food?! I'm way too lazy/broke to have food in my house."

Soon, we were on his bed, making out. I was sneaking glances around his room. The blonde wood bedroom set. The bottles of cologne sitting on black glass. His rubbings of knight's tombs from England. The Siouxsie poster. I had to end it. I had to go home. It was just too much for me to absorb. Too much to take in.

I stopped dating him soon after that. "Why?" I asked myself. "Why didn't I stay with him?" Was it because I had just moved to Chicago, and I was in my own place for the first time, and as perfect as Brian was, I didn't want to give that up? Or was Brian too giving toward me, and I knew he would give me what ever I wanted, and I knew I should be on my own self-supporting path? Or was it because I had just dated someone right before I moved to Chicago (Brian B) whom I was extremely attracted to on every level, (who had set me free to live my dream of a life in a big city) and I was only attracted to Brian C on some levels? Or was I afraid of love, sabotaging my happiness? All, some, none of the above, probably.

I can tell you something for sure, as corny as it sounds: I've been to London many times, I've kept all my ticket stubs and I-D magazines, and I've tried to create that minimalist, vintage Zen in my home, where plenty of food is always at the ready. I guess Brian C wasn't someone I wanted to date, but an ideal of a man and a life I wanted to achieve for myself. And some years ago, I got the priviledge of telling him face to face.

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.

One of Us is Gonna Die Young

(Warning! The link in the title takes you to a loud, cool rock song!)
In 1987, the year I turned 21, all I wanted to do was to drink. Morning, afternoon, evening. I hated everything and understood nothing: why I was getting fat, why I couldn't keep a boyfriend, why did I work at a salon I hated, why did I make no money, why did my roommate hate my best friend, why were all my friends divided against each other, why my parents never called me, why was it all I wanted to do was drink!
I lived by this bar, Dolores and Eddie's, on Broadway and Waveland, where the 7-11 is now. Next door was the Orbit Room. I drank a lot there. On my way to work around 11am or so, I would see old men drinking in D&E's, as we used to call it. "I wanna do that. I wanna sit in a bar and drink all day." So I did. Sometimes with friends, sometimes not. "Ha! This is great!" The manager of D&E's took a shine to me and my exteme look, and asked me to be a "dancer" there. "Just dance on the bar, kid, all the free booze ya want and 20 bucks." They wanted to attract an "alternative" crowd, so they were always doing crazy promo stuff. So I danced, one night only. To the sounds of Cities in Dust and Sensoria and Lover Come Back. My jeans were really tight that night, and it was very difficult/dangerous for me to get up on the bar to dance. Up on the bar, my hair was so tall it touched the ceiling. They were filming an episode of Crime Story next door at Orbit Room that night, as they often did, and Dennis Farina kept peeking in the open door at me between takes. There was something chilling about seeing him there watching me in his black '60's overcoat and hat while it misted rain.
Well, they said free booze, so I drank. While I danced. I think it was my 10th beer and almost as many shots in 90 minutes that finally shocked the bar tender. "Jesus, kid, whadda ya got, a friggin' wooden leg!?" What didn't shock him was me falling off the bar. Twice.
"That's enough kid, I don't wanna see ya break your neck."
That was as close to Angel as I ever got.
Weekdays, I would go to Hitchcock's. I don't think it's still there, it may be; it was over in the Webster and Racine area. I didn't like my boss during the day when I had to put up with all her crap for the few pennies she threw my way, but I LOVED to party with her at night. We could drink up a storm. We would head over to Hitchcock's a few days a week after work, and terrorize my gorgeous friend Martin. Martin as you recall, painted the beautiful cross-eyed drag queen. And do I mean TERRORIZE. "Marty! Give us some beers! No we aint got no money! Ha ha ha ha ha! Marty! Gives us a pizzas! No! No money! Marty! Marty! We's gunna takes this bag of bar glasses wit us! OK? Great! Marr-rey! Murr-arry! More free bur, beer! More! MOre! Free! Free!" Oh God, we were terrible. I can't believe he or his boss let us come back.
Right before the whole D&E's and Orbit Room block was torn down, my friend Phil (my friend now, not back then; just one of life's wierd coincidences) was hired to paint a huge Edie picture on the side of the building. Edie Sedgwick was a model and Warhol "it" girl in 1966. She was a blue blood, a gifted artist, and a true original with limitless potential. She threw it all out the window and died at 28 because she chose drugs to understand why she was molested, and why two of her brothers killed themselves. Now, that is just my opinion. When I chose not to understand my life, I drank. I just didn't deal with anything. My friend Scott took some amazing black and white photos while they tore the buildings down. Edie's partial image juxtaposed with the rubble. Destrution is something we all understand. It's also something a lot of us like to witness.

Rest In (a vintage) Piece

Ok, Merrie, when I was 10, there was three things I lived for. That every soon-to-be-homosexual boy in the mid-seventies lived for. (Besides candy.) Wacky Packages, Planet of the Apes tv show and Batgirl. Re-runs of Batman came on everyday after school. I would run home whispering under my breath. "Please be a Batgirl one. Please be a Batgirl one." The show's opening music would start out with the trumpet flourish (PLEASE!!) a few dunna dunna dunna dunnas, (I'VE BEEN GOOD!!) and then one: BAAM! (OHPLEASEOHPLEASEOHPLEASE) for Batman's punch at a bad guy, two: BOOH! (MMMMMMMMBATGIRLMMMMMMMM) for Robin's kick, and three: BEEEM! (AAAAAAAAAAAYYEEEESSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!) for Batgirl's swinging-in-on-a-rope kick. (Or another punch for Batman if, sadly, Batgirl wasn't on.)
Now don't get me wrong, it was also a good show if Eartha's or Julie's Catwoman (not Lee's, she was too nice) was on, I'm not stupid. So I think it was the girl in Batgirl I liked. I was a boy, and I related to girls. And Batgirl's life just seemed more realistic to me, I guess. When she was pissed off and wanted to do some ass-kickin', she didn't need a mansion with a huge batcave and Batmobile and all that other crap, all she needed was the wall in her bedroom to turn around and reveal her disguise and a motorcycle to get there. "That I could do! I'm gonna do that when I'm older! I'm gonna have a secret identity with wigs and tight outfits and a motorcycle!"
Hmm. Guess I got my wish, sorta. A bicycle, instead of a motorcycle. And you all know I wear wigs. (Wigs in the name of art, not ass-whoopin' or crime-fightin'.)
Oh my God, how could I forget Treasure Hunt! Remember that game show? There was one contestant, and 50 boxes wrapped like presents. They had one chance to pick a box with something good in it. There was something in each box, like a car or a trip or a check, but there were also duds. I can't remember what the duds were, just not good. Like an apple or a turd or something. It was like watching someone's birthday party. I hoped my parents would take the clue from my excitement for the show, and put something in my box that would make me scream and shit my pants like the big winners did. "Buy my happiness!!" Back then all it took was a pair of bell-bottom pants, FYI.
Back to the point, thrift-shopping became my new "I hope it's a Batgirl one".
I was inspired to write this post because I recently found out my favorite thrift store from the 80's closed. It was The Village Thrift on Halsted and Diversey.
Back then me and my friends didn't have a lot of money, so thrifting was perfect because it gave us so much for so little. We met new friends, bonded, found new looks, found a lot of crazy clothes, laughed our asses off, and came home with some great stuff we couldn't wait to show off at Berlin or Medusa's or Smartbar.
In the 80's, if I cared about you, or wanted to impress you, I took you to Village Thrift. In '85 I worked across the street, and went EVERY day at my lunch break. Eating my usual lunch of a giant Snicker's, or giant Oreo, I would think to myself, "Ok, I need a new brooch, black pants from the 60's, a cheap rosary, cool wig, or a vintage old man's dress shirt. Preferably french cuffs. Please, come on, just this once, let me find something good!" I was giddy with anticipation on the walk over. Oh, and heaven help me if the store looked full of new crap. "AAAA! I only have 15 minutes! I need more time!"
On the weekends my roommate Jody and Scott and I would go together. We would always find something black patent leather for Jody: cha-cha heels or long, skinny purses we called "dildo purses", plaid pants and blazers from the 60's for Scott, and I usually always scored something from my wish list. The store grouped their clothes by color, so it was always a race to the black section. "HURRY! RUN! I see people over there!!" Unfortunately, it was usually the leanest section.
The Indian women who worked there were always super-nice to us, and I knew them all by name, though they usually called me miss: "Helloo! Miss Brian!" (you can only correct someone so many times). But cross them or get caught stealing, and you were banned for life. Our friend John was banned. He said it was worth it because he got an amazing leather coat, but I couldn't imagine a worse fate. They never forgave and forgot.
Sometimes I would run into a friend and comment on their particularly great bag, or super-cool coat, and their response was always "Oh thanks, I got it at Village Thift! For one dollar! Can you believe it ?!"
"Noooo!!"
The next day I would run over there a scour the entire store, and not find anything as remotely cool. "Why, why, whynot!!?? I want some cool!!"
I did go to other thrift stores in the city, but the closing of this one really saddened me, because I knew it so intimately. As the years went on, and I would pop in, so many memories would come back. I still have a lot of things I bought from there.( Mainly brooches) Nothing of any real monetary value, but so many countless moments I will always treasure.

Bella Lagosi's Fearless

This morning I was listening to Goldfrapp on my headphones. I was really getting into it. "Ooo, I wanna dance! Yeah, dancey dancey. Hey, look at me, I'm "Goldfrapp"! Look at me go! No!, no time to dance, gotta leave for work. And you're OLD now. You're a MAN, not a BOY. Men don't dance before work. And, uh, oh yeah, you're fat."
Ughh. These are the wars raging in my head.
When I was 19 and in Beauty School (in Appleton, Wisconsin), I would get up around 6am, drink strong, black coffee, and smoke cigs and watch Bozo's Circus, usually nursing a hangover. After my shower, I would dance around the house after Dad left for work. I would put on either Whammy by The B-52's, Waking Up With the House on Fire by Culture Club, or Nina Hagen's Fearless, and dance for about an hour before school. I would dance like I was Nina or Boy, or like I was a back-round dancer in a video, or like I was at the Peppermint Lounge in New York. (There used to be a very amateur -looking cable show on on the weekends that was "live from the Peppermint Lounge" and you could watch cool skinny kids dance to the latest New Wave offerings.) It was like brushing my teeth: an essential start to my day. It was fun. You should try it.
Fearless is a great album with a title I took to heart. In Beauty School I dated Doug, an art student at UWO, and before I graduated, he moved to Chicago to go to the Art Institute. I really wanted to leave Appleton. I also really wanted to move to New York, but I didn't know anyone there. So I foolishly, blindly, brazenly, shockingly moved in with Doug. With literally 5 dollars and no job. I had been to Chicago only once before, for an 8th grade trip to the Field Museum. I knew NOTHING about Chicago other than what I saw on Goodtimes, and the night-time aerial shot of the city from the WGN station-identification breaks with that cool black lady's voice-over: "Double-ewe Gee En, Chicaw-gowe" It was like she was trying to match her voice to the majestic, sprawling vision of Chicago at night. She succeeded. It stopped me in my tracks every time.
But I really wanted to be in big city! I didn't care! I just went for it. On April 25th, 1985. Kelly drove me down, and the first thing I remember seeing was Lane Tech High School. I could not believe how big it was.

"Kelly, that's a school!" I said.

"What, do they make every kid in Chicago go to the same school?" She answered back.

We had some time to kill before Doug got home, so we found his apartment by Addison and Racine, and went shopping. She spotted the Century Mall, so we went there. I had to pee, so I searched out the bathroom. I opened the door, and there is this cute blonde guy in a suit taking a crap. Yes, on the toilet, but there were no walls around it. This is the first Chicagoan I've ever met, so I can't freak-out! (Even though I've never seen a grown man pooping before.) So I walk in with my best world-weary, I've-seen-'em-ALL-poop-before look on my face and .....wash my hands. I didn't want too see, hear, OR smell that. I scold myself: "You're in the big city now......people poop anywhere without shame...get used to it."
Later when Doug and his roommate Steve got home, we go out for my first night in town. Divine was performing 6 blocks away at Medusa's! (I had pictures of her hung up in my locker in highschool I cut out of People Magazine.) We tried to get in, but I had no i-d. We drive over to Take One, walk in, and there is Boy singing Miss Me Blind on their giant video screen. But they wanted i-ds, too, so we tried Club 950. They let us in. It was a grungy pub with a dance floor that looked like it saw better days a long time ago, but I loved it. That night Doug and I slept on the floor in Steve's room. I'm not really sure why that was, as I write this, I realize now why Doug moved back to Wisconsin a month later...

My point is, don't be afraid to take those big risks in your life, especially when those risks are dreams. And don't be afraid to let your blubber fly to your favorite tune. Now that takes bravery.

You want fries with that?

Waiting.Waiting. Waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting. I am always waiting for something. Waiting to be happy. Waiting to have a life (only to realize it is probably half over). Waiting for...? The next thing? Person? Event? Waiting, waiting, when, when, when.
Yesterday I was waiting for a meeting (yes, I'm breaking my anonyminity like Capote's Phillip did last week) to start at a church on Belmont. In the hallway was a new "religious" mural. In big, decorative letters were the words "Jesus Christ". Well, I gasped. I gasped because for a second I thought someone graffittied a swear word on the church wall. Seeing those words reminded me of my stepfather circa 1975. Him yelling "Jesus Christ" was usually followed with something like "...what the hell is going on in here?" or "...who the hell left the door open!" Just when I thought I put my past into perspective, and accepted it, I realized "Jesus Christ" can still make me flinch.

I've been waiting a long time for my childhood to be over.

The summer between 6th grade and 7th grade I somehow got hooked on a soap opera. I don't remember which. There was a big, exciting party going on, with a small fire in a broom closet. So all summer, I knew this fire was getting bigger while everyone yukked it up and danced in their fancy clothes, and I waited on the edge of my seat for them to find out. All summer I waited (you know how soaps are) for them to be destroyed by a secret that was way too out of control for them to stop. This was the same summer we were all waiting for Skylab to fall. There was a huge billion dollar chunk of metal whipping around the earth, and no one knew where or when it would land. We just waited. To pass the time, I drew pictures of it crashing into a mansion, where a party was going on. Disaster-combining, you could say. Would it land in Los Angeles? (Oh, the carnage!) London? (Oh, the damage!) Or would I wake up to a loud noise outside my bedroom window, in the Town of Menasha, Wisconsin, and run screaming in giddy horror? "AAA! SKYLAB! HOW GLAMOROUS! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!"

"Oh please, please, please, let Skylab hit my house" I would pray everyday. I waited all summer, only for it to land in an empty field Down Under, and hurt no one. What a let-down. The soap opera fire wasn't a let-down, though. Wonderful, satisfying day-time TV destruction. "That'll teach ya to not check the closets!"
Waiting, waiting. Waiting in Chicago in the 80's? (the 80's seems to be the theme of this blog) :The Greyhound bus terminal, when it was still on Randolph and Dearborn. It was some how set below street level, like some gigantic scary sunken living room. Riding down the long escalator, I knew I was in for an "eventful" wait, because anyone could sit in the waiting area, and I'm sure you can imagine the types of people there. They really did have those chairs with the built-in TV sets you put quarters in to watch. In the mid-80's, I took the bus up to Wisconsin from there 3 or 4 times. You can see it in the Liz Shue star vehicle, Adventures in Babysitting.

Speaking of movies, it seems Veronica Lake got tired of waiting for her stalled career to get back on track, because she died forgotten, an alcoholic, a waitress in a bar. Did she end up just waiting to die?
What am I waiting for? What am I waiting for now? These days, I spend a lot of time waiting to fall asleep. I spend a lot of time waiting for the empty space in my bed next to me to be filled with someone I love. Or at least with someone who wants to be there. I wait for my body to get thinner and for my clothes to fit (I quit smoking last summer) I wait for the day I stop waiting. I wait for the day I am simply being.

with sympathy...

So as you may or may not know, they are tearing down some of the El stations on the red and brown lines. I guess to expand them like the "sleek and modern" Addison station. The old stations would have an old fashioned charm if the city of Chicago would ever bother to clean them! Is it too much to ask for them to blast off the 100 years of pigeon shit? The stations are so disgusting. I hold my breath whenever I climb up or down the station stairs so I inhale as little of the birdshit disease fumes as possible.
I was on the red line the other day, and every time I exit the station at Belmont, I remember Halloween night, 1985. I would never recommend riding the train alone on that night, by the way, because of all the creepy people who just stand there in those masks that cover your whole face and head. "Are they looking at me...or not...?"
I used to wear extensions in my hair back then, to add to the full and spiky Robert Smith or Al Jourgensen look (they were my hair idols), and on that night I got one caught going down the stairs and ripped it out. And do I mean ripped. With all those people behind me, there was no time to stop and yell. "AAA! My over-styled fake hair is caught up on sumpin'! Help! Wait! Stop! My punk wiglette! MY PUNK WIGLETTE!" So I just kept going. I imagined this little piece of cut-up wig dangling there with a bobby pin still stuck on it. Oh, the shame! The new wave shame! I was so embarrassed.
When I was on the train that other day, I was also inspired to write about the night in 1986 I was mugged on the train.
I was at my boyfriend Jeff's place watching that horrible, awful movie "Faces of Death" (I cringe to even write that title, because I associate this terrible night with it so much. I also have an irrational fear of "Looking for Mr.Goodbar", because BOTH times I watched it, something REALLY bad happened.) with his roommates, Cathy and Kristin, when I decided foolishly at 4 in the morning to go home. He lived on Pratt by Loyola and I lived at Belmont and Racine. That's a good 40 minute train ride. This was early March, so when the guy with no shirt got on the train at the next stop, I knew it wasn't going to be good. He was with two other guys, and they immediately came up to me asking for money. I was 19 and barely working, so I had none. They didn't believe me, so I turned out all my pockets and emptied my bag to prove it to them. The "leader" said: "My friend has a gun. Do what we say or he'll use it. Where are you going? Belmont? We're going there, too." So I moved slower to have time to think about my escape route when we got to Belmont. Once they saw I didn't have any money, they started taking the things of mine they wanted. Surprisingly, happily, not my shirt. When we get to Belmont, I push my way off the train.
"Where are you going?" the leader said, grabbing my arm. "I'm meeting my boyfriend and his friends!" I said loudly and angrily. "Oh yeah?" he said with interest, as he started to rub my crotch with one hand and my ass with the other. "Oh shit" I think to myself. "I am being mugged by gay rough trade."
Well, I guess one of the other guys was his boyfriend, and he was PISSED he was touching me 'cause he WALLOPED me in the face, knocking me to my knees. "FUCK THIS SHIT" I yell as I escape down the stairs. Gun or no gun, I had enough. I ran into that little Mexican place next to Berlin, where I saw some friends, and told them what had just happened.
"Where did they go?" my friend Brian asked. He was so pissed, he ran after them, not caring it was three against one. They got the upper hand, and hurt him so bad we had to take him to the hospital. I felt like shit. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
But the next day, after some of the dust settled, I could see Brian was hurt, but not permanently. He said he was glad he did it, and he would do it again, for me. And someone had even found my bag and brought it to my work. That night, I took the train home. I think that was the night I knew I was my own person, with my own life, away from my parents, and no matter what happened, it was all going to be ok.

That's Entertainment

I was talking to a client the other day about her experience with the "Penny Marshall Effect". This is a term I created to describe the shock of seeing someone you haven't seen for a while, and how time has "taken it's toll" on their appearance. Meaning, whenever I think of Penny Marshall, I think of her and how cute and perky and smiley she was on her show, "Laverne and Shirley". Then she disappeared for a while after her show was cancelled, to reappear ONLY 5 YEARS LATER to direct "Big". Well, I couldn't believe the change when I saw her doing press for the movie. All droopy and slow talkin'. It was like a medicated version of her former self had melted in the sun. And before you yell "stroke!", you can stop because I just read her IMDB bio and there's nothing in there about an illness, though that would explain a lot. I still love her very much, I was just shocked, is all.
We all come to that place in our life, sooner or later, if we're lucky. Has it happened to you yet? I think I'm on the verge... And believe it or not, this post is about when my boyfriend bought us tickets to The Smiths for my 20th birthday.
I was looking at a photo of Morrissey today and trying to decide when "PME" happened to him. My guess would be 2002. He went from "Freakish Beauty" to "Old Irish Guy". But I was also marveling how his work has been a part of my life for over twenty years. He made being a nerd sexy! I will always think of Bryan, "the one that got away" when I hear "How Soon is Now", and I still will always be jealous of Ron for stealing Brad from me whenever I hear anything from "Hatful of Hollow" because that was their album to drop acid to. (whiney voice) "I wanna trip with Brad!" (pout). Conversely, their old roomate Scott still to this day throws-up blood whenever he hears The Smiths, because they played them 24/7.
So my boyfriend in 1986 was Jeff, and his (our) album was "The Queen is Dead". Sadly, he emulated all the bad things about Morrissey he perceived as "good". He was a vegetarian. He wrote poetry. He was celibate. Yes, my boyfriend was celibate. Yes, it sucked. But we did have good make-out sessions. My rationale was always: "He can't be serious. He's going to say 'Just kidding!' any day now." Me saying that in my head every day kept our relationship going for a good year.
So it took me a week to figure out what to wear. I decided on my roommate Jody's long black flowey skirt, Brad's pointy black patent-leather boots with all those straps, a Jesus t-shirt, 20 million rosaries, black leather motorcycle jacket, and a false black pony tail (because I saw Cerda do it. Yes, I've known him that long) and , of course, huge spikey black hair. And probably Baroni's "Red Diamonds" lipstick. (I cried the day that tube ran dry)
I guess Jeff had to pull my hand off his crotch one too many times, because the night of the show he called to say he "may not be able" to go. I just slammed down the phone. I went anyway. I get to the Aragon Ballroom 15 minutes into the show, and to my horror, everyone is dressed the exact opposite of me: Rebocks, LIGHT blue jeans and over-sized white t-shirts. Ewwwwww. And they were all flailing around like it was some kind of May pole at a Renaissance Fair. "This is The Smiths, not The Styx!" I stay a little bit to watch Moz dance around with those mock protest signs, sing some great songs, and watch sweaty kids dragged off stage, but I felt so out of place I left early. And my crappy relationship just ended. "Fuck you, happy puppet-people! I am outta here! I came here to MOPE, 'cause this is The Smiths, and you MOPE around to it!" Though they were nice to me, I guess.
My friend Mark literally had the exact opposite experience that I had, but that's another story for another time, because it's long and scary and freaky and you won't believe it, but you'll have to 'cause it's TRUE!
I tell this Morrissey story because he will be performing on my 40th birthday in Scotland. I will be in England then with my mom. (Her gift to me) Though she's up for it, I said no to the concert. But I have a feeling I may change my mind. It is my birthday, after all.

The Serpent and the Rainbow?

So I had this girl roommate Margie in 1986. Actually 3 girl roommates in 1986. Margie's sister and Stephanie. Margie and her sister (can you tell I can't remember her name yet?) "Laura" were the type of women that men were VERY attracted to. Crazily attracted to. Now, they weren't Playboy type girls, Margie was a little bookish, and "Laura" was a tomboy, but the guys were CRAZY for them. Not good crazy. One day this long note appeared on our door step written in a shaky, childish hand professing pages and pages of love "to the girl in the red sneekers" and way too many details about her daily habits. Needless to say she snuck out the back door for a while.
The main thing I remember about living with them (besides the endless hours of "The Lion and The Cobra" and endless piles of pizza from Stephanie's job) were Margies "flashing" stories. She was flashed more than anyone I ever met."Aww, c'mon Margie, AGAIN!?" To the point I thought it was a cry for attention. Or like a Snuffleuffagus kind of thing. Maybe Chicago has changed a lot since the 80's, but a lot of women I knew were flashed on a pretty regular basis. Maybe they still are, but I never hear about it. Not that I really want to know.
Anyway, Margie and I went to see "Sid and Nancy" at the old Three Penny on Lincoln. I still love that part of Lincoln and it's lingering ghosts and notorious past. This was before they chopped it up and it was still one big theater. The movie starts, and I notice a guy pacing back and forth behind us. So I stand up and glare at him, and he sits down. A few minutes later, I see him stroking the biggest tool I've ever seen in my whole life. "I'm not seeing that" I think calmly to myself. "That's a bottle of coke he smuggled in."
"Brian, do you see that? Look!"
"What? No, I don't see anything. That's a magazine. Watch the movie." But, of course, I did see it. I just was so into the movie, I didn't care. Gary and Chloe WERE Sid and Nancy. And I had just read "...And I don't want to live this life" and all the press at the time about how pissed Johnny was that he wasn't consulted about a movie of his own life. So I was very excited to be there, and a big scary boner wasn't going to stop it. After a few minutes, he left. And after the movie, I apologized to Margie, and listened to every scary boner story with the complete attention and love only a roommate can give.
The next day I tell a co-worker "I saw 'Sid and Nancy' last night."
"How are they?" she asks. After a confused pause I say "Dead."

" The Last Bus to Maudlin Street"

One night in late 1986, it was really fucking cold. Chicago was a cold place to be in December, at one time. A big group of us would usually go to a diner after a night at Berlin or Medusa's. The 10 minute walk this night was pretty brutal. We get to the entrance, and here is this guy with no shirt, standing there, shivering.
Now, you have to know, when you live in an area where there is a large homeless population, you have to learn how to make peace with the fact there are people who live OUTSIDE. You have to make peace with it because you see them everyday, and if you don't, you don't sleep at night. It took me a really long time to do that. Maybe my heart just got a little colder. Giving to charity helps.
But I get off the topic. So my first thought is "Oh, he's just trying to manipulate us for a handout. He's putting on an act." I think these things, but I don't say them out loud. Nobody says anything. But after a moment or two, we're back to our normal loud conversations. But my chair is facing the window, and I can see him still out there. I would peek a side long glance from time to time at the person sitting next to me to see if they noticed, too. They either pretended not to see, or didn't see him there. So I tried to focus on my friends.
Sitting next to us were some of the drag queen prostitutes we would see on Broadway and Diversey. (Yes, believe it or not, that was a seedy area at one time.) They were probably there at the diner because of the extra cold night. They of course saw him too. So 15, 20 minutes go by, and now I know that this isn't an act. This guy somehow is outside without a shirt. Then one of the drag queens gets up and gives this guy her jacket. It's hard for her to get it on him, because it's too small and his shivering is more violent. The entire place is quiet, watching. So she pulls him inside and orders him some soup and coffee.
Compassion is never inappropriate.
The next day I was at my friend Mark's place. On his wall was a picture our friend Martin painted that I always loved and envied. It was a painting of a cross-eyed drag queen that we would see in our neighborhood by the diner. I asked him why he painted it, and he said "I just saw something beautiful about her" I saw that painting everyday for a year or so before the "diner incident". I think the most amazing feature of the painting was the way this cross-eyed drag queen looked at you. Like the Mona Lisa. Like she knew something you didn't.

Yes Virginia, There is a Mexican Restaurant You Like!

I'm Not EVEN going to comment on the fact that it's been almost a year since my last post. No comment whatever. And please ignore my first post. I was soo embarassed when I just re-read it. Ish. When did I turn into a TV? BUY THIS!! GO THERE!! I am brought to you by my own dumb luck and sinful pride, not some corporate schmuck-fart sponsers. BUY NOTHING AND GO NOWHERE!!
So I haven't had Mexican food in about 10 years. I had it tonight at a new-ish place on Lincoln. How was it you may ask? Let's just say that my faith in the people of Mexico, and Mexico as a nation, has been restored. They CAN solve their problems, fix their water, drive out the cartels! I haven't had their food in so long because my favorite place closed, like a million years ago. It was on Webster across the street from Kelly's Pub and it was called La Cocina. That place was heaven. I used to work on Sheffield by Webster in the 80's. By Roma's. Remember that place? What a pit. A quick Roma's story. In the 80's, I was all about "the Goth" and was in line to pick up some lunch in my normal attire: 16" tall hair-do, all black clothes, and crosses and rosaries; black lipstick; just your typical goth look. I notice a booth start to laugh. Which if you are or were a goth, you're sadly all too familiar with, so I was just about sneer at them when I noticed something different in their laughter, which if you are or were gay, you know the difference between the many types of laughter. This was a good natured laughter, so I looked around. I frount of me were three nuns from De Paul, dressed the same as I was, minus the lipstick. I guess they were weirded out by me, and I hadn't noticed, but the rest of Roma's had.
Any who, when I brought my friends to La Cocina, the typical reation was "Oh my Sweet Christ!!" after the first bite. Especially their chorizo. Man that was good stuff. I think they made their own. I met some one recently, and the subject got on to food, and she has the same experience as me. We just get depressed eating other Mexican food. Granted, I haven't tried very hard to find a good place. I just figured Mexican- Americans were "over it". "We're OVER IT, ya'll. Fuck OFF" But I guess I was wrong. This place was great. Oh and there is a place in L.A. I like.

Well, It Was The Eighties...

Yesterday's blog got me to thinking about my 19th year on this planet, in 1985. It was a time when a lot of my ideas of what "the rules" were about things were changing. This was the year I read "Breakfast of Champions" by Kurt Vonnegut. Have you read this? He starts the book with a drawing of his asshole. I was like, "this is a book?". It started this major shift in my perception of myself and the world around me. Mainly that creativity is a chance you take, and it can be scary to trust yourself, but you do it anyway. My first roommate in Chicago was this straight kid, Steve. He was obsessed with David Letterman. (My first memory of his show [a year earlier] was the" letters" segment, where a viewer asked about the blinking lights in the buildings behind him on his set; cut to two actors turning the lights on and off in their 'apartment', worried how mad David gets when they don't do it right...I was a fan ever since.) So Steve had video taped EVERY show, up to the day I moved in to his place. What is that, like 3 years at the time? A LOT of tapes. I didn't have a job for the first couple of months I was here, and I think I watched half of them. Morning, noon and night. When I wasn't watching David Letterman, I was at Medusa's. It was this super-fun juice bar on Sheffield by Belmont. My first night in Chicago, Divine performed there. People of every age and type went there, because the music was the best, and it was open til ten in the morning. It was this huge room of a place, with 50 foot ceilings, so they designed and made furniture to scale, that all the kids would dance on. Standing on the balcony, over looking the room, tripping on acid, I felt I had arrived.
"This is the coolest thing I have ever seen!" I thought.
One night I went with Steve and his girlfriend, who was this beautiful golden California girl with a huge mohawk. She made her living during school as a Boy George impersonator, somewhere. I never did find out where. Maybe they were teasing me. I don't know.
So we're all waiting, ready to go, when Steve comes out of his room in Chuck Taylor's, black lace panty-hose, green running shorts, and a Ramones t-shirt. The last time I wore panty-hose, I was 16, they were my mom's, and me and my best friend Brad tried them on with kinky shame before we blew each other, one day when we cut school. And Steve was going out like this. Another major shift: clothing does not define your sexuality, it defines your personality. He went on to legally add the word Diet to his name, and is a published photographer, with his own books. The Letterman tapes were all stolen from one of the many robberies of our apartment. Medusa's went condo.

Joan Blondell: exciting new screen sensation!

well I'm moving. I got into a fight with my roommate on New Year's day, and agreed to disagree, AND agree that I move out. It was written on the wall, I guess. Now I live on Lake Shore Drive, on the 11th floor. I thought I would really enjoy the view, but I haven't noticed. In 1985, I used to spend hours with my friend Scott hanging out in his kitchen, looking out the window, watching all the leather guys in chaps walk down Diversey to the since burned-down Touche. I think I went there once in the early 90's with my other friend Scott who has also burned down, in a matter of speaking. The first Scott and I were both 19 or so when we moved here, and reveled in our grown-upness in the big city. He being from Pittsburg, me from Appleton,WI. We would blast Yello and Japanese Whispers, I would smoke 8000 Benson and Hedges menthol lights, he would make us better and better fake id's, and we would hang out his kitchen window for hours and hours. He lived in this beautiful circa 1902 elevator (with one of those sliding doors) building, and he had his grandmother's wonderful 1920's kitchen set. It was like we were new wave time travelers to Chicago during the roaring 20's. We would even listen to the old time radio shows some AM station used to replay. Our favorite was "Shondoo, THE MAGICIAN!" By my old apartment on Racine and Addison was this great little mom and pop convenience store. Every square inch of that place was 1940. ESPECIALLY the couple who worked there and owned it. Her hair and make-up, his clothes, the music they played, the decor. EVERYthing! It was like a movie set! Imagine yourself and your surroundings as they are now, and speed up the clock 40 years. That was them. I LOVED them and their store. I would go everyday to see them. Sometimes I would dress up like 1940 to buy my cigs, to "time travel". Some times I would think I was in the Twilight Zone, and only I could go to this store. I miss those days of the simple pleasures when even going to the grocery store was a blast. It's not that my life is more complicated, it was probably more so back then, but somewhere I became JADED. Oh well. I guess I became jaded when I realized that everything is, or will be, old-fashioned, retro, quaint, and just plain silly. Even me, I guess. Oh crap.

willkommen, bienvenu, welcome

Well, welcome to the first day of my blog "Twenty years and counting" .That means my tale of urban living will be 20 years old as of April 25 of this year. I know many of you non-urbanites are just DYING to know what the millions us us urbanites are doing, so I will try my best to illuminate you. ALWAYS without the aid of spell check. I also need to type better and faster.I also love to write, and need to "open my creative doors". Please remember, this is only my story, one little story of urban life. It is biased. It can be boring. It can be exciting. Like last week, for instance. I was at the opening night of Spamalot, here in Chicago. My friend/client is a dresser for the show, and she got me last minute tix. What a funny show. RUN, don't walk to NYC when it opens. I got to go to the opening night gala. Tim Curry (a god) said I smelled "delicious". I had on M7 from YSL. I also wore my ancient Armani blue velvet blazer and just as ancient Dolce shirt and tie. I talked to Eric Idol a bit, but the music was loud, so I don't think he heard me. Hank "moe/apu" Azaria and David Hyde Pierce were fun and looking good. Christy Hefner was ice-cool and posing glamourously. Check out the pics at www.chicago-scene.com . I'm the one with the short beard and long hair with the cool red head and the stunning blonde. The party was at the LaSalle bank lobby. How many times can you get down in a bank lobby? So I only had 2 dollars, so I had to walk miles to the busstop, under dressed, to get home. This homeless guy approached me with this super-long speach about how he "Didn't want to hurt me or upset me, but wanted a buck". I gave it to him. Huge chunks of ice were crashing to the ground from the new Hard Rock Hotel, freaking me out. People die from that, you know. But the weirdest thing about the night was seeing so many odd people from my past, mixed in with these cool celebs: a girl I did a play with 9 years ago checking in coats. A fellow AAer who I think fell off the wagon(I could be wrong) tending bar. A guy I dated that ended REALLY badly who didn't know if he was coming or going. What is the universe trying to tell me?