yellow is the color of fear

Easter Sunday arrives, and you wake up a little depressed.
Your family is 800 miles away, but you're not so much homesick as you are sad not to be getting the annual shipment of Cadbury Eggs your mother usually sends for the holiday.
It's 42 degrees (again) and kinda gray (again) and the apartment is a complete disaster (again), due to an unfinished painting project the BF started on "Good" Friday.
So the BF decides, it's time to go to IKEA.
OK, you say, but only if the trip will not take up our entire day. Because you've learned your lesson. The last little IKEA adventure turned into a five-hour tour of duty.
No, this time it'll be different, he says, because this time we have a plan. We'll go and buy a new couch, he says. We need a new couch because we have houseguests coming this weekend, he says.
Oh yeah. That.
So you go.
The 1 Train takes you to 42nd Street. You have a cupcake for breakfast then descend into the flourescent Purgatory of the Port Authority bus terminal, where the free shuttle to IKEA takes sad-eyed (and mostly foreign born) shoppers out to Elizabeth, New Jersey, for the promise of Big Box Bliss.
Funny name, "Elizabeth." It sounds so elegant, with visions of stately British gardens and ponds filled with swans. But Elizabeth, New Jersey, is perhaps the antithesis of elegance. It's a rusted scab of industrial blight that happens to have a shiny yellow-and-blue IKEA store.
Inside, no one speaks English. Untold masses cram the upstairs "Showroom" and clog the aisles with strollers. They leave sweaty fingerprints on white canvas couches made in Sweden.
But you and the BF have learned your lesson. You stay on target. You weigh the benefits of the cloth loveseat over the leather sofa. You measure metal tables. You follow the IKEA rules and jot down names like "Ockero" and "Rosfors" on the pre-supplied shopping lists.
You hand those slips to the yellow-shirted staff, and the verbal lashing begins. This item is out of stock. This one you'll have to pick up yourself.
But it's a sofa!
Sorry, see the people downstairs.
At this point, a voice on the intercom announces that the last bus back to civilization leaves in half an hour. You've spent three and a half hours in the store already. Your plan is now fucked.
A mad dash downstairs to the warehouse leads to a dreadlocked salesgirl whose eyes are filled with hatred. We only have one of those loveseats left, she says, pointing to a plastic-wrapped glob in the distance. It's your loveseat, alright, the last one, which you lift yourself onto a dolly and start the long haul to the cash registers.
An Easter miracle? Not quite.
Turns out there's a gaping hole in the plastic, which penetrates the brown-paper bottom of the sofa. Another salesguy says they can't sell it with a hole in it. He'll have to send it to the "As Is" department, and you'll have to come back for it later.
As Is? As if.
You and the BF are about to go Columbine. The bus is about to leave. You frantically wheel your other purchases (a rug, some mirrors, a press-board mail sorter, crap) up to the check-out area. You have personally witnessed riots that are more civil than this consumer clusterfuck. Nerves are frayed. A woman with a baby shoves her way past you and breaks in line. She does not speak English. The baby is sleeping.
Five minutes until the bus leaves, you realize there's no way you can possibly place your order for the Rosfors (a four-door wooden TV cabinet) or the Granso (a cute little dining room table). You decide to cut your losses and go back to Manhattan, an oasis of calm compared to this savage third-world excuse for shopping.
On the bus, the BF plops the rolled-up rug in the gap between your seats. You hold the bags in your lap. On the other side of the aisle, a fat woman of some sort of Slavic descent hovers over her 9-year-old daughter. Her voice is shrill, like Betty Boop, and she does not speak English. It sounds like some bastardized form of Swedish. Her hair is dirty. The daughter drinks a Mountain Dew and looks bored. The bus smells like stale potoato chips.
Your BF says he feels nauseous.
You sit and wait. The bus fills past its capacity. It's now 5:30 p.m., which means your day is pretty much over. Betty BaBoopski screams from the back of the bus, telling a young Asian girl to please not drop her shopping bag on her daughter. The daughter looks embarrassed.
Finally the bus departs, and the rotted metal of New Jersey begins to fade into the towering comfort of Manhattan.
Why, God, why, did you waste your Sunday doing this?
The bus arrives back at Purgatory and Betty BaBoopski is causing another scene. A short, Guido-looking guy says to her, "Do you realize how fucking annoying it is to have you talk over us?" She grabs her daughter by the hand and you see them again a few minutes later, asking for directions from a young thug on 9th Avenue.
Later that night, in Chelsea, you and the BF go into a drug store looking for shampoo. They don't carry the brands that either of you use. They're also sold completely out of Cadbury Eggs.
Happy Easter.


Update: Another reason to hate IKEA.

the new black is ... black

"How was Black Party?"
When people ask that question, they're expecting a response to curl their cuticles. I'd love to be able to shoot back some witty answer like
It was OUTRAGEOUS — We saw a six-man bareback gang-bang on a BED OF NAILS
or
We were loving it until the midget felching tournament turned ugly.
The truth is I have no such crrrazy report to offer. Yes, the party was plenty hedonistic, and I did see some wild shit. But overall, the Black Party for me was just another party. Well, with more creative uses of cowhide.

The bf and I decided to play it cool and go with basic circuit attire. He wore a zip-up sleeveless number, while I scrounged a faux-trucker tank top with faded eagle iron-on from the clearance bin at Filene's. Redneck chic is so 2002, but I thought it would work in this crowd.
We briefly visited our friendly neighborhood fetish shop, which was teeming with Black Party traffic. (We even saw her there, which made the bf giggle and make piggy noises.) But we decided pretty quickly that the ball-gag look is not our speed, so we bought small Zorro-esque masks instead.
We made it to the Roseland Ballroom a little before 2 and, to be honest, I was a little disappointed in the costumery. Obviously, there were lots of Beefy Daddies in full Tom of Finland mode, and definitely a few assorted other freaks in the house. But the vibe was less Radical Faerie and more faux fetish; that is, I felt like many of these dudes had just rented their harnesses for the night.
For weeks now I've been hearing stories about Black Party's rep for being out of control. And yes, we did wander into the dimly lit back room at one point, but the oppressive heat and the hay (!) on the floor made the vibe less sexy for me and more like a county fair gone horribly wrong.
I was more surprised by the go-go dancers at full attention who were stationed in the very busy upstairs hallway. They didn't seem to mind when the flow of traffic got blocked temporarily by a partier paying them lip service. I haven't seen such blatant blow jobs since Mardi Gras — back in New Orleans’ pre-neutered days.
Equally impressive were the sheer number of people in attendance. The dance floor was absolutely mad.
Black Party's organizers liken the event to a pagan celebration of the Vernal Equinox, signaling the coming of spring. Halloween holds the opposite place on the calendar, a Druidic observance of the arrival of autumn. I guess there's a certain symmetry there, with the costumery and the craziness. Or maybe the gays will take any excuse to give head in public.
Sadly, the bf and I ran out of steam long before dawn, and we left just as Victor Calderone came on deck. From what we heard, he was on.

"So how was Black Party?" EMC asked me today, probably the 20th person to pose that question in as many hours. He referred to it as a circuit party, which I’m not sure is really accurate, even though it did have a circuit DJ headlining. I'd venture that only about a quarter of the crowd was truly X-perienced circuit veterans, and the honest-to-gosh fetish men are a different animal altogether. I'd wager that most of the guys at Black Party didn't really belong to either camp. There seemed to me to be more average-looking, non-muscle heads, not really leather lads either, but middle-of-the road guys who were just playing dress-up and getting their freak on.

For me, I’m glad I went, even though the party ultimately didn’t feel all that different from some other large-scale homo gatherings I’ve attended.
Oh, and we never got around to putting on our Zorro masks. Maybe I’ll save mine and pull it out when Halloween rolls around.

jobs i will not be applying for

From Mediabistro today:
The AA Grapevine, Inc., publisher of the international journal of Alcoholics Anonymous, is hiring a managing editor to work in its office in New York City. Written, edited, and illustrated by AA members ... the Grapevine magazine reflects the experience, strength, and hope of its contributors and offers help and support to thousands of alcoholics. ... Requirements: Five to six years of editorial and production experience in magazine or book publishing; management experience; demonstrated writing and editing skills; a B.A. or the equivalent; a working knowledge of AA’s Twelve Steps and Traditions; at least six years of sobriety.

Barkeep, how about a toast -- to unemployment!

i know just what you mean

Many years ago, in the mid-to-late '90s, EMc and I went to a workshop for writers.
I don't remember much about the guest speakers now, but I do recall us sitting through a lecture from Ellen Goodman and her gal pal Patricia O'Brien. The two of them had written a book together called "I Know Just What You Mean," and their lecture was a Saturday Night Live skit waiting to be written, these two smug, middle-aged white women completing each others' sentences, completely wrapped up in their own oblivious realities. EMc and I laughed like hyenas later, and would often quote Ellen or Patricia, which would cause us both to crack up again.
One thing I did take from that afternoon was something they said about friendships. Friends come in two varieties: Friends of the road and friends of the heart. It's a variation of the old saying that you can have friends for a reason, friends for a season, or friends for a lifetime.
I know, cue the Hallmark commercial, but hear me out.
I've thought about that quote a lot since I moved to the city just over a month ago. The bf and I joke that we have no friends here, nor have we made much of an effort to meet anyone. But that's not entirely true. By an odd twist of fate, three of my oldest and (once) closest friends from college have also ended up here in the center of the universe -- or at least a short train ride away.
EMc is here, though he and I never really lost touch. Sure, we don't talk as much as we used to, and he's usually too busy being the best reporter in the Western Hemisphere to hang out with me -- even though we now live three blocks apart. Still, the connection is there, and I'm convinced we'll be giggling at New Yorker cartoons until long after my eyesight has given way.
With the other two, it's more complicated. My communication with Amy had fallen off for a long while, so our times hanging out recently have been about rediscovery. She's still the same fiery bitch she always was, but age has mellowed her around the edges. At dinner the other night she had me nearly in tears with laughter. It was either her stories or the spicy Curry Chicken, but either way it was good to see her.
And then there's Neil. I'm happy to discover that he's as crazy and as creative as ever. He's actually just launched a blog and the writing is daring, disgusting, and delightful. Neil will always be a square peg in world of round holes, but he does take such visceral pleasure in fisting those holes. God love 'em.
I bring this all up now because of a fourth person who I also recently had a chance to see after a long period of silence. Not a college friend, but someone who came along shortly after and who very much changed the course of my middle 20s. We had a perfectly polite meeting the other day -- perfectly polite and perfectly forgettable. I left the restaurant half wishing I had not initiated the communication, wondering what it was I was looking for in the first place.

Maybe I'm just getting old and sentimental. I like to think there's some explanation why we circle back around and reconnect with the people we've lost touch with. Sometimes those reconnections show us that there was a reason those people once meant so much to us, and there's a reason you've landed in the same city all these years later. Sometimes they show us that the person's season has passed and it's time to pay for your coffee and just move on.

god's a gonna trouble the water

Where would we be without JP?
On Jerry's suggestion, I spent my lunch hour yesterday in search of Printed Matter, a fascinating little shop for artists' books that's tucked away in Chelsea's cooler-than-thou gallery district.
I say "in search of" because I apparently wrote the address down wrong when I left the apartment. I ended up at Matthew Marks instead, which turned out to be a happy little surprise. The space's current exhibition is a mind-bending installation by sculptor Robert Gober.
The bf and I had recently spotted another Gober work during our recent visit to MoMA. Creepy stuff. I liked it but wasn't knocked off my feet. No pun intended.
Anyway, this exhibition is a response to 9/11 (because really, what isn't?) that includes several panels reproducing the front page of The New York Times from Sept. 12. Only the pages are in reverse, creating an ominous, everything's wrong kind of vertigo.
Better still was the piece de la resistance (which is French for "money shot"), a towering, headless Christ upon the crucifix with twin streams of water squirting from His nipples. The water pours out in an arc and then vanishes into a hole in the cement floor. I'm thinking, "Jesus, this guy must be important. They tore up the floor for him."
I finally left the lactating savior and continued my original quest. Printed Matters was actually just across the street, and I got there just in time for their annual warehouse sale. (I'm sure there's something very Po-Mo and witty to be said about a place that sells only artists' books having a warehouse sale, but I'm not quite that smart.)
After fingering dozens of hand-made oddities, German texts and photos of semi-erect penises (apparently THE thing to feature in your artist book), I sheepishly left without buying anything. As much as I love the thought of artists books, I usually don't really get them. It's like cruising chicken at the bar: They're fun to look at, but do I really want to bring one home with me? It's sort of the same with the Gober works. That Christ fountain sure was cool, but I'd hate to have to rip up the floor in our apartment to install it.


And on a completely unrelated note, I'm happy to report that a certain grad student I know has started blogging. Class, say hello to Michael.

i'm sorry ms. jackson

I used to be so good about birthdays. Really I did.
I'd be the one who kept track of everyone's special day, would always send cards, usually would be the one planning the surprise birthday party.
Not so now. My friends are damn lucky if they get a phone call. A text message is usually the most I can muster.
That said, today happens to be the birthday of one of my favorite people.
The one and only Taures Jackson turns 21 today. Or maybe 28. I'm not really sure.
It was Taures who spoke the immortal words that later became the name of this blog.
He and I have been through thick and thicker. Laughter. Tears. Laughter through tears.
I once left him stranded in Paris, with nothing but 40 Euros and an address of a cold youth hostle, but he never held that against me. God bless him. Salt of the earth, I'm telling you.
Despite all we've been through, I didn't send Taures a birthday card. Said card is now sitting on my counter, where it's been waiting to be mailed for two days. Maybe I should have just sent a text message.
Anyway, Happy Birthday, Taures! You know what they say:
Sorry 'bout all this.

have you tried walking? yes i have.

A while back I wrote a sort of pissy note about Julia Cameron and her advice to try walking to clear up a creative block.
I've actually done the walking thing twice now, and it's great. This past weekend the bf and I went on a leisurely stroll that took us to parts of the island we'd never seen before.
So, um, sorry Julia.

the f word

While most of my close friends were busy frolicking here, I was sitting at home watching TV this weekend. Yay.
Sunday night I made a point to catch the second season premiere of Deadwood on HBO, due to the gobs of press the show's been getting.
Now, I like to consider myself a smart guy. I double majored in journalism and English, which meant I had to take two somewhat intense terms of Shakespeare. I loved the reading. Students tend to bristle at the Bard because they find the language so dense, but after reading the fifth or sixth play in a row things start to get easier.
What the hell does this have to do with Deadwood?
Plenty. In case you haven't seen the show, the language can be a mouthful. The characters speak in an antiquated, often haltingly formal, vernacular -- one reviewer calls it "archaic and demanding." No kidding.
As with my Shakespeare classes, I had to sneak and read the Cliff's Notes later just to figure out what the bejesus happened. It's hard work for Sunday night. Carrie and Samantha never were like this. And they never shot anyone, either.
Characters on Deadwood also swear. A lot. The aptly named Swearengen lets an f-bomb fly every six seconds or so, while another character couldn't stop saying "cunt." I'm not one to be offended by profanity, and I've been known to cuss a few people out in my day, but is this really the way the West was run?
The episode led to a discussion between the bf and me about when exactly folks started using the f word. Turns out I was wrong in saying it was a 20th Century invention.
After "Deadwood" we caught another riveting episode of "The L Word," which just get juicier by the hour. Not sure about the cameo appearance by Betty, though. Those dykes are fucked up.
Still, "The L Word" is some must-see TV. I haven't been this fascinated by a group of fish since I worked in a pet store.
(God, I wish we'd gone to Winter Party.)

word nerds go to heaven

I'm a sap. This New Yorker item from TOTT nearly brought me to tears.

a few notes on new music

1. Ray Charles, "Genius Loves Company"
I bought this CD after seeing "Ray," curious to learn why it earned eight (!) Grammys. I love Ray Charles, always have, but honestly, I can't figure out what the big deal is over this one, unless the whole thing was just a posthumous love note. (News flash: If the artist is dead, they don't care if you give them a Grammy.)
Best tracks: "Here We Go Again" with Norah Jones, "You Don't Know Me" with Diana Krall. Weirdest track: "It Was a Very Good Year" with Willie Nelson. Friends know I have a soft spot in my heart for Willie, but jesus lord, what a trainwreck!
2. Kathleen Edwards, "Back to Me"
See previous entry on Kathleen's appearance on Letterman, which prompted me to buy her new one. Señor Portwood had given me "Failer" way back when, which had a few catchy tracks but nothing astounding. The new CD seems to be slightly peppier, though songs in the middle sorta blend together.
Best track: "Back to Me," which reminds me of Patti Griffin.
3. Nanci Griffith, "Hearts in Mind"
OK, a tidbit of TRAYB trivia. I've been obesessed with Nanci since I was like 14. My father taped her appearance on "Austin City Limits" in 1989 and forced the family to watch it over and over again. I've bought pretty much everything she's released since then, and Nanci never disappoints. (Let's not talk about "Clock Without Hands," which I've erased from memory.) The new CD came to me in January courtesy of Lucas (who also never disappoints), and I've listened to one or two songs repeatedly. Another winner.
Best tracks: "Beautiful," "Heart of Indochine." Worst: "I Love This Town," a duet with Jimmy Buffett. Egad.
4. Lucas Miré, "Forever Is Not As Long As It Used To Be"
Speaking of Lucas, his long-awaited debut arrived in my Monday mail and has absolutey made my week. I had it on repeat for two days straight, until finally the bf intervened because he wanted to watch TV. Anyway, it's such a weird sensation for me to hear my friend's voice on a CD like that, and also hear it as if I were a stranger. More on this phenomenon later. Buy the CD!
5. Lydia Prim, "Party Groove: Blue Ball Vol. 4"
I'm actually writing about this one for next week's David, and had an entertaining phone call with La Lydia to discuss the new release. She's CRAZY. In a good way. Talks very very fast, so it was hard for me to sometimes get down exactly what she was saying. But I'm not sure I've ever spoken to a DJ who was just so darn earnest. The CD has some interesting moments, but I have to admit my interest in dance music is low right now.
Best track: "True Faith" (cover of New Order). Killer.

better late than ...

My bf was running late.
He wasn't supposed to leave work early, but he thought he could sneak out for us to catch the 5 p.m. taping of The Late Show with David Letterman. Getting tickets wasn't easy. I registered online weeks ago, then got a call saying we were in -- IF I could answer a trivia question about the show. Which I promptly fumbled.
Thankfully, the bf was able to recoup our loss and answered his question correctly.
The truth is, I haven't watched Letterman since I was a kid. My father and I had a few years there when we'd sit up to catch it almost every week night -- one of the perks of having a hippie family that didn't believe in bedtimes.
But all those years of Dave left a mark on me, and it had been a minor goal of mine to see a live taping since I was 9 or 10.
I stood out in the blowing cold waiting for the bf's arrival. He was just two blocks away, but pushed it to the last possible moment for us to make the 4 p.m. cutoff to claim our tickets. Finally, he powered-walked right past me, his face pale white and his nose running. We were going to make it after all.
After showing our IDs, we were given two yellow tickets and instructions to come back in 45 minutes. Doh!
We killed time in the Starbucks across the street and then joined the hordes of people shivering along Broadway. The yellow-and-black jacketed Late Show staff -- mostly awkward kids in their early 20s -- kept the lines orderly, and finally a raspy-voiced redhead with multiple earrings gave a rehearsed monologue to the crowd. It was a heartfelt speech about how important it is that we be an enthusiastic audience, repelte with yells of, "I can't hear you!"
We were told that an opening comic would come out to warm up the audience, and that Dave would be backstage listening to our response, judging if we were a good audience or not. If we were loud and laughed a lot, well, then he just might pull out his best material for us. If not, he'd save it for another night.
I was like, WTF? Are we talking about David Letterman or Santa Claus? He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sakes?
The redhead went on to demonstrate the sounds that we were absoltely not to make during the taping. No "woo" sounds of excitement. None. And no "awww" sounds to show pity. She reiterated that above all else, we had to laugh. Lots and lots of laughs. Even if we just think something is borderline funny, laugh anyway. And laugh loud.
The speech ended and we stood in the cold wind for another 15 minutes before finally being escorted into the theater, with more of the Late Show SS clapping and cheering us.
God, I hate forced gaiety.
The theater itself is gorgeous, of course, and the show's actual set is smaller than I expected. It's always like that. Soon enough the show had started. Dave came out, smaller and gray than he seems on TV, and told a few borderline funny jokes for the intro. I found myself laughing harder than I should, which scared me. The crowd completely disregarded their earlier instructions and "woo"ed plenty.
Kirstie Alley plopped her fat ass in Dave's chair and said nothing interesting at all. Dave was kinder than I expected.
The highpoint of the show for me came when Kathleen Edwards peformed, working her powder blue pumps and skinny girl jeans. Dave, meanwhile, sat at his desk with his head down. I'm not sure if he was dozing, reading or praying.
Other than that, the show included a lame stunt segment (dog sledding on 53rd St.) and several digs at The Gates, which were amusing at first but lost their zing quickly.
The show ran like clockwork, with only one retake on Dave's part. We exited the Ed Sullivan Theater back into the freezing wind of Times Square. I was glad to have had the experience, and I'd certainly do it all over again.
But I had a stabbing realization at one point that maybe I was seeing the show too late. Had I caught Letterman on my first trip to NY, back in '95, I would have done backflips over the opportunity. Now, it was fun, but nothing extra special.
As we were leaving, my bf turned to me and said, "Maybe Dave's really not funny after all. Maybe we just laugh because we know we're supposed to laugh."
Maybe so.