1. he smoked Marlboro Lights
2. he drank Coors Light and Wild Turkey
3. he was a winker
4. and a biter
5. he kissed me every single time someone pointed a camera at us
6. he had the blackest hair
7. and the bluest eyes
8. he has a 17 year old son
9. he had no shame in living at home with this mother
10. sometimes he shaved letters into his body hair just to get a reaction
11. he was rarely ever angry
12. he had one tattoo
13. he was an inventor
14. he had horrible taste in music
15. and sang badly at karaoke
16. but loved good books
17. he had a lifeguard's body, and sometimes wore those orange shorts in public
18. he wore a watch every day--even when the battery died and it took him weeks to replace it
19. he grew up in a house full of women
20. he would do a line and want to mow the lawn at four in the morning
21. he'd make fun of me for the way I could do a line, eat a sandwich, and go to sleep
22. but he'd always bring me hangover food in bed
23. I gave a woman a permanent scar over him
24. he was much smarter than almost everyone gave him credit for
25. he once took me out in sweats after I'd gotten home from sleeping in a van for two weeks and hadn't showered in as many days
26. and then he called me the most beautiful girl in the room in front of everyone there
27. he'd say "let's go make dumb girls jealous" and take me dancing
28. he wore vintage jackets and leopard print flip flops because he gave no fucks
29. he had blonde fuzz on his earlobes
30. he thought hpnotiq was ridiculous, but would eat cherry bombs till he couldn't see
31. women (and a lot of men) practically dropped their pants at the sight of him
32. he always pretended not to notice the attention
33. he never judged. anyone. ever.
34. he loved kids, and taught them to swim
35. he talked to everyone, whether they wanted him to or not
36. he was just a little bit aimless
37. he was a gentleman
38. he was a jackass
39. one night in July 2003 he was out with a crowd I didn't want to be with. and I told him so. but he wanted to hug and kiss and nuzzle my neck. I looked him in the eye and said "fuck you Adam". And turned. And walked away. And left him where he stood.
40. he died five hours later.
Friday, August 26, 2016
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
I've been told it's beautiful to see this time of year...
2016 Road Trip. Part Trois.
I woke up alone in Brooklyn on a twin bed under Minions sheets. I took a sticky, unairconditioned shower in a window facing the street. I drank strong coffee and ate a gigantic egg bagel--which I never forgo up north, no matter in whose company I find myself or the amount of lye involved. And then it was time to crawl over the bridge and out of the city into New England.
Some highway construction and GPS confusion sent me into New Haven, so I took the opportunity to explore Yale's campus and the people milling about it. Floppy-haired boys with belts, blonde girls in day dresses. Lining up outside of popular pizza places on tree lined streets. I wondered what my life would've been like if I'd gone to the Ivy League school I was meant for-or even finished school on time-and met a nice boy there who wanted to take care of me. I almost wondered it out loud but remembered my wife was there too. Scrolling through facebook in the passenger seat. So I found my way back to the highway. Through redirected lanes and construction zones, Rhode Island, Boston, some slum--it was on to the next destination, Salem, MA.
Which at night was everything I wanted it to be. Foggy, too quiet, leering statues at unexpected turns, a proper Irish pub-but by day a little less romantic. Vaccination clinics and law offices sprinkled among the tourist shops, each one the same as the next and all manned by bookish emo fatties. And in the light of day a little disappointing that the whole witch hunt affair was just the out of control cattiness of a gaggle of Mean Girls. Though I of course found the one place I could buy a coyote jaw (and maybe even a Mogwai or something) and was given a tarot card, which I would later learn was because I have practically the same face as a young woman put on trial for witchcraft.
But there is obviously some real history here, and plenty of kitsch. Jon Bon Jovi served me breakfast. There's a healthy appreciation for Bewitched. And the wax museums give every bit of 1989 low budget realness-and thankfully, air conditioning. All that said, Samantha and those Mean Girls aside--I still believe in witches.
I woke up alone in Brooklyn on a twin bed under Minions sheets. I took a sticky, unairconditioned shower in a window facing the street. I drank strong coffee and ate a gigantic egg bagel--which I never forgo up north, no matter in whose company I find myself or the amount of lye involved. And then it was time to crawl over the bridge and out of the city into New England.
Some highway construction and GPS confusion sent me into New Haven, so I took the opportunity to explore Yale's campus and the people milling about it. Floppy-haired boys with belts, blonde girls in day dresses. Lining up outside of popular pizza places on tree lined streets. I wondered what my life would've been like if I'd gone to the Ivy League school I was meant for-or even finished school on time-and met a nice boy there who wanted to take care of me. I almost wondered it out loud but remembered my wife was there too. Scrolling through facebook in the passenger seat. So I found my way back to the highway. Through redirected lanes and construction zones, Rhode Island, Boston, some slum--it was on to the next destination, Salem, MA.
Which at night was everything I wanted it to be. Foggy, too quiet, leering statues at unexpected turns, a proper Irish pub-but by day a little less romantic. Vaccination clinics and law offices sprinkled among the tourist shops, each one the same as the next and all manned by bookish emo fatties. And in the light of day a little disappointing that the whole witch hunt affair was just the out of control cattiness of a gaggle of Mean Girls. Though I of course found the one place I could buy a coyote jaw (and maybe even a Mogwai or something) and was given a tarot card, which I would later learn was because I have practically the same face as a young woman put on trial for witchcraft.
But there is obviously some real history here, and plenty of kitsch. Jon Bon Jovi served me breakfast. There's a healthy appreciation for Bewitched. And the wax museums give every bit of 1989 low budget realness-and thankfully, air conditioning. All that said, Samantha and those Mean Girls aside--I still believe in witches.
 |
| Patrick Dougherty-StickWork |
 |
| Thompkins H. Matteson, 1853 |
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
We'll go to Coney and eat bologna on a roll...
2016 Road Trip. Part Deux.
Having survived Lexington Market it was time to make my way to the always ass-numbing Jersey Turnpike. Smooth sailing other than Mickey and Mallory Knox from North Carolina in the car ahead at the toll booth heading out of Baltimore. Mickey drove shirtless and clearly unshowered, giving the finger to every northbound horn honker who refused to let him into the cash only lane--Mallory beside him, alternately leaning into the shattered windshield and out of the passenger window to take pictures of anything and everything. Including the toll both worker. The old Celica held together with bungee cords. I'm sure neither of them were wearing shoes, but they probably got some slippers at whatever county jail they ended up in.
But $6200 in tolls and four hours later, I made it to Surf Ave.-Brooklyn. My intent was to spend a couple hours at Coney Island then surprise some friends in Greenpoint--but what have we learned about what really happens when WGW wants to do something? Of course when I suggested this I may as well have been swallowing a sword. So instead I sat drinking Kentucky moonshine in New York while my wife and her friend talked about all the people in West Virginia that I don't know. Then the rain set in.
This is how I like my amusement parks. A little ominous--like an eighties child's cartoon with the villain drawn to appeal to the parents. With a staff whose very last priority is you having a good time. I want to give a pretty Middle Eastern boy in an alley $30.00 to park my car--and watch the nausea come over my travel companions as they debate whether or not we'll ever see him again. I want to watch people take wedding photos, then see them berated by knock-off Hello Kitty for not tipping her. I want to drink beer and eat knish at a boardwalk Go Go dance party (and you all know how I feel about Go Go).
I want to know there's still a good kind of wrong place in the world. Where the word freak isn't dirty. Where family friendly clashes with burlesque--cotton candy with dumpster dust. Where I can see the ocean from a cage in the sky.
Having survived Lexington Market it was time to make my way to the always ass-numbing Jersey Turnpike. Smooth sailing other than Mickey and Mallory Knox from North Carolina in the car ahead at the toll booth heading out of Baltimore. Mickey drove shirtless and clearly unshowered, giving the finger to every northbound horn honker who refused to let him into the cash only lane--Mallory beside him, alternately leaning into the shattered windshield and out of the passenger window to take pictures of anything and everything. Including the toll both worker. The old Celica held together with bungee cords. I'm sure neither of them were wearing shoes, but they probably got some slippers at whatever county jail they ended up in.
But $6200 in tolls and four hours later, I made it to Surf Ave.-Brooklyn. My intent was to spend a couple hours at Coney Island then surprise some friends in Greenpoint--but what have we learned about what really happens when WGW wants to do something? Of course when I suggested this I may as well have been swallowing a sword. So instead I sat drinking Kentucky moonshine in New York while my wife and her friend talked about all the people in West Virginia that I don't know. Then the rain set in.
This is how I like my amusement parks. A little ominous--like an eighties child's cartoon with the villain drawn to appeal to the parents. With a staff whose very last priority is you having a good time. I want to give a pretty Middle Eastern boy in an alley $30.00 to park my car--and watch the nausea come over my travel companions as they debate whether or not we'll ever see him again. I want to watch people take wedding photos, then see them berated by knock-off Hello Kitty for not tipping her. I want to drink beer and eat knish at a boardwalk Go Go dance party (and you all know how I feel about Go Go).
I want to know there's still a good kind of wrong place in the world. Where the word freak isn't dirty. Where family friendly clashes with burlesque--cotton candy with dumpster dust. Where I can see the ocean from a cage in the sky.
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
What is my fate, am I supposed to pray...
2016 Road Trip. Part Un.
How long should it take to get it together after what is supposed to be the rest and relaxation of vacation? Being that I don't really rest on vacation, I'm still having some struggles. I always have these visions of myself looking flowy and relaxed and breeze blown on a boardwalk somewhere-a stuffed animal some romantic show off won for me under my arm. But that never happens. I always somehow end up in the places travel brochures like to pretend don't exist.
I started this journey with my mind set on Captain Crunch french toast and bloody marys in Baltimore, but due to a late in the game suggestion and no real plan I ended up at Lexington Market. Just like any other "major" city, navigating Baltimore takes some savvy and charm. One minute you're at Camden Yards, the next you're in a scene from The Wire. To be fair Lexington Market isn't some hole in the wall--it's definitely on the radar. Though touted as a historic farmers' market, this place is obviously not for tourists. And the locals will know you are one.
Bustling but not vibrant, at 9 a.m. on a Saturday this is where the elderly and mentally ill go to shuffle along and buy their weekly supply of rabbit parts and block cheese and grey pickles. Maybe a lottery ticket and counterfeit cell phone cover. (And if planning a party, one baker even offers Hannah Montana cakes for all those 2008 pre-teens.) This is the kind of farmers' market where the merchants are suspicious of cameras and nothing for sale actually comes from a local farm--I mean there is produce, but you just have to trust me on this. You won't find anything artisanal here. But what you will find is Chinese food and carnival style sausage and peppers for breakfast. And the people watching doesn't get better. In fact I watched one of those people leave the restroom without washing her hands and go back to serving up turkey sandwiches.
But all in all, breakfast in Baltimore was a success-- I only had to say "what motherfucker!" once (which terrified my wife because she has 0 sense of adventure and -4 street smarts) and I ended up going with the chicken and waffles. With powdered sugar-because, duh.
How long should it take to get it together after what is supposed to be the rest and relaxation of vacation? Being that I don't really rest on vacation, I'm still having some struggles. I always have these visions of myself looking flowy and relaxed and breeze blown on a boardwalk somewhere-a stuffed animal some romantic show off won for me under my arm. But that never happens. I always somehow end up in the places travel brochures like to pretend don't exist.
I started this journey with my mind set on Captain Crunch french toast and bloody marys in Baltimore, but due to a late in the game suggestion and no real plan I ended up at Lexington Market. Just like any other "major" city, navigating Baltimore takes some savvy and charm. One minute you're at Camden Yards, the next you're in a scene from The Wire. To be fair Lexington Market isn't some hole in the wall--it's definitely on the radar. Though touted as a historic farmers' market, this place is obviously not for tourists. And the locals will know you are one.
Bustling but not vibrant, at 9 a.m. on a Saturday this is where the elderly and mentally ill go to shuffle along and buy their weekly supply of rabbit parts and block cheese and grey pickles. Maybe a lottery ticket and counterfeit cell phone cover. (And if planning a party, one baker even offers Hannah Montana cakes for all those 2008 pre-teens.) This is the kind of farmers' market where the merchants are suspicious of cameras and nothing for sale actually comes from a local farm--I mean there is produce, but you just have to trust me on this. You won't find anything artisanal here. But what you will find is Chinese food and carnival style sausage and peppers for breakfast. And the people watching doesn't get better. In fact I watched one of those people leave the restroom without washing her hands and go back to serving up turkey sandwiches.
But all in all, breakfast in Baltimore was a success-- I only had to say "what motherfucker!" once (which terrified my wife because she has 0 sense of adventure and -4 street smarts) and I ended up going with the chicken and waffles. With powdered sugar-because, duh.
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)