mermaid parade day. i'm not going. it's too hot and i haven't been properly motivated.
i am at tom's. gus the owner just came over to say hello. my absolute fave place to be on a 90-degree saturday. it's always 1936 in this place from the dark floral (brown and forest green) booth cushions covered in vinyl to the man-size faux flora in dusty wicker baskets: faded generic fern tower , plastic apples hanging on the branches like christmas tree ornaments. depression era cookie jars pretending to be fat yellow chefs or baskekts of peaches perch on shelves, watch me eat. stained glass transom allowing only the best light in, jadite coffee cup no saucer, fruit flies hovering over my toast.
every time i come in here alone, gus always swings by my booth, gives me a fatherly slap on the shoulder and says "plenty more fish in the sea" without stopping to chat.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Friday, June 24, 2005
My Trip to the Dentist, by Tom T
Fridays are half-days at O2 during the summer, everyone gets to split at 1 PM. The rest of the week, I roll in at noon - 2 hours after everyone else - and roll on out at six. Giving me a six-hour day was my boss's way of compensating me for the fact that I make less money than I should - and WAY less than I used to earn at the same company. Summer Fridays are different though. I can't really come in for an hour and expect people not to get more steamed than they already are at me for having abbreviated week. So I come in at ten. Not like there's anything really earth-shaking that happens at O2 on a Friday during the summer that I need to be there for: everyone's kinda just hanging out drinking coffee and talking, tying up loose ends, etc. It's a little like the last day of school, except it happens once a week. Today, I used my afternoon off productively and went to the dentist - for the first time in over four years.
I really should have gone long ago, even though I've had no job, insurance, or money since 2001. My whole mouth is a dental emergency. Over a year ago, my crown came out with a Jujubee on the #2 train at one in the AM and I had to carry the golden molar back home in the palm of my hand, a crater gaping in my jaw. I performed oral surgery on myself in the middle of that night, sterilizing everything with hydorgen peroxide which I fortunately had in stock on the bathroom shelf. The metal post that sticks down into the jawbone had come out with the crown, and although I squirm whenever I retell this tale, I calmly did what needed to be done at the time: found the hole in my bone with the end of the post, and repostioned everything back down into my head. I'm just glad I was fairly sober at the time, because what I saw in that crater under the crown was truly horrifying. It looked like a range of black mountains, or one of those scare-pictures of tooth decay they show you in grade school to get you to brush your teeth. So the first thing I did upon re-entering the world of medical & dental was make an appointment to get that fucker looked at. I was SURE that by now it would just be a sloppy soft decayed mess under there, and figured I probably would need a bridge or an implant.
My appointment was for 2 PM with (we'll call him) Dr. Smile. Dr. Smile came highly recommended by a couple of the tech guys at O2, his office is in the Clocktower Building by the Atlantic Avenue station in Downtown Brooklyn. I learned today that that entire building is filled with dentists. 30 floors of dentists, and Dr. Smile was on the 29th. Practically the penthouse. I got there at about 1:50, and found the office locked which was particularly annoying, as the door to the office is the door to the elevator. So I rode up to 29, the door opened, and I was confronted with a locked door upon which hung one of those blue and white "Be back at" signs with a 'clock' set to indicate 2 PM. I knocked on the door but noone answered, so I went back to the lobby and read my book for ten minutes.
I finally got in and met the doc, who seemed very nice. Mid 30's I'd guess, and mild-mannered in a way that I'd hate if i knew him socially, but I really like in a dentist. I like dentists. I've always thought of them as sort of the firemen of the medical profession - it's easy to hate cops and doctors but more difficult to hate firemen and dentists. As I sat and filled out my forms, I thought about a friend who recently told me that she doesn't go to doctors because of her mistrust of the medical profession, and I wondered if she went to the dentist. Dr. Smile ushered me into the exam room shortly after my paperwork was complete and made mild-mannered small-talk about my job as i situated myself in the leather dentists chair. It had a video screen attached to the arm of the interrogation-light so that nervous patients could watch DVDs while having their mouths excavated. He slipped on his rubber gloves, pryed the crown out of my mouth, and immediately started poking around the crater with that sharp pointy thing. "It doesn't look too bad" he said. "uunnnhhh" I said. "Oh I know it looks bad, but that's just discoloration. There's not much decay here at all. Let's take an x-ray". He called in a hygenist and instructed her to set up the xray machine for "1st molar, lower left". The young lady got everything set up nicely with the film in my mouth attached to some other arm which was attached with a cable to the doctor's laptop on the countertop behind me. Next came the lead apron to protect all the little future Tom Tenneys swimming happily in my nutsack. The hygenist circled back around me to snap the picture and just as she disappeared from my peripheral vision, I heard a loud crash, a scream, and the cable attached to the arm attached to the film inside my mouth snapped my head back against the headrest and stretched my mouth back and to the left - but didn't come out. I was snagged like a fish on a hook... and had no idea what had happened. The second of mayhem was followed by a dead silence which told me that Dr. Smile was still in the room and the hygenist was in big trouble. I craned my ridiculously fishhooked head back to see what happened. She'd tripped on the cable running between my mouth and the computer, causing the laptop to go crashing to the floor. Dr. Smile was just standing there, and he wasn't smiling. "This is bad" he said, impassively. I knew he wanted to rip the girl a new asshole, but couldn't in front of a patient. Suddenly, I felt horrible for the poor girl and wanted to get up and defend her, but figured I should probably sit tight. "I tripped", she said, looking at her shoes. The doc began trying to put his computer back together again, but it wouldn't reboot. The girl left the room and was immediately replaced by another hygenist (I guess they have closets full of them), a male this time. He told the new hygenist to prepare a certain kind of cement, and told me he was just going to recement the old crown back on.
"umm.. what about that x-ray?" I asked. I was already worried about being in his care while he was furious at his hygenist, and wanted to make sure he was still following the game plan.
"Oh, we'll take that next time", he said. "I really just wanted to do that to dispel my own paranoia that there might be some infection lurking under there."
Great. Now I have paranoia. I, too, want to know if there is infection lurking, I thought to myself. But you always have those other voices... the ones that say "he's a trained dentist. he knows all about this shit. It'll be fine."
The recementing went off without a hitch. He told me he was using an extra-strong cement so I shouldn't have too much trouble with the tooth going forward. Smile left the office while the cement was drying, and when he came back in about ten minutes later he looked at the tooth and a troubled look crossed his face. "hmm.." he said and started his poking-poking-with-the-sharp-thing back up again. "looks like some cement dripped down between your tooth and gum. I'll have to get that out" The poking immediately resumed full steam ahead and this time it hurt like a mofo. He was jabbing, scraping and stabbing with reckless abandon and panicked about my poor gums were getting the brunt of Smiley's anger towards his clumsy assistant. "uuunnnnhhhh!" I shouted as he stabbed me in a particularly sensitive spot. My hands were white-knuckle clenched on the arms of the chair, my toes curling inside my sneakers. "Sorry" he kept saying, "we have to get this out". The procedure seemed to last for hours. After my second "unhh hunnhh aahh unh" he asked if I wanted an anesthetic - just another excuse to stab me some more, but of course I nodded my assent. Three shots to the gums, you know the ones he'd just been torturing, the needle jabbing right into my open wounds. Smiley continued his stabbing and scraping right after the shots, not even giving the novacaine time to do its thing. I wasn't numb until I was back out on Flatbush.
But the cement came off. My mouth is sore, but my tooth is fixed and I can once again eat Jujubees on the subway at 1 AM.
I really should have gone long ago, even though I've had no job, insurance, or money since 2001. My whole mouth is a dental emergency. Over a year ago, my crown came out with a Jujubee on the #2 train at one in the AM and I had to carry the golden molar back home in the palm of my hand, a crater gaping in my jaw. I performed oral surgery on myself in the middle of that night, sterilizing everything with hydorgen peroxide which I fortunately had in stock on the bathroom shelf. The metal post that sticks down into the jawbone had come out with the crown, and although I squirm whenever I retell this tale, I calmly did what needed to be done at the time: found the hole in my bone with the end of the post, and repostioned everything back down into my head. I'm just glad I was fairly sober at the time, because what I saw in that crater under the crown was truly horrifying. It looked like a range of black mountains, or one of those scare-pictures of tooth decay they show you in grade school to get you to brush your teeth. So the first thing I did upon re-entering the world of medical & dental was make an appointment to get that fucker looked at. I was SURE that by now it would just be a sloppy soft decayed mess under there, and figured I probably would need a bridge or an implant.
My appointment was for 2 PM with (we'll call him) Dr. Smile. Dr. Smile came highly recommended by a couple of the tech guys at O2, his office is in the Clocktower Building by the Atlantic Avenue station in Downtown Brooklyn. I learned today that that entire building is filled with dentists. 30 floors of dentists, and Dr. Smile was on the 29th. Practically the penthouse. I got there at about 1:50, and found the office locked which was particularly annoying, as the door to the office is the door to the elevator. So I rode up to 29, the door opened, and I was confronted with a locked door upon which hung one of those blue and white "Be back at" signs with a 'clock' set to indicate 2 PM. I knocked on the door but noone answered, so I went back to the lobby and read my book for ten minutes.
I finally got in and met the doc, who seemed very nice. Mid 30's I'd guess, and mild-mannered in a way that I'd hate if i knew him socially, but I really like in a dentist. I like dentists. I've always thought of them as sort of the firemen of the medical profession - it's easy to hate cops and doctors but more difficult to hate firemen and dentists. As I sat and filled out my forms, I thought about a friend who recently told me that she doesn't go to doctors because of her mistrust of the medical profession, and I wondered if she went to the dentist. Dr. Smile ushered me into the exam room shortly after my paperwork was complete and made mild-mannered small-talk about my job as i situated myself in the leather dentists chair. It had a video screen attached to the arm of the interrogation-light so that nervous patients could watch DVDs while having their mouths excavated. He slipped on his rubber gloves, pryed the crown out of my mouth, and immediately started poking around the crater with that sharp pointy thing. "It doesn't look too bad" he said. "uunnnhhh" I said. "Oh I know it looks bad, but that's just discoloration. There's not much decay here at all. Let's take an x-ray". He called in a hygenist and instructed her to set up the xray machine for "1st molar, lower left". The young lady got everything set up nicely with the film in my mouth attached to some other arm which was attached with a cable to the doctor's laptop on the countertop behind me. Next came the lead apron to protect all the little future Tom Tenneys swimming happily in my nutsack. The hygenist circled back around me to snap the picture and just as she disappeared from my peripheral vision, I heard a loud crash, a scream, and the cable attached to the arm attached to the film inside my mouth snapped my head back against the headrest and stretched my mouth back and to the left - but didn't come out. I was snagged like a fish on a hook... and had no idea what had happened. The second of mayhem was followed by a dead silence which told me that Dr. Smile was still in the room and the hygenist was in big trouble. I craned my ridiculously fishhooked head back to see what happened. She'd tripped on the cable running between my mouth and the computer, causing the laptop to go crashing to the floor. Dr. Smile was just standing there, and he wasn't smiling. "This is bad" he said, impassively. I knew he wanted to rip the girl a new asshole, but couldn't in front of a patient. Suddenly, I felt horrible for the poor girl and wanted to get up and defend her, but figured I should probably sit tight. "I tripped", she said, looking at her shoes. The doc began trying to put his computer back together again, but it wouldn't reboot. The girl left the room and was immediately replaced by another hygenist (I guess they have closets full of them), a male this time. He told the new hygenist to prepare a certain kind of cement, and told me he was just going to recement the old crown back on.
"umm.. what about that x-ray?" I asked. I was already worried about being in his care while he was furious at his hygenist, and wanted to make sure he was still following the game plan.
"Oh, we'll take that next time", he said. "I really just wanted to do that to dispel my own paranoia that there might be some infection lurking under there."
Great. Now I have paranoia. I, too, want to know if there is infection lurking, I thought to myself. But you always have those other voices... the ones that say "he's a trained dentist. he knows all about this shit. It'll be fine."
The recementing went off without a hitch. He told me he was using an extra-strong cement so I shouldn't have too much trouble with the tooth going forward. Smile left the office while the cement was drying, and when he came back in about ten minutes later he looked at the tooth and a troubled look crossed his face. "hmm.." he said and started his poking-poking-with-the-sharp-thing back up again. "looks like some cement dripped down between your tooth and gum. I'll have to get that out" The poking immediately resumed full steam ahead and this time it hurt like a mofo. He was jabbing, scraping and stabbing with reckless abandon and panicked about my poor gums were getting the brunt of Smiley's anger towards his clumsy assistant. "uuunnnnhhhh!" I shouted as he stabbed me in a particularly sensitive spot. My hands were white-knuckle clenched on the arms of the chair, my toes curling inside my sneakers. "Sorry" he kept saying, "we have to get this out". The procedure seemed to last for hours. After my second "unhh hunnhh aahh unh" he asked if I wanted an anesthetic - just another excuse to stab me some more, but of course I nodded my assent. Three shots to the gums, you know the ones he'd just been torturing, the needle jabbing right into my open wounds. Smiley continued his stabbing and scraping right after the shots, not even giving the novacaine time to do its thing. I wasn't numb until I was back out on Flatbush.
But the cement came off. My mouth is sore, but my tooth is fixed and I can once again eat Jujubees on the subway at 1 AM.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
i stole an umbrella
i drunkenly shoplifted an umbrella from a deli last night. i have no idea why i did that. it wasn't even raining.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
A Day at the Races
it's been one of those days where i just can't get comfortable. The heat and humidity outside is sticky and gross, and the AC pumping in my apt. just feels fake and annoying. Plus, it reminds me how much money I'm spending trying to make myself comfortable, and it makes me more annoyed to know that it's not working. An evil, vicious spiral of annoyance... sweet jesus, when will it end?
On top of that, I got cable last week and so I have the TV on a lot more than I usually do... frequently just CNN playing in the background. I think I'm doing this to make myself feel justified in my cable expenditure. Like it's not a waste of money because I'm "using it" a lot. Stupid. I do much better with music. k, TV's going off now.
I spent the day at Belmont yesterday, for the 137th running of the Belmont Stakes. Even though there was no triple-crown at stake this year (Giacomo won the Kentucky Derby, and Afleet Alex won Preakness), it was still a huge event, as Belmont Park was celebrating it's 100th Anniversary. After reading the preceding sentence, it might appear that I know a little something about horse racing. I don't. I just learned that crap yesterday at the track, and it pretty well encompasses what I know about the sport. I used to go to the track every now-and-again when I lived in Boston, and I'd buy the racing forms and look at them, but only so I'd know the names of the horses. I'd look at their names, get "good feelings" and just bet on a horse to win. I'd say I won about 1/3 of the time using that method and usually ended up just below even: maybe 20 or 30 bucks spent throughout the day.
The night before (Friday), my friend and downstairs-neighbor Chris reminded me that he'd be going to the race (he'd sent a mass email early in the week) and asked again if I wanted to come. I told him I didn't think so. I was under the impression that a lot of his friends were going and, as I'm more omega male than alpha, I tend to get lost and bewildered in crowds of stangers. So I politely declined, and told him why. Chris explained that it'd just be him, his girlfriend Jenny and me.. everyone else had bailed. AND, as luck would have it, someone at his restaurant (he's a waiter at Lever House) had given him three tickets which entitled us to the clubhouse and reserved seats on the 2nd tier. "That's where the Governor sits!" he said, handing me the laminated tix for approval. The face value on the tickets was $65 which was impressive. I told him to call and wake me up at 9 AM. "Oh, and look at the dress code on the ticket", he shouted after me as I was leaving, "you have to dress up". I came back into his apartment to re-examine the ticket. Apparently, I had missed some small print. The dress code was confusing... it said stuff like "elegant attire is a tradition at Belmont Park. Ladies and Gentlemen who honor this tradition are always appreciated". What? I read further, and found that "abbreviated attire", whatever that is, is never acceptable. At first I thought maybe that meant shorts, but then discovered that shorts had their own rules, distinct from "abbreviated attire". I gave up. "Well, what are you wearing?" I asked him. I wanted the folks at Belmont to appreciate us...I was feeling needy. He told me he'd be wearing a recently acquired seersucker suit. "Dude, I have a seersucker suit, too!" I told him. I'd been waiting for a chance to wear that effin' suit since I adopted it from my dear old deceased dad three years ago, and this was my big chance. My ex-girlfriend Holly tried to convince me to throw it out a couple of years ago, but I was sure that I'd wear it someday. I went back upstairs and took the suit out of the closet. Upon close examination, I found that the suit was covered by mysterious and subtle yellow stains, including one right on the crease of the butt. I put it on and when I checked it out in the full-length mirror, found that the jacket covered the ass quite nicely, and the other stains were so subtle that you'd really have to be looking for them to notice. I took it off and hung it on the 'to-wear-tomorrow' rack above my door.
We left at 10 am on Saturday, and took the subway to Atlantic Ave to meet Jenny. I had chosen a white shirt and red plaid tie to go with my blue and white striped seersucker and felt like Joe the pimp from the Nick Cave song, in his "ridiculous seersucker suit". Chris was impressed when he saw me, "Dude, you even got the pants!" he marveled. He only had the jacket, but complemented it nicely with a pair of white chinos. Everyone on the 2 train stared at us, 2 ridiculous pimps from a Nick Cave song. I would've too. We looked great. We met Jenny outside the Atlantic Ave LIRR station. She was all dolled up in a custom-made funky-fashionable sun hat - de rigeur for the ladies at a stakes race, I would later find out. Hers was straw with a big pink flower thingy on it, and could be worn either cowboy-hat style (folded up on the sides) or as a sunhat (sides down). Neither Chris nor I had thought to wear hats, but it was too late to do anything about it.
The train ride was painless, and we arrived in time for the 3rd race of the day. We bought programs and entered the clubhouse on the 2nd tier, our big shiny tickets around our necks. We located our seats, which WERE very good - one pole past the finish line - and I looked around for the governor but didn't see him. Nobody, NO-BO-DY, was dressed up like we were. Most of the men were hanging out in shorts and t-shirts. The women did a little bit better, what with their dresses and fancy hats and all. I opened my program and tried to make sense of it. I looked at the names of the horses: I liked "Anew" and "Duango". Chris explained exactas and trifectas to me, and how to "box them" which was pretty simple to grasp, but I still didn't know who to bet on. I decided to go with my gut and threw a horse named "Ice Wynnd Fire" in with the other 2 for a trifecta. When I got to the betting window, the lady yelled at me for not placing my bet right (there's an order in which you have to give the info) and I retreated from the window, embarassed. I went and got my program, found the "how to place a bet" page and studied it, trying to memorize the order: "Race, amount, type, horse number". I practiced a couple of times and then headed back - to a different window this time. I didn't want to make that lady's day any more stressful than I already had. This time I got the order right, but found out that the 6 horse, Anew, had been "scratched" from the race. I retreated again and went back to studying my program. I chose "Biloxi Palace" to replace Anew and finally made my $2 trifecta wager. On the way back to my seat, I grabbed a $7 MGD from the "bar" (a table in the lobby) and the "bartender", a young latina, told me I looked great in my suit, making my previous embarassment melt away...at least I looked alright. The third race (the first for us) was about to begin, and we passed around my little mini-binoculors, although I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be looking at. I tried to see if the governor was in one of the other sections far-away from us, but still couldn't spot him. The race was surprisingly short - less than a minute - and only 2 of my horses came in, and those not in the right order. All three of Chris's came in, all in the right order. He won the trifecta on his first bet of the day, an $85 profit on a $2 bet, and ran to the window to collect. The rest of my day didn't get any better as I threw away bet after bet, wondering why my gut wasn't working as well as it used to. Must be getting old. Chris didn't win any more either, but he had already won 85 dollars and got no sympathy from either Jenny or me.
Both Chris and Jen kept on running into people they knew from work, from high school, etc.. and after that first race we went upstairs to the 3rd tier (ie GHETTO) to check out one of Chris' s friends' cheat-sheet that he'd obtained from a handicapper in Lexington. The friend had already won 50 bucks by using these tips, so I wrote down all the horses' numbers and their corresponding races. I tried betting a straight trifecta on those horses in the next race and lost again. I went downstairs to smoke in the yard out back where they parade the horses around before the races. I sat down on a bench and a middle-aged hispanic man came and sat next to me. "I like your suit" he said, but the suit compliments weren't cutting it any more. I wanted to win. The man told me that he'd had a vision (or maybe it was a dream) that "a very old friend - a friend I haven't seen in many years - came to me and said only '11 in the 10th'. I haven't seen this friend in a very long time, but he is never wrong".
"Wow", I said, "that sounds like a good tip". I wrote it down - 11 in the 10th - thanked him, finished my cig and headed back upstairs. Certainly this man's 'system' of getting his betting advice from visions of old friends couldn't be any worse than my system of pulling names and numbers out of my ass.
His friend was wrong. The 11 horse, Meteor Storm, came in 7th in the 10th race and I lost once again. The only other "tip" I took for the rest of the day was just before the 11th race - the big Belmont Stakes that everyone had come to see. Giacomo and Afleet Alex were the obvious favorites as they had won the Kentucky Derby and Preakness respectfully but many at the track were hoping for an upset. Before the big race, I went back down to the yard to smoke another cigarette. I'd already placed my bets and tried to "box" lots of different combos which allowed for both favorites AND longshots. I sat down to smoke in a different spot, this time next to a trio of Puerto Rican teens, a guy and his girlfriend, and the guy's friend. I began reading the letter from the Governor in the program. The girl kept nagging her boyfriend by repeating over and over: "You taking me to Puerto Rico in February? You taking me to Puerto Rico in February? You taking me to..." The boyfriend ignored her and chatted with his buddy about the upcoming race. "It's gonna be Pinpoint, yo." the friend assured the boyfriend. "It's gonna be Pinpoint all the way and the three of us is gonna have a little party tonight", at which point the two boys bumped their closed fists together. I finished the letter from the Governor (in which he lauded the racing industry for its "immense" contribution to New York's economy, and inexplicably thanked the troops overseas), snubbed out my cigarette and headed back up. On the escalator, I looked up Pinpoint in my program. It was the #2 horse, with 20-1 odds. I stepped up to an open window and delivered: "11th race, $2 to win on number 2" quite smoothly. I'd had a lot of practice.
I've already told you that this story doesn't have a happy ending, so I suppose there's no need to tell you that none of my combinations came in, and as far as I know the Puerto Ricans' little party was cancelled. The park emptied out after the stakes, but Chris, Jenny and I were all drunk on MGD and not quite ready to battle crowds for the trains. We hung out for 2 of the "nightcap" races, but I didn't bet. The sun was going down, and as the horses came out for the after-race, I felt sad for both the animals and jockeys... the stands were almost empty. No one cared enough about them to stick around and watch them do what they came here to do. I suppose they didn't care much, but it was still upsetting to me in my drunken and destitute state. I hoped that the horses were treated well, at least, and that the jockeys had some equivalent of a seersucker suit to put on and make them feel good about themselves after the sun was down and their race was over.
On top of that, I got cable last week and so I have the TV on a lot more than I usually do... frequently just CNN playing in the background. I think I'm doing this to make myself feel justified in my cable expenditure. Like it's not a waste of money because I'm "using it" a lot. Stupid. I do much better with music. k, TV's going off now.
I spent the day at Belmont yesterday, for the 137th running of the Belmont Stakes. Even though there was no triple-crown at stake this year (Giacomo won the Kentucky Derby, and Afleet Alex won Preakness), it was still a huge event, as Belmont Park was celebrating it's 100th Anniversary. After reading the preceding sentence, it might appear that I know a little something about horse racing. I don't. I just learned that crap yesterday at the track, and it pretty well encompasses what I know about the sport. I used to go to the track every now-and-again when I lived in Boston, and I'd buy the racing forms and look at them, but only so I'd know the names of the horses. I'd look at their names, get "good feelings" and just bet on a horse to win. I'd say I won about 1/3 of the time using that method and usually ended up just below even: maybe 20 or 30 bucks spent throughout the day.
The night before (Friday), my friend and downstairs-neighbor Chris reminded me that he'd be going to the race (he'd sent a mass email early in the week) and asked again if I wanted to come. I told him I didn't think so. I was under the impression that a lot of his friends were going and, as I'm more omega male than alpha, I tend to get lost and bewildered in crowds of stangers. So I politely declined, and told him why. Chris explained that it'd just be him, his girlfriend Jenny and me.. everyone else had bailed. AND, as luck would have it, someone at his restaurant (he's a waiter at Lever House) had given him three tickets which entitled us to the clubhouse and reserved seats on the 2nd tier. "That's where the Governor sits!" he said, handing me the laminated tix for approval. The face value on the tickets was $65 which was impressive. I told him to call and wake me up at 9 AM. "Oh, and look at the dress code on the ticket", he shouted after me as I was leaving, "you have to dress up". I came back into his apartment to re-examine the ticket. Apparently, I had missed some small print. The dress code was confusing... it said stuff like "elegant attire is a tradition at Belmont Park. Ladies and Gentlemen who honor this tradition are always appreciated". What? I read further, and found that "abbreviated attire", whatever that is, is never acceptable. At first I thought maybe that meant shorts, but then discovered that shorts had their own rules, distinct from "abbreviated attire". I gave up. "Well, what are you wearing?" I asked him. I wanted the folks at Belmont to appreciate us...I was feeling needy. He told me he'd be wearing a recently acquired seersucker suit. "Dude, I have a seersucker suit, too!" I told him. I'd been waiting for a chance to wear that effin' suit since I adopted it from my dear old deceased dad three years ago, and this was my big chance. My ex-girlfriend Holly tried to convince me to throw it out a couple of years ago, but I was sure that I'd wear it someday. I went back upstairs and took the suit out of the closet. Upon close examination, I found that the suit was covered by mysterious and subtle yellow stains, including one right on the crease of the butt. I put it on and when I checked it out in the full-length mirror, found that the jacket covered the ass quite nicely, and the other stains were so subtle that you'd really have to be looking for them to notice. I took it off and hung it on the 'to-wear-tomorrow' rack above my door.
We left at 10 am on Saturday, and took the subway to Atlantic Ave to meet Jenny. I had chosen a white shirt and red plaid tie to go with my blue and white striped seersucker and felt like Joe the pimp from the Nick Cave song, in his "ridiculous seersucker suit". Chris was impressed when he saw me, "Dude, you even got the pants!" he marveled. He only had the jacket, but complemented it nicely with a pair of white chinos. Everyone on the 2 train stared at us, 2 ridiculous pimps from a Nick Cave song. I would've too. We looked great. We met Jenny outside the Atlantic Ave LIRR station. She was all dolled up in a custom-made funky-fashionable sun hat - de rigeur for the ladies at a stakes race, I would later find out. Hers was straw with a big pink flower thingy on it, and could be worn either cowboy-hat style (folded up on the sides) or as a sunhat (sides down). Neither Chris nor I had thought to wear hats, but it was too late to do anything about it.
The train ride was painless, and we arrived in time for the 3rd race of the day. We bought programs and entered the clubhouse on the 2nd tier, our big shiny tickets around our necks. We located our seats, which WERE very good - one pole past the finish line - and I looked around for the governor but didn't see him. Nobody, NO-BO-DY, was dressed up like we were. Most of the men were hanging out in shorts and t-shirts. The women did a little bit better, what with their dresses and fancy hats and all. I opened my program and tried to make sense of it. I looked at the names of the horses: I liked "Anew" and "Duango". Chris explained exactas and trifectas to me, and how to "box them" which was pretty simple to grasp, but I still didn't know who to bet on. I decided to go with my gut and threw a horse named "Ice Wynnd Fire" in with the other 2 for a trifecta. When I got to the betting window, the lady yelled at me for not placing my bet right (there's an order in which you have to give the info) and I retreated from the window, embarassed. I went and got my program, found the "how to place a bet" page and studied it, trying to memorize the order: "Race, amount, type, horse number". I practiced a couple of times and then headed back - to a different window this time. I didn't want to make that lady's day any more stressful than I already had. This time I got the order right, but found out that the 6 horse, Anew, had been "scratched" from the race. I retreated again and went back to studying my program. I chose "Biloxi Palace" to replace Anew and finally made my $2 trifecta wager. On the way back to my seat, I grabbed a $7 MGD from the "bar" (a table in the lobby) and the "bartender", a young latina, told me I looked great in my suit, making my previous embarassment melt away...at least I looked alright. The third race (the first for us) was about to begin, and we passed around my little mini-binoculors, although I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be looking at. I tried to see if the governor was in one of the other sections far-away from us, but still couldn't spot him. The race was surprisingly short - less than a minute - and only 2 of my horses came in, and those not in the right order. All three of Chris's came in, all in the right order. He won the trifecta on his first bet of the day, an $85 profit on a $2 bet, and ran to the window to collect. The rest of my day didn't get any better as I threw away bet after bet, wondering why my gut wasn't working as well as it used to. Must be getting old. Chris didn't win any more either, but he had already won 85 dollars and got no sympathy from either Jenny or me.
Both Chris and Jen kept on running into people they knew from work, from high school, etc.. and after that first race we went upstairs to the 3rd tier (ie GHETTO) to check out one of Chris' s friends' cheat-sheet that he'd obtained from a handicapper in Lexington. The friend had already won 50 bucks by using these tips, so I wrote down all the horses' numbers and their corresponding races. I tried betting a straight trifecta on those horses in the next race and lost again. I went downstairs to smoke in the yard out back where they parade the horses around before the races. I sat down on a bench and a middle-aged hispanic man came and sat next to me. "I like your suit" he said, but the suit compliments weren't cutting it any more. I wanted to win. The man told me that he'd had a vision (or maybe it was a dream) that "a very old friend - a friend I haven't seen in many years - came to me and said only '11 in the 10th'. I haven't seen this friend in a very long time, but he is never wrong".
"Wow", I said, "that sounds like a good tip". I wrote it down - 11 in the 10th - thanked him, finished my cig and headed back upstairs. Certainly this man's 'system' of getting his betting advice from visions of old friends couldn't be any worse than my system of pulling names and numbers out of my ass.
His friend was wrong. The 11 horse, Meteor Storm, came in 7th in the 10th race and I lost once again. The only other "tip" I took for the rest of the day was just before the 11th race - the big Belmont Stakes that everyone had come to see. Giacomo and Afleet Alex were the obvious favorites as they had won the Kentucky Derby and Preakness respectfully but many at the track were hoping for an upset. Before the big race, I went back down to the yard to smoke another cigarette. I'd already placed my bets and tried to "box" lots of different combos which allowed for both favorites AND longshots. I sat down to smoke in a different spot, this time next to a trio of Puerto Rican teens, a guy and his girlfriend, and the guy's friend. I began reading the letter from the Governor in the program. The girl kept nagging her boyfriend by repeating over and over: "You taking me to Puerto Rico in February? You taking me to Puerto Rico in February? You taking me to..." The boyfriend ignored her and chatted with his buddy about the upcoming race. "It's gonna be Pinpoint, yo." the friend assured the boyfriend. "It's gonna be Pinpoint all the way and the three of us is gonna have a little party tonight", at which point the two boys bumped their closed fists together. I finished the letter from the Governor (in which he lauded the racing industry for its "immense" contribution to New York's economy, and inexplicably thanked the troops overseas), snubbed out my cigarette and headed back up. On the escalator, I looked up Pinpoint in my program. It was the #2 horse, with 20-1 odds. I stepped up to an open window and delivered: "11th race, $2 to win on number 2" quite smoothly. I'd had a lot of practice.
I've already told you that this story doesn't have a happy ending, so I suppose there's no need to tell you that none of my combinations came in, and as far as I know the Puerto Ricans' little party was cancelled. The park emptied out after the stakes, but Chris, Jenny and I were all drunk on MGD and not quite ready to battle crowds for the trains. We hung out for 2 of the "nightcap" races, but I didn't bet. The sun was going down, and as the horses came out for the after-race, I felt sad for both the animals and jockeys... the stands were almost empty. No one cared enough about them to stick around and watch them do what they came here to do. I suppose they didn't care much, but it was still upsetting to me in my drunken and destitute state. I hoped that the horses were treated well, at least, and that the jockeys had some equivalent of a seersucker suit to put on and make them feel good about themselves after the sun was down and their race was over.
Sunday, June 5, 2005
Weekend #2090
So yes, I went to the big Annie Sprinkle book release party at the Museum of Sex last night. I was worried about being late to meet blowdryer, but she got the address wrong and I ended up waiting outside for her for ten minutes. There was lots of to-do at the door, getting wristbanded and name-tagged and such. Irving and Gecko from Collective were working the door, and I think Irving thought I was trying to crash as he immediately started trying to sneak me in once he saw that my name wasn't on the list. I pointed out that I was blowdryer's 'date' and I was ushered on to the stickering table. Once inside, I noticed that there were a bunch of other artstars there "working" the event, including Carmen Mofongo serving drinks and V. Sprout running around being hot in her totally sheer orange body-stocking. Sprinkle spent the entire evening at a table autographing copies of her book, copies of which were available but, disappointingly, not free. I think if you're having a book release party, the least one should do is give copies of your book to your guests. At his recent party, Jonathan Ames gave out not just copies of his new book, but copies of his older books as well. Very smart. Anyway. Rev and Nick showed up not long after, and the four of us wandered through the exhibits before it got too packed, and watched the several artists stationed throughout the museum creating erotic art. Downstairs there was a sketch artist drawing nude models, and a photographer taking poloroids of guest coming out of a giant vagina (painted on muslin, with a hole where the... hole should be). Upstairs, some girls were doing 'tit prints' and a slight, blond, sharply dressed young man was sitting in a dark corner inexplicably painting watercolors of cats. All of the art was free for the taking, and I ended up with one of the sketches which I liked because of the Hirschfeld-like detail in the hair.
Later in the night, Camen Mofongo told me that she'd been making a killing on the side by offering guests spankings with her leather crop for a mere $5. I found this to be quite enterprising of her, and wondered if any of the other "working" people had set up similar arrangements. Certainly Gecko could have made some money with her biting skills, and I bet most people there would've paid Simone a hefty sum to do.. just about anything to them. Talk to them. Look at them.
Because the door folks asked me for my "affiliation" for my name-tag, I had lots of peeps coming up to me and asking me about Toxic Pop. It was of those times when I really wished I had business or postcards for the newsletter. One of those who asked was a short, middle-aged business-suited man with an Aussie accent named Hamish. He was the agent representing Sprinkle's book in Japan, and asked me what "cool underground events" he could attend before he went back to Tokyo on Monday. I told him to check out anything at Bowery Poetry Club, and mentioned that we were all heading down there after the party to see Moonshine's HETERO-HELL show. He asked if he could tag along, and of course we were all happy to have him come with. "Before I go", he said, "I've got to get one more" and headed for the bar. I assumed it was a drink he was after, so was somewhat nonplussed when I saw him hand a $5 bill to Carmen and bend over, offering his bottom to her crop.
As Hamish was being beaten, I started to notice that there were a fair number of peeps walking around with stunning glitter designs painted on their faces and bodies. I soon found the source of this art: a quiet man named Rainbow who was wearing a silk tailcoat and a big gay hat with a big gay feather. I got in line to be his canvas and didn't have long to wait. He started by gluing a plastic ruby on my forehead, and then proceeded to give me glitter "flames" above my eyes. I looked like a hot rod. Here's a pic of the results (taken much later, when I got home):
It looked so beautiful (and perfectly matched my shirt) that Rev Jen had him do a design between her tits, beautifully framed by the low-cut neck of her dress. As we all waited for Rev to get painted, I watched another man get spanked. A middle aged woman with short spikey gray hair whispered something to him as he was bent over, and then she came over and said to me "I asked him if he wanted me to hold his dick while he got spanked". She had her back to me, and was leaning into my body in a slightly inappropriate way.
"And he said NO?" I marvelled.
"Yeah, can you believe it? Do you want me to hold your dick while he gets spanked?" Apparently this woman was really hot to get someone's - anyone's - dick in her hand, stat.
She turned to face me and I read her name-tag: Betty Dodson
"Oh my. You're Betty Dodson"
"I know"
By this time, Rev's chest-painting was done, and she saw me standing there chatting with one of her literary heroes, so quickly came over and allowed me to introduce them. As Rev was telling Ms. Dodson how she was one of her fave writers of all time, I slipped away and chatted with Nick for a bit, while Blowdryer continued to try to hunt down a particular publishing exec she wanted to meet. Finally, the five of us (Rev, Nick, Blowdryer, Hamish and I) got it together enough to walk to Nick's car and head down to Bowery. Nick was sober enough to drive, I guess - but Rev, Hamish and I were already pretty done in. I remember that when we got there, Soce the Elemental Wizard was onstage rapping about blowjobs while his parents - his whole family, I think - were sitting in the audience. Rev and I are usually on the perennial guest list at BPC, but this time George-at-the-door was being super strict, for some reason. He whispered to me that if I said I was gay, I'd get in for half price. "Are you kidding?" I asked, "look at my face!" So I forked over a fin and we allowed Hamish to pay for the rest of the krew. The remainder of the night is a blur of O'Debra Twins and Moonshine and talking to a girl named Jane from Maine and more beer and drunken phone calls with Alannah whom I miss and want to see again as soon as humanly possible.
I woke up with a hangover for the books, and spent the day trying not to puke, getting cable installed, and buying my beloved pink loveseat. I was going to make a film of me getting my ass waxed for tomorrow's O'Debbie Awards, but Bruce never called me back. :( :( :(
Later in the night, Camen Mofongo told me that she'd been making a killing on the side by offering guests spankings with her leather crop for a mere $5. I found this to be quite enterprising of her, and wondered if any of the other "working" people had set up similar arrangements. Certainly Gecko could have made some money with her biting skills, and I bet most people there would've paid Simone a hefty sum to do.. just about anything to them. Talk to them. Look at them.
Because the door folks asked me for my "affiliation" for my name-tag, I had lots of peeps coming up to me and asking me about Toxic Pop. It was of those times when I really wished I had business or postcards for the newsletter. One of those who asked was a short, middle-aged business-suited man with an Aussie accent named Hamish. He was the agent representing Sprinkle's book in Japan, and asked me what "cool underground events" he could attend before he went back to Tokyo on Monday. I told him to check out anything at Bowery Poetry Club, and mentioned that we were all heading down there after the party to see Moonshine's HETERO-HELL show. He asked if he could tag along, and of course we were all happy to have him come with. "Before I go", he said, "I've got to get one more" and headed for the bar. I assumed it was a drink he was after, so was somewhat nonplussed when I saw him hand a $5 bill to Carmen and bend over, offering his bottom to her crop.
As Hamish was being beaten, I started to notice that there were a fair number of peeps walking around with stunning glitter designs painted on their faces and bodies. I soon found the source of this art: a quiet man named Rainbow who was wearing a silk tailcoat and a big gay hat with a big gay feather. I got in line to be his canvas and didn't have long to wait. He started by gluing a plastic ruby on my forehead, and then proceeded to give me glitter "flames" above my eyes. I looked like a hot rod. Here's a pic of the results (taken much later, when I got home):
It looked so beautiful (and perfectly matched my shirt) that Rev Jen had him do a design between her tits, beautifully framed by the low-cut neck of her dress. As we all waited for Rev to get painted, I watched another man get spanked. A middle aged woman with short spikey gray hair whispered something to him as he was bent over, and then she came over and said to me "I asked him if he wanted me to hold his dick while he got spanked". She had her back to me, and was leaning into my body in a slightly inappropriate way.
"And he said NO?" I marvelled.
"Yeah, can you believe it? Do you want me to hold your dick while he gets spanked?" Apparently this woman was really hot to get someone's - anyone's - dick in her hand, stat.
She turned to face me and I read her name-tag: Betty Dodson
"Oh my. You're Betty Dodson"
"I know"
By this time, Rev's chest-painting was done, and she saw me standing there chatting with one of her literary heroes, so quickly came over and allowed me to introduce them. As Rev was telling Ms. Dodson how she was one of her fave writers of all time, I slipped away and chatted with Nick for a bit, while Blowdryer continued to try to hunt down a particular publishing exec she wanted to meet. Finally, the five of us (Rev, Nick, Blowdryer, Hamish and I) got it together enough to walk to Nick's car and head down to Bowery. Nick was sober enough to drive, I guess - but Rev, Hamish and I were already pretty done in. I remember that when we got there, Soce the Elemental Wizard was onstage rapping about blowjobs while his parents - his whole family, I think - were sitting in the audience. Rev and I are usually on the perennial guest list at BPC, but this time George-at-the-door was being super strict, for some reason. He whispered to me that if I said I was gay, I'd get in for half price. "Are you kidding?" I asked, "look at my face!" So I forked over a fin and we allowed Hamish to pay for the rest of the krew. The remainder of the night is a blur of O'Debra Twins and Moonshine and talking to a girl named Jane from Maine and more beer and drunken phone calls with Alannah whom I miss and want to see again as soon as humanly possible.
I woke up with a hangover for the books, and spent the day trying not to puke, getting cable installed, and buying my beloved pink loveseat. I was going to make a film of me getting my ass waxed for tomorrow's O'Debbie Awards, but Bruce never called me back. :( :( :(
Saturday, June 4, 2005
Love Seat Po-tah-to
I promised myself I'd cut down on the weed smokin', and I have - somewhat. The main problem with it isn't that it impairs my ability to think correctly, or get things done - in fact, it enhances those things. But when I smoke pot, it irritates the pinched nerve in my spine/hip and makes it hurt a lot more. Then I drink to make that pain go away, and all hell breaks loose. Maybe now that I'm gainfully employed, I can get some kind of prescription that will make it all work out.
I just did about 3 hits which is just right for now.
The ipod oracle and I spent the afternoon trudging up and down Flatbush in the heat (it's 80-sumpin' here today), checking out the "discount" furniture places for an inexpensive Loveseat/futon/couch for Vaclav Hovel. Nothin' doin, everything was way out of my price range so I ended up getting socks and underwear at Triangle Sports and taking the subway home.
I did a reading of David Jenness' screenplay, USSA, in midtown with a bunch of other artstars on Thursday night. Luckily, I wasn't cast as one of the characters who has to speak in a Russian or southern accent. Apparently, I lack the chromosome necessary to do accents well (it must be the same one needed for impressions, too). Anyway, it was fun to do something laid back and mellow like a reading with such awesome people. Feedback was that the audience really seemed to like the script, which is great for David. He's got some fantastic irons, hard earned and well deserved, in the fire right now.
Ok, Blowdryer just called me and invited me to go on her plus-one with her to some event at the Sex Museum tonight. That girl is the hardest person to understand on the phone - maybe she has a crappy phone. I still don't know what exactly it is I'm going to, but I was able to glean that Rev is also going, it starts at 830, and it's at the Museum of Sex.
Update: Rev just called and told me it's Annie Sprinkle's book launch party, which should be fun. She also told me the following hilarious anecdote about JB:
Apparently, Rev was talking to someone and mentioned the name Jennifer Blowdryer. The woman said:
"Oh my God. She was my kid's first babysitter."
"Oh yeah? How was she? Is she a good nanny?"
"I came home, and my daughter was licking jam out of a bowl"
ok, need to metro-cize myself and try to get out w/in the hour.
Here's a pic of me Bruce Ronn took at the anti slam a couple of weeks ago:
I just did about 3 hits which is just right for now.
The ipod oracle and I spent the afternoon trudging up and down Flatbush in the heat (it's 80-sumpin' here today), checking out the "discount" furniture places for an inexpensive Loveseat/futon/couch for Vaclav Hovel. Nothin' doin, everything was way out of my price range so I ended up getting socks and underwear at Triangle Sports and taking the subway home.
I did a reading of David Jenness' screenplay, USSA, in midtown with a bunch of other artstars on Thursday night. Luckily, I wasn't cast as one of the characters who has to speak in a Russian or southern accent. Apparently, I lack the chromosome necessary to do accents well (it must be the same one needed for impressions, too). Anyway, it was fun to do something laid back and mellow like a reading with such awesome people. Feedback was that the audience really seemed to like the script, which is great for David. He's got some fantastic irons, hard earned and well deserved, in the fire right now.
Ok, Blowdryer just called me and invited me to go on her plus-one with her to some event at the Sex Museum tonight. That girl is the hardest person to understand on the phone - maybe she has a crappy phone. I still don't know what exactly it is I'm going to, but I was able to glean that Rev is also going, it starts at 830, and it's at the Museum of Sex.
Update: Rev just called and told me it's Annie Sprinkle's book launch party, which should be fun. She also told me the following hilarious anecdote about JB:
Apparently, Rev was talking to someone and mentioned the name Jennifer Blowdryer. The woman said:
"Oh my God. She was my kid's first babysitter."
"Oh yeah? How was she? Is she a good nanny?"
"I came home, and my daughter was licking jam out of a bowl"
ok, need to metro-cize myself and try to get out w/in the hour.
Here's a pic of me Bruce Ronn took at the anti slam a couple of weeks ago:
Wednesday, June 1, 2005
Happy June
I've gotten out of the habit of journaling lately, mainly due to the fact that my time has been monopolized by other things. I just had to do a quick and dirty website for Jennifer Blowdryer... it looks like poo, but she needed something up by this thursday so I whipped up something fast. I'll spend some time over the coming weeks making it look better. Yesterday, my Memorial Day to-do list took me well into the AM hours to complete, and I still didn't finish it all. Things are changing, and I just need to settle into the new groove. I started "officially" at O2 today - I'm so happy to be back. Every morning I get to take an elevator with a picture of Fabio and Jennifer Love Hewitt on the door. A company that makes you chuckle on the way in the office is a good place to work. When I last worked for them back at the turn of the millenium, the idea of the company was not just TV, but a 'converged network' in which the online component was just as important to the "whole" as on-air. It was also about 3 times as large, staff-wise, and everyone was frantic and running around being all "converged" and "new paradigm" and making a lot of money and not really doing much at all. It took a few years and many layoffs (mine included) for them to chill out and figure out: it's TV, and TV should be so simple. Now it seems like it's going to be a reallly great place to work, and small enough that I can actually get to know some peeps this time. Oh, and I have the same boss as before, Betsy, who's just an amazing, smart, funny person. These days she has a beautiful little 4-year-old daughter who she brings in from time-to-time and sets loose on the office.
I'm trying not to carry any resentment towards SuperNova for the debacle back in February... that's a hard one to let go of, though. But maybe Roy, the guy who fired me, was actually right when he said "this is your chance to go out and get something better". I'm sure he didn't intend to be my savior, and I certainly don't think he's a "nice person"... maybe he was my Darth Vader. An inner obstacle manifesting as super-villian, one I had to/have to defeat in order to move forward. Rilke said (something like) "maybe all our dragons are princesses waiting to see us act with beauty and courage".
This has been one of the most beautful New York springs ever.
I've been thinking a lot about "truth" and "lies" lately. I'm doing the "Talking Stick" show this month, and their directive to performers is only: "tell the truth". A month or so ago, a friend of mine declared definitively: "lying is the only thing I don't tolerate in my friends". So I've been thinking about truth and lies and what constitues each. There are such degrees of both. Is a lie that doesn't obscure a great truth, in fact makes things turn out better for everybody - is that still a lie? Is the decision to tell a small lie in order to spare another person unnecessary hurt a bad decision? Doesn't the greater truth of compassion and/or peace trump the smaller truth of 'fact'? And what about art? If I embellish a story in order to more tightly draw the lines around a greater truth - the truth of the story - is that "not telling the truth"? What if, by reporting events factually, I didn't manage to tell the greater truth? Would that be lying?
i have more to say about this, but it's bedtime. finish later.
I'm trying not to carry any resentment towards SuperNova for the debacle back in February... that's a hard one to let go of, though. But maybe Roy, the guy who fired me, was actually right when he said "this is your chance to go out and get something better". I'm sure he didn't intend to be my savior, and I certainly don't think he's a "nice person"... maybe he was my Darth Vader. An inner obstacle manifesting as super-villian, one I had to/have to defeat in order to move forward. Rilke said (something like) "maybe all our dragons are princesses waiting to see us act with beauty and courage".
This has been one of the most beautful New York springs ever.
I've been thinking a lot about "truth" and "lies" lately. I'm doing the "Talking Stick" show this month, and their directive to performers is only: "tell the truth". A month or so ago, a friend of mine declared definitively: "lying is the only thing I don't tolerate in my friends". So I've been thinking about truth and lies and what constitues each. There are such degrees of both. Is a lie that doesn't obscure a great truth, in fact makes things turn out better for everybody - is that still a lie? Is the decision to tell a small lie in order to spare another person unnecessary hurt a bad decision? Doesn't the greater truth of compassion and/or peace trump the smaller truth of 'fact'? And what about art? If I embellish a story in order to more tightly draw the lines around a greater truth - the truth of the story - is that "not telling the truth"? What if, by reporting events factually, I didn't manage to tell the greater truth? Would that be lying?
i have more to say about this, but it's bedtime. finish later.
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