Thursday, May 23, 2002

Stories of a life

Dean shows up two hours early, not unexpected since he hinted on the phone he had more than dinner on his mind. I greet him at the door in my boxers, towel across my shoulder, on my way to the shower when he rings the bell and sends Joey into a rare paroxysm of barking and tail chasing.

He's not much older than I, but Dean has packed what seems like a lifetime of stories into the seven or eight years that separate us. We come from the same place, more or less. We bonded years ago over drinks and tales of rural childhoods, his in Shelby County, mine in Ralls. He hitched west when he was 17, spent four summers in San Francisco before winding up back in St. Louis, my cross-town neighbor. I left home but cut out the middle bit, settling here prematurely, vicariously wondering if I should have made the 80s my 70s.

The story tonight is about a humid afternoon at the Liberty Baths, among his last days in The City. In a few months, the White Night riots would sour his affection for the place, he'd pack the same rucksack he hauled out there in the first place, and head for home.

He's telling me this while we fool around. More than fool around, really. We're just a funk guitar pedal-bowed soundtrack away from an action-adventure-comedy here, my Starsky in his Hutch, you know. His brow relaxes and his eyes close and he enthuses about the slim Latino with chestnut eyes and soft skin, the touch of a stranger, the warmth of a friend and brother. Dean talks and we move together and story spins around in a sort of spiritual mystery until finally I'm imagining that we are there or, at least, through the haze of this humid day, that we are characters in a documentary about a very specific place and time and feeling.

The story etcetera ended, Dean rolls over and lights a healthy one, inhales deeply and passes it to me. Not for the first time, we look into each other's faces and share the unspoken assertion that by all rights, we should be dead by now. That we are not has, over the course of our friendship, gone from a topic of astonishment to guilt to simply relief.

"I'm glad we make room for joy, now and then," Dean says, and places his head on my chest. Just then, I feel unaccountably old, but Dean pulls my arm across him and the feeling passes. I wonder if I have the reverse of Rose's dilemma, if I was born too late and started too soon. I wonder if I would have been able to leave Polk Street once I found it, riots and plague and uncertainty be damned. I wonder if Dean is stronger than I, or weaker, or if we are ably matched in our collisions and collusions.

Monday, May 20, 2002

I can’t cheer up

When the third Abercrombie-clad clone told me to "cheer up", I knew it was time to call it a night. I swallowed the last few molecules of vodka in the drink I'd been nursing for half an hour and hit the stairs.

The truth is, I hadn't been in a bad mood at all. I was thoroughly enjoying the scenery, scouting the packed dance floor, nodding to friends, appreciating the occasional cruisy gaze, all from an unusually choice vantage point alongside the bar. But three men -- strangers, mind -- had gone out their way to tell me I should smile and it was pissing me off.

Apparently there is something about my default mien that erroneously communicates sadness or dissatisfaction when, in fact, nothing could be farther from the truth. Most of the time, I'm an exceedingly happy person, cheery to the point of schmaltz, as upbeat as they come. My aspect, though, seldom betrays this and so, well-meaning though they may be, strangers and friends alike feel compelled to make me grin.

I am not prone to great displays of emotion, one way or the other. You must work very hard, indeed, to make me laugh and, if you see me crying or explicitly frowning, you can be assured of the feeling behind either extreme.

But my face at rest (and I have confirmed this with mirrors and the review of several years worth of photographs) is non-committal, neither elated nor blue. If anything, I can probably be described as appearing "pensive," although in truth I am likely thinking of nothing in particular.

I have usually answered requests to "cheer up" with a genial reassurance that I'm in quite a good mood, thank you, and on occasion have even invoked an awfully fake grin solely to put others at their ease. It's happening far too often, though, and I'm afraid I'm leaning more toward answering them with malediction rather than manners.

Which probably won't help matters at all.

Tuesday, May 14, 2002

Three Things People Are Often Surprised to Discover I Don’t Own More Of

• Belts
• Watches
• Anti-depressant medications

Monday, May 13, 2002

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Dale: Where were you last weekend?

Randy: I went back to Denver to see my folks.

Brad: Everything OK?

Randy: Yeah. My brother came out, though, and mom kind of freaked.

Dale: I didn't even know you had a brother.

Randy: Woody's a lot younger than me, just turned 22. I guess mom didn't have any idea. She'll be OK, though.

Brad: Woody?

Randy: Short for Woodrow. It's a family name, after our great-granddad.

Brad: If you name your sons Woody and Randy, you probably shouldn't be surprised when they both turn out gay.

Tuesday, May 07, 2002

A soap opera

"We've got a few minutes, don't we?" Jeff asks. "Pull into Schnuck's. I need to get a card."

We're on our way to have dinner at Yen Ching with my funny friend Jill, the lip-schtick lesbian, and her partner Jackie. (Yes, "Jack" and Jill. It's all very nursery rhyme campy; wisecracks about rolling down hills and breaking crowns were exhausted years ago.) Our Chinese repast is to be a belated birthday fete for Jill, 35 this year.

Executing the turn into the parking lot requires crossing two lanes of traffic at the last moment and, because this particular grocery is situated amidst no fewer than five "retirement communities", weaving through a slow crosswalk stampede of seniors. Inside, Jeff heads for a long aisle lined with racks of greeting cards.

"While you're doing that," I say, "I want to get some shampoo."

"You buy shampoo here?!" Jeff spins around and regards me dubiously.

"Yes."

"Oh, right," he says. "I forgot you work in the non-profit sector."

This I ignore and step one aisle over to confront a hundred cremes, conditioners and chemicals.

I grab a bottle of my usual and stand examining what must be three dozen different styling gels, trying to ascertain which likely comes closer to the consistency of concrete: Extra hold, extreme hold, or mega-hold? There should be some sort of chart, I think, or a relative scale like SPF numbers on tanning oils. "Gel Factor 95," it might advise, "will maintain your style in winds of up to 12 on the Beaufort scale, through having an iron anvil dropped upon your head, or a three-hour foam party."

Jeff rounds the corner and thrusts his selection into my hand. "How about this one?"

His shopping acumen never ceases to amaze me. Fewer than five minutes have passed and he's managed to find among thousands the one Shoebox birthday card that vaguely alludes to Sapphic love. "It's fine," I say.

He doesn't hear. "Johnson's Baby Shampoo?! You're buying Johnson's Baby Shampoo?"

Jeff is a shampoo snob. He orders his by mail, some sort of concoction with a name that sounds like an '80s arcade game and a list of ingredients that may or may not be Colonel Sanders' original blend of eleven secret herbs and spices. His grooming regimen seems to be balanced between blends of "organic" treatments and frightening brews that sound like SuperFund eligibility lists.

Once, when I was showering at his place after a workout, I picked up a tube of pricey skin scrub and scanned the label. From the contents, I couldn't be sure if it was a facial treatment or a flan. It sounded delicious. The rest of his collection looked like a salad bar, an assortment of vegetable extracts and fruity pomades.

"You really should use something that gives you more control over your hair," he says. "Herbal Essence, at the very least."

I point to the 1/8 inch crop on my head. "This," I say, "hardly needs control. Besides, it's just soap. It gets my hair clean. That's all I require."

"Sometimes I wonder how you survive on the circuit," Jeff says. "I really, really do." He sighs heavily. "Come on, I want to get a Twinkie to tide me over until we eat."

I follow, wondering idly if he means a snack cake or a bag boy.

Thursday, April 25, 2002

Take a letter

Dear Jason,

Yes, I think I'd be inclined to agree with you: being robbed, kicked in the stomach and called a faggot is not the best way to end an evening. Of course, you know what my idea of a delightful night is, because often you were there.

If it's any comfort, from your description you were very much in my thoughts at almost the exact moment you were lying on the sidewalk clutching your gut. We were at Freddie's (it's a new bar) and The Giant Queen had just turned to me and asked if I'd heard from you recently. I said I hadn't and he said, "I wonder what mischief the little fucker is up to these days."

So I was thinking about you and wondering the same thing myself.

Anyhow, it's a relief to know that you weren't badly hurt and, too, to know that you've found a job -- yes, I almost wrote "a real job", because I continue to become more and more like my mother -- and a place that you like to live. Jeff, I'm sure, will get many laughs knowing that you're selling underwear at Marshall Field's. My prediction of his response when I tell him: "He should be especially good during clearance sales. That boy had his own briefs half-off most of the time anyway."

Hey, how often the truth is spoken in jest, right?

The Chicago grapevine passed word to me that you and Karl were on the outs and I assume that's so, given the mention of your new apartment. It's funny how I've been able to keep track of you -- not in the scary, stalker sense, mind -- even though we haven't talked in over a year. Ever since The Actor moved to England, though, my most reliable (and there's a word I never thought I'd use to describe him!) source dried up.

I get up that way a lot, you know, and I want to see you, to hold you and to remind you that I love you very, very much.

Now that I know you have access to e-mail, I'll write often and keep you posted on all the Sturm und Drang down here. (You're rolling your eyes, aren't you? "Why can't you just say 'drama' like a normal person?!" you're saying.)

Well, you can't imagine how much has changed! But I'll save my stories until you divulge at least one of yours. Reciprocity, of one fashion or another, has always been the cornerstone of our relationship, after all. You could call, too, you know. I'm just saying. I miss you.

Take care of yourself, Jason, and hey, watch your back, OK? I'll leave you with the wisdom Grandma Graham gave to me when I ran to her house in tears after being bullied on the church lawn one day after school when I was in the third grade.

"Sometimes it's OK to fight, you know, especially when you're being picked on by somebody just for being you. God don't mind, and I sure as hell don't either. And don't be scared to fight a little dirty. Nobody's gonna think you're less of a man because you kick a bully in the nuts.

"Besides," she said, with that little sarcastic smile that, on more than one occasion, reaffirmed my faith in genetics, "if you kick 'im hard enough, he's the one who'll wind up with less."

Love from where you've been,

Brad

Monday, April 22, 2002

Tim

It's always the nights when I least feel like hitting the circuit which seem to wind up holding the most promise, and this is no exception. Almost as soon as I mount the stairs at The Complex, I see Adorable Dave tipping a longneck at the bar and pass a pleasant half hour chatting before he departs with his date. It is a testament, I think, to my personal growth over the past decade that I spend only five minutes or so imagining them rushing to one or the other's home, ripping off their clothes and going at it.

OK, perhaps ten minutes.

Rob, who I haven't seen in ages, encircles my waist from behind and pulls me into a hug. There's some good-natured, bad-boy badinage; it's flirting that will never go anywhere, because I'm a godless tax-and-spender and he wears his Log Cabin credentials across his chest like the Fitch Bitches on the dance floor wear their tight mass-produced t-shirts.

And there's Tim in the corner. It's been a good year since I gave this the old college try and he smiles when he spots me approaching. We share a beer and a cigarette and I listen as he ticks off the ones who got away. No sex in ages, he says, which must be particularly frustrating for a social worker specializing in sex worker outreach.

We've danced around each other for a half-dozen years or more, Tim and I. In the small hours, I turn to him and ask when we're finally going to fool around. The looks and touching and the four more rounds of drinks have fortified my belief that it might just be tonight.

"I don't want to fool around," he says. "I want a commitment."

"I'm not the marrying kind," I say.

"I don't know that about you."

I do, and it's only just recently that I -- what, discovered? -- no, accepted that about myself. I'm no good in relationships, never have been, really, likely because my concept of monogamy has more to do with emotional loyalty than physical exclusivity and, at some point in the last decade, this view began to diverge wildly from that of my peers.

I liked it much better when I was fighting for my freedom to be a sexual outsider and I bridled when the goal became a "marriage initiative".

I drained my beer and kissed Tim hard on the lips and squeezed his ass and said goodnight. I glanced at the dance floor on my way out, just half past one and still promise left in the night and the sight of a hundred perspiring torsos shimmying to Cher.

A song for lonely, indeed. No, not lonely, not by a considerable margin. Just alone.

Tuesday, April 16, 2002

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

The Giant Queen: Oh, I meant to tell you guys about the dream I had last night.

Jeff: You ain't gettin' 88 cents from me, Rose!

GQ: (blank stare)

Jeff: It's from Gypsy?

GQ: Anyway...

Brad: Was it the dream where you're in the Tate Gallery, having a three-way with Eminem and Chris O'Donnell and, suddenly, the Honeycomb Kids show up in latex body suits doing the watusi?

GQ: (blank stare)

Brad: Am I the only one who has that dream?

Monday, April 15, 2002

Matthew

I can't stop crying about it.

On October 12, 1998, I stood alone in the backyard and gazed through wispy clouds at the stars in the autumn sky and hugged my arms tightly around my shoulders, occasionally bringing the cuff of my sweater across my eyes to wipe at the tears.

On June 15, 2000, I staggered along 17th Street in New York, not knowing where to go and unable to think clearly and sobbing so hard that a stranger stopped me and asked me if I was okay -- in New York City! -- and offered to just stand with me for a minute until I pulled myself together.

On January 11, 2002, I believed that words on a page couldn't make the tears come but they did. I closed the door and sat in my office and cried like the first time. Like the second time. Like I did last night.

It was third time I've seen or read The Laramie Project, the play by Moisés Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Company about the events in Wyoming following the murder of Matt Shepard.

I have stood face to face with Rev. Phelps. I have held the hand of Judy Shepard. I have said eulogies and I have written elegies and I have taken punches and I have never cried about those things. I have never given myself to permission to cry. I have a more urgent need to act.

Sometimes, though, words, time, distance...these things give us permission, whether we ask for it or not.

It's been four years and I can't stop crying about it.

Thursday, April 11, 2002

Gifts from abroad

My friend Will asked me to bring him something "cheap and British"...
Roasted Monkey Nuts, Harrod's, London
December 31, 2001

Wednesday, April 10, 2002

Unexpected

The second one is tall, taller than I anyway, with black, curly hair and green eyes and a radiant smile. He has the look of a man at home modeling seafoam green loose-knit cotton sweaters in a J. Crew catalog and is possessed of an easy laugh that comes often while we talk. It's hard to hear, with the disco music throbbing, but we chat for a while and then stand side by side in an amiable head-bobbing silence.

The first one is short, shorter than I anyway, shirtless and ten pounds heavy, with a goatee and brown eyes and a lopsided grin that flashes once and disappears. He doesn't want to dance. He doesn't, it seems, really want to be here at all. The conversation is ten words, maybe twelve, exchanged along with lusty looks and sips of weak draft beer.

Certain offers are made, mental tallies are adjusted, drinks are purchased, watches are looked at, a choice is made.

Perfection is enticing, imperfection utterly intoxicating.

You may think you know how this story ends, but you don't. You never do, really.

Tuesday, April 09, 2002

Extermin--wha?!

Men, Women, Wheelchair Access...Daleks?! Aaaaiiieee!!
Public Loo at Victoria Station, London
December 30, 2001

Monday, April 08, 2002

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Mark: He's cute, and he has the body of a dancer.

Brad: You would probably get on rather well, then, since you have the body of a ballroom.

Tuesday, April 02, 2002

Thoughts and comments on the occasion of preparing my federal income tax return for the year 2001

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck.

Monday, April 01, 2002

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Tagert: Nice shooting. (laughs)

Brad: At least I hit the board.

Tagert: Six points.

Brad: Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

Tagert: What, do you burst out of your shirt and turn lavender?

Brad: Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I do, because apparently I am the Fabulous Hulk.

Sunday, March 31, 2002

Heeeeere’s Greg…

This portion of The BradLands is brought to you by So New Media, publishers of Greg Knauss' "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard." So New Media -- not just media, but new media. Only more so. Like extra, super new media. So New Media. It's got that new media smell.

Hello, I'm Abraham Lincoln and when I'm not spending time being dead and in the public domain, there's nothing I enjoy more than relaxing with a good So New Media book. They're terrific! Not only are So New Media books conveniently printed on paper -- like such classics as "Garfield Gets Tied Into a Canvas Bag and Dropped into the River" and "The Bible" -- but you'd be hard pressed to find other books that have that been as thoroughly handled by Ben Brown, unless you live in Austin and visit the pornography section of used bookstores.

Take, for instance, "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" -- please! Ha ha! Oh, joyous mirth.

"RDFGTTB" -- pronounced like you're clearing your throat -- is the only book about parental love with a chainsaw and the word "bastard" on the cover. These heart-warning tales are sure to make you realize that you've read them before, as they're re-printed from An Entirely Other Day. But who could resist such bawdy folderol as this:

Tom saunters up to me -- he's sauntering now, Tom -- and says, "Do you work at a office or in a office?"

"I work in an office, at the office."

Tom looks confused, then laughs.

"Them prepositions," I say. "They're tricky."

Of course, you won't actually find that story in the book. But there are a number of other grammar jokes, for the connoisseur. You sad, lonely people.

So remember, citizen, for all your so new media needs, think So New Media! Because, y'know, that's what we sell. It's called branding. We used to sell these tasty little sponge cakes, but nobody ever came to buy them, because, pftt, "So New Media" just doesn't scream "sponge cake"! It was a silly thing to try. But still, sponge cake. Mmm. Everybody likes sponge cake.

I'm Abraham Lincoln, now irretrievably thinking about sponge cake. What the hell was I saying? Has anybody seen my hat?

Thursday, March 28, 2002

No fault

Here's a sobering and, ultimately, utterly self-evident fact I somehow wasn't able to grasp before tonight: I have spent the past ten years or so, through a hundred retellings of the story -- from my perspective, mind -- hoping for and expecting someone to affirm my assertion that it was all his fault. When, in fact, there is plenty of blame to go around.

Or, more probably, no one is to "blame" at all.

Why did I wait a decade to tell the story to the one person I knew would understand best and, more importantly, tell me the truth I didn't particularly want to hear. Self-sabotage sucks.

Wednesday, March 27, 2002

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

David: They're having a sale at Dillard's this week. You buy a sportcoat, you get a putter free.

Jack: A putter, like golf?

David: Yep. Nice one, too.

Jack: What could I buy to get a nice wood?

Brad: Well, I'll have another cosmopolitan. Thanks.

Monday, March 25, 2002

Sorry lady

On Saturday, completing a three-year search, I finally found a table lamp that I liked for a particular spot in my house. Admittedly, I had not dedicated much energy to the search, since I found it in, of all places, K-Mart. I bought the lamp and a bottle of soda.

Once home, I decided I liked the lamp so much, I resolved to get another for an adjacent table, so I went back to K-Mart today, picked up the last one they had in stock and, as an afterthought, a soda to enjoy on the drive home. By happenstance, I had the same clerk who'd checked me through on Saturday. We exchanged pleasantries and, as she took my money, she regarded me with a curious expression.

It was an expression that said, "I'm having deja vu."

If I could keep this up every two days for a month or so, I believe I could drive the woman mad.

Thursday, March 21, 2002

A commercial I’d actually watch

That Verizon guy, sitting in a restaurant at dinner, repeating "Can you hear me now?" into his cell phone, then being beaten senseless by dozens of irritated diners. Alternate locations: movie theatre, public restroom, art gallery, library, cross-town bus.

Wednesday, March 20, 2002

Better late?

You've got to give a man credit, I suppose, when he says "I'll call you" and then he actually does.

Of course, after seven years, I'd pretty much stopped waiting by the phone, but with spring just around the corner, I'm in a forgiving mood.

Tuesday, March 19, 2002

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

David: So I was up near your old stomping grounds last week. I went t--

Brad: I never did.

David: What?

Brad: I never stomped.

David: Beg pardon?

Brad: Never, not even as a discontented child. I moved with elegance, the very definition of grace and elan. Sleek and sure were my steps as I traipsed about the town, calling a merry hello to passersby who stood rapt with awe at my confident stride and manly bearing. I never stomped.

David: Are you through?

Brad: Yes, and now I must pee. (trips over barstool)

David (to bartender): Could we get another round? A rum and coke for me and a beer for Cyd Charisse there?

Brad: Bite me.

David: "Bite me"? Yep, that's "elan" all right.

Monday, March 18, 2002

Predictable

It doesn't matter how early I get to bed. I always seem to pop wide awake around noon, and I just can't get back to sleep.

Friday, March 15, 2002

In which I am a reluctant computer consultant

If it weren't for Steve's hardwood floors, I probably wouldn't be here at CompUSA at the wholly unreasonable hour of 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

I was awakened by a buzzing that sounds like locusts fighting inside an aluminum can. It takes a moment or so of sleep-fogged concentration to realize that my cell phone has vibrated its way from the bedside table where I scattered the contents of my pockets last night and landed on the floor, where it is now skittering across the slats toward the closet door. I shake my head and force my eyes to focus on the clock. It's just after 8.

Extracting myself from the tangled duvet, taking care not to wake Steve, I take a couple of steps from the bed and retrieve the animated phone. When I see the incoming number on the tiny display, I briefly consider resigning the call to voicemail. Instead, I stumble back to bed and flip open the phone, croaking a groggy hello.

On the other end of the line, Jeff sounds frantic. "Where are you?" he asks. "I need your help!"

There is an urgency in his voice, a tone that implies he's either suffered a mortal wound or just heard the announcement of a white sale at Famous and Barr. I am instantly fully awake.

"What's the matter?" I ask. "Are you all right?"

"My computer is dead. I need you to help me pick out a new one. Can you come right away?"

I hang up on him.

I know this is a short-term solution. I am not likely to be getting further sleep. Sure enough, the phone vibrates half a minute later and I answer immediately.

"For this, you interrupt the Lord's day?" I ask.

"Get real," Jeff says. "You are a godless man."

"As it happens," I reply, "I am in bed with one right now."

Steve is stirring now. "What happened?" I ask.

"I was IMing with this really hot guy last night -- well, this morning actually -- a totally rich number. You should see his GIF. We're talking a major packer."

"Jeff --"

"Anyway, he sends me his number. We're gonna hook up. And then another window opens up and the whole fucking thing just crashes. I try to start it up again and...nothing."

"Your computer died because you had two instant message windows open?"

Silence.

"Jeff?"

"Sixteen."

Steve rolls over and runs his hand along my stomach. "Sixteen," I repeat. "And a lot of pictures, too, right?"

"Yes," Jeff says, adding sadly, "They were on the hard drive."

"Call me back at a decent hour," I say, glancing down at Steve's head resting on my chest. "Two, maybe three."

"Wait, why aren't you at home?" Jeff asks, then answers his own question. "That guy from Clem's?"

"No comment."

"Meet me at the store at 10 sharp, sweetie. I want the dish and your electronic expertise. I'll buy you brunch after. Ta!"

I refold the phone and replace it on the nightstand, taking care to reactivate the ringer so the little critter doesn't scurry away again.

"What was that all about?" Steve asks.

"My friend Jeff," I say. "He was mutually messaging himself into a frenzy with some e-trick last night and fried his computer. He spends half of happy hour last week eschewing the bar scene and then goes home every night and cruises AOL for hours. Like that's any healthier."

Our eyes meet and Steve's mouth bends into the little grin that made me melt in the first place.

"What was your screenname again?" Steve asks.

"Shut up."

Thursday, March 14, 2002

A Conversation From the (Taco) Bar Scene

Brad: Well, then, we'd like to sit in Jason's section.

Hostess: He already got off.

Brad: (speechless)