Wednesday, August 02, 2000

A political poem

A poem, based on graffiti by an unknown author:

As the election draws nearer
Let us bring peace to pass.
I'll hug your elephant
If you'll kiss my ass.

Tuesday, August 01, 2000

The Twins take me shopping

I am extremely susceptible to "shopping suggestibility". Cleaning out my closet in anticipation of an autumn tag sale has made that much clear. There's something about the atmosphere of retail clothiers and catalogs that renders me incapable of logic. I sort through the racks at Structure or leaf through the pages of International Male and a little voice inside my head says, "You know, if you ordered that stretch Lycra Hawaiian print shirt with the faux-Tiki epaulets, your chest would look just as ripped and tan as that model's." I somehow come to believe that my anxiety about appearing poolside will be abated if only I were the owner of a leopard print bikini brief with mesh vented side panels, to earnestly know that such swimwear would make my thighs appear on a par with, say, Bob Paris.

It was with no little apprehension, then, that I accompanied The Twins on a shopping expedition to the Galleria last week. The pair was determined to, as they put it, "enhance my wardrobe." Apparently, although it was never said in so many words, my assortment of Gap golf shirts and practically ancient ACT-UP tees was starting to wear a bit old on the circuit. "You need something stretchy, clingy, shiny," Twin A enthused.

"I remember when proper laundering could prevent that sort of thing," I said.

The last time I set foot in a Banana Republic store, years ago, they were still hawking exotic fashion styles, seemingly gathered from the closets of intrepid adventurers around the globe. They actually sold pith helmets at one point, I recall. On this visit, though, they were pushing something called "Stretch Poplin," which struck me as less a fashion choice than a good name for a very tall drag queen.

We eventually made our way to the comparatively conservative men's section at Famous-Barr since -- although The Twins were gleefully entertained by playing Dress-Me-Up-Brad -- everything outre they suggested I try on made me look a bit like Andy Dick trying to pull off Prada. After four hours in the mall, I walked out with three "ribbed" cotton-Lyrca t-shirts and a promise from The Twins never to subject me to their efforts at "reform" again.

Monday, July 31, 2000

Don’t you think that’s odd?

Colt has an unusual speech pattern that took me all of ten minutes to notice and another five to tire of. He has a slow Carolina drawl, which is endearing, but his habit of punctuating practically every conversation with a declarative sentence, followed by a question, and then another declarative annoys the hell out of me.

"I think that's odd," he'll say. "Don't you think that's odd? I think that's odd."

Sometimes the pattern will invert itself -- question, statement, question.

"Isn't that the damnedest thing you've ever seen? That's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. Isn't that the damnedest thing you've ever seen?"

Sunday, July 30, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

A Conversation From The Bar Scene:

Jeff: Man, that guy is really cruising me.

Brad: Which guy?

Jeff: The tall blond number with the striped shirt and cut-offs. That's the third time he's walked by since we've been here.

Brad: He just went into the bathroom.

Jeff: So?

Brad: So that's also the third time he's been to the bathroom since we've been here.

Jeff: What do you think that means?

Brad: Well, he's either interested in you or he's incontinent. Frankly, I'm not sure which is sadder for the poor man.

Saturday, July 29, 2000

Dissonance of perception

Before, I had been certain I wanted him back in my life, but now that I had him back, I wasn't sure I liked the terms. The terms, of course, were his and while it was never said in so many words, it amounted to "I've alienated or used up all of my other friends. Now I'm back to you."

I began to wonder if I was being petty and selfish about being "the friend of last resort," or if, just maybe, this was the nature of real, abiding friendship, the person who'll be there for you when no one else will. All of this was complicated by the fact that I was still very much in love with him.

We had a tense dinner, at which not much was said. What was said was all wrong, I thought. Or, at least, my lines were deviating too wildly from the script. For three months, I had cast myself as the wounded bird, smiling bravely but barely concealing a deep pain. Now I was coming off self-assured and independent, happy -- hell, almost smug! What was that all about?!

Naturally, what was unsaid was just as important, and the thought hung heavily over the table. We would never again have the easy, loving rapport we had enjoyed just weeks ago. Never again. "From here on out," neither of us said, "things will never be the same." We -- I -- had gone too far. The emotional Rubicon had been crossed but not bridged. I waited hopefully, expectantly and ultimately alone on the other shore. It was becoming abundantly clear that he would not cross to join me.

The dinner ended -- the last glass of house wine, the final cigarette, and then a brief hug before we went our separate ways. Truly separate, for what felt like the first time and would likely be the first of many.

I have become aware that memory is very closely tied to perception, and in the telling of Rashomon that was our relationship, he and I had very different viewpoints and wildly divergent recollections of the same events. Moreso than lovers who differ in their accounts of a shared experience, we were both literally and figuratively living in different worlds.

To me, he was my lover -- in every way that mattered. To him, I was his friend -- in every way. Period.

That's a dissonance of perception that skews the truth into an unrecognizable thing, and that was the undoing of our relationship, whatever form it ever really took.

Friday, July 28, 2000

The Best Damn Kudu He Can Be

My favorite animal at the Zoo is the lesser kudu. You have to admire an animal with a name like that, laboring as he must in the shadow of the greater kudu. It must be like having an older brother who excelled at sports and academics in school, to whom you have always been compared and found lacking. A few months ago, I was visiting the Zoo at lunch with a friend and discovered the area where the lesser kudu is ordinarily found was empty.

I hope he made a break for it. I hope he made his way out into the world, free of expectations, shedding labels, determined only to be the best damn kudu he could be.

Thursday, July 27, 2000

New Saturn

If all goes as planned, around 1 p.m. on Saturday afternoon, I will take delivery of my new-ish car, a 1997 Saturn SL2, a dark, regally green sedan bearing only 34,000 miles and a three-year bumper-to-bumper warranty. By 5 p.m., I shall have acquired and had installed the requisite stereo, security system and -- Visa balance allowing -- chassis-mounted laser cannon and oil slick generator. (On sale at Best Buy this weekend, $99.95 after mail-in rebate, or so I'm told.)

This vehicle will be the fifth of the BradMobiles, supplanting the current 1992 Saturn which, having acquired nearly 109,000 miles in my employ, deserves to be put out to stud. The fourth of my mongrel automotive lineage is the only one I never officially named, although it was often referred to as "noble steed."

My first two cars were both Renault Alliances (what was I thinking?!), named Herbie (ibid?!) and Wembley, respectively. The third, purchased when I was doing a lot of commuting between two summer stock theatres some 400 miles apart and schlepping all sorts of junk in both directions, was a Ford Aerostar. By virtue of its size, compared to the Renaults, it was dubbed "Brutus".

I haven't picked a name for the new wheels as yet; an appropriate moniker for any inanimate acquisition generally suggests itself within the first tew weeks of our relationship. There seems to be an informal three-month window, though, whereafter if a car, computer or other major appliance has not been given a nom de plume, it is destined to have only nicknames, likely transient ones, for all time.

Wednesday, July 26, 2000

How much is the friggin’ car?!

"Excuse me, how much is that car over there?"

"Good morning, sir!"

"The car. There's no price on it. How much?"

"Nice weather we've been having."

"The blue one, leather seats, automatic transmission, AM/FM crap factory radio, driver's and passenger's side airbags, air conditioning and what have you. It's sitting right over there. How much is it?"

"So, the Cardinals are on a roll, eh?"

"HOW MUCH IS THE FRIGGIN' CAR?!"

"Well, sir, how much were you looking to spend?"

"Arrrgh!!!" (strangles smarmy, evasive, "I'll-chat-with-my-sales-manager-and-see-what-we-can-do" car salesman).

Tuesday, July 25, 2000

Music I Play to Torture Myself

The power of the senses upon my memory never ceases to fill me with wonder. Lots of folks have memories -- pleasant or otherwise -- associated with certain fragrances, a fragment of music or other sound, the sight of a particular totem or motif that recalls a definite place and time. For me, it's generally clothing and music. I'll be digging through my closet and run across the sweatshirt I purchased at Kennedy Airport because I was freezing and my flight was delayed eight hours and I can recall with remarkable clarity the grim purpose that took me to New York that November in the first place.

But mostly, it's music. Now, in the movies, when the hero or heroine hears a favorite old song and is transported to another time, another place, it's generally something rather high-toned. A bit of Gershwin, perhaps, whisks Ingrid Bergman back to a sidewalk cafe in Paris. In yet another needless demonstration that my life is nothing like the movies, tonight the song was Animotion's Obsession (damn you, Y98 "Eighties at Eight"), and in a flash, it's 1985 and I am lying on a blanket in the back of Roger's pickup truck, gazing at the full moon and believing I was blissfully and enduringly happy.

There is, in my record collection (weighted though it is toward showtunes and the predictable disco chart hits), a particular genre commonly referred to as "Music I Play to Torture Myself." This is the music of my memories, and I can quickly locate the few tracks necessary to delineate the phases of my all-too-brief relationship with Roger.

Obsession, of course. How many romances were launched or consumated to the melodies of one-hit "wonders"? Duran Duran, because for about four months, we were the Wild Boys. And, finally, Styx. The Best of Times? For a while, at least. But at last, plaintively, Don't Let It End.

I am so not Ingrid Bergman. It is painfully clear that I am, in fact, Molly Ringwald in every John Hughes movie ever made.