a walk in the village
“Two weeks away feels like the whole world should have changed, but I’m home now and things still look the same” - Dido, sand in my shoes.
No real purpose for starting the blog that way. I just thought about the song. It is sunday the 25th. The 25th day of any given month is often my most prolific; not that I am superstitious, I just look at the records. Most of my work is date stamped 25th [any given month]. I am anal like that. I have a record of every thing that has happened in life going back to June 1998, including specific times.
That should be scary, or the basis of a disease that sounds like a rap group… you know — da OCD. Ya down wid OCD… yeah you know me… Da Ol’ Controlling Dastard. While we are at it, shall we all just get Krunk [said in most proper British accent].
Yes you can take that as a sign that I am not a big hip / hop / rap fan. I like my music slow, sultry and often undiscovered by the mainstream. I also like my music fast, manic and undiscovered by the mainstream… so Im a kinda manic de-stressing kinda music fan. Sarah MacLachan meets Prodigy.
Can you just picture the remix. wow.
It is funny to think of it though… very slow soulful folk-sy type songs have the same number of beats per minute as fast paced garage band techno acid trip stuff. Believe me, I kid you not. So it is really easy to put Sarah MacLachlan and Prodigy on the same track. Think of Annie Lennox… she is a balladeer turned dance floor maven.
Shudder to think of Cher. Who really believes in life after life after life after life after love. Maybe she should stop before her spandex outfits become fused with her skin.There is only so far you can push the “sexy over 60″ envelope.
You know what though, the West Village… yes I said it… the West Village, NYC. I have been hit on more in the West Village than anywhere else that I can think of. I remember almost walking into a tree after a post man straight out of the village people hit on me [if straight can appropriately be used in this sentence]. Was it his manly charm, his billowing shoulders, his over-sized –smuggle your cousin across the border — mustache, no… it was when he said to me as I left a pizza parlor… in a brusque cowboy-back mountain voice… “you got beautiful eyes bro.”
Yes, a crowning moment if ever there was one. So many funny memories from the village. Having lunch with my lesbian kinda-ex-girlfriend… and world class Jamaican slam poet… [oh yes, I am protecting the innocent] in the West Village, visiting another lesbian ex-girlfriend at the gay bar where she served drinks (is that a contradiction?), or buying records at one of the record shops I frequented, to ask for “the new song by Evangelina” to which my well built, strapping, marina wearing, RuPaul without the wig, scathingly-catty-commented friend said… “NEW, where have you been, Jamaica?”
Well, if you must know… actually… yes.
So many memories. So little time. This is actually quite funny because I am sure that if you are reading this and do not know who I am… I could be a woman, a man, homosexual, homophobic, humorous, intolerant, or just a misguided soul with nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than to write about men hitting on him and lesbian ex-girlfriends.
To most people who know me, I have the sensibilities of a lesbian woman… and so find a kindred soul in many of my engendering-same-gender-friends. As the saying goes, it takes one to know one.
Life has been, how do you say, picturesque.
I remember the classic tale of the now legendary “Peter King.” I am not sure if his identity can be protected at this stage of any given story: I went to pick my grandmother up at a party (of her mostly 80+ year old lesbian, gay and bisexual music teacher and musician friends in homophobic Jamaica) late one Wednesday Evening (it was in February, it was 9:57pm); and as I walked in to her friends’ Mary & David’s house, A gentleman approached me to say “Hi, I’m Peter King, do I have to behave?” To which I responded, like a deer in the headlights. “Oh, I don’t know, your behaviour is entirely up to you I think.” This is the part of the horror film where the loud screeching sounds are heard, or the little possessed boy walks in and chants “redrum, redrum.” You know, that point in the story where the unknowing character should begin running away, to avoid an almost inevitable death. Well, I was not that wise… but I was saved by Mary, a member of the “oh, I know whats going on here club.”
She said “Oh, that’s Kathleen’s grandson.” To which the now late and notoriously ‘pedophil-ific’ [that is my word... for a married man who has a dangerous and horrific penchant for hitting on young boys] responded…”here, let me introduce you to the boys.”
To that I might add: are famous last words. [you have to read the news in Jamaica to understand.]
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So why have I spent the afternoon writing about being hit on by gay men and having more lesbian girlfriends than most lesbian girlfriends? Frankly, I am not sure… nor do I feel in any way exposed or judgmental in my narrative. It just seemed to flow in a very “My Name is Earl” kind of way. So I just stuck with it and kept writing. If you were in any way offended by this, my apologies. If you know me, you will know fully well that I am not [adjective to describe negative thought you might be having at this time ].
Hell, I would venture to say that I am a pretty nice guy [with the internal narrative of an assertive lady]… You know, like the old Placebo song (Pure Morning) goes… “a friend in need is a friend indeed, one who’ll tease is better, a friend with breasts and all the rest, one whose dressed in leather.” That would be me… in a discussion with my mind.
Does this make me a freak. Honey, you have no idea.