Cleaning Women

Exactly eleven years ago, I was in a junior college student repertory production of Studs Terkel’s “Working”. It’s a very cheesy musical about the every day working class (Joe the Plumber, so to speak). It’s got a very big 70’s vibe. The best number in the show was “Cleaning Women”. It was a show stopper. I wasn’t in that number, but I memorized the choreography so that I could do it backstage with my friends who actually got to perform. My role was a monologue about being an electrician. It was short and sweet and didn’t require dancing or singing.

One of the girls in the “Cleaning Women” song was Genevieve. She was a short, fat, black lesbian. Halfway through the run of the show, she quit. I forget why. I only remember her crying and leaving. We never saw her again. This left a hole in the dance number. Since I knew the choreography, the director let me fill Genevieve’s shoes… and sweatpants. It was a real ‘Showgirls’ moment and I was able to shine. We were all so excited that I got to be in the routine that we took a group photo.

This morning, I found this photo tagged on my Facebook. I immediately UNtagged it because Facebook is too public. Then, I immediately wrote this blog entry and posted the photo.

In case you can’t tell, the large Samoan lady next to me is a dude. He is the faggiest fag I ever met and was a good, good friend of mine at the time. We used to paint our fingernails with polish he kept in a lavender caboodle. The guy had sooo much nail polish!!!

If you’re curious as to what the song sounds like, you can see Patti LaBelle sing it HERE.

Black Power

My first summer in NYC, I was hired as an art teacher for a pretty well known summer camp company and placed at a school in an area of Brooklyn called Brownsville. My first day there I found out from some of the other teachers that the guy I was replacing walked out of his class because the kids drove him crazy. OK. I’m ready. I’ve worked with emotionally disturbed teens before. I can deal. Now before I continue, I feel it is imperative to this story to say, that I was the only white man on campus.

My first class involved collage work. I had saved up a bunch of my old magazines and brought them in for one of my favorite art projects. After I was finished explaining the project, I asked if anyone had any questions. One boy politely raised his hand, waited to be called and said ‘We don’t like white people at this camp’. Without hesitation, I replied, ‘Well I really like black people and I am the new art teacher so you’re going to have to get used to me’. A cute, little, pudgy girl named Princess came up to me with her hands on her hips, looked me up and down with burning judgment and asked ‘Is Santa Clause yo daddy?’ My shiny, happy retort this time was, ‘Yes he is and he told me that you aren’t getting anything this year if you are mean to people’. She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Surprise, surprise’ and walked away. Princess indeed.

During one week they were having some sort of very disorganized camp olympics. Kids were dropping from dehydration from sitting out on the asphalt black top that served a variety of uses…..lunch area, snack area, sports, water games, rally meeting place, picnic area, hospital, synagogue….Anyway, my role as Art Teacher was to judge the artistic merit of each team’s banner. Fourth place was the Red Devils. Third was the Green Hornets. Second was the Gold Angels. As I was announcing these winners in front of the entire congregation, it became so funny in my head that I was such the outsider here at this camp. The looks on some of the kids and counselors faces were so pissy. I almost started laughing out loud when I announced the winners….The Black Panthers.

The entire team rose to attention, marched in unision up to me on the stage, and chanted ‘Power…yeahyeah…Black Power’, their powerful voices booming across the school. Standing center stage, I applauded as the team leader excepted their trophy. I shouted ‘Give it up for Black Power’. I had meant to say Black Panthers, but you see how I could get caught up in all the excitement.

After that, the kids kind of liked me. They thought I was funny. I had won them over as much as one gay, white dude could in a month and a half. Some angry kid named Kevin would eat paste, throw chairs, and cuss me out. He was twelve. Everyday was a new adventure in how far he could push me before one of us started crying. He drew me a very angry picture of himself. After he was finished, he happily gave me the picture. I thought it was sweet that he made it for me. Perhaps this was a breakthrough! The picture was of him as a powerful robot shooting a rather large white guy with sonar rays.

12 to 31: Anti-Homelessness

While doing laundry this evening, I met a young woman named Trina. She was huddled up on the street in a torn blanket and a knitted rainbow hat. She asked me if I knew of anywhere in the neighborhood that she could “crash” and “just lay my head down for a few hours”. I blamed my roommate as an excuse not to let her wedge her way into thinking she could stay with me. We had a decent conversation and I could tell she was a nice girl, but also suffering from some mild mental health issues. The way she talked and acted reminded me of the worst roommate I ever had in my life, but for some reason, I liked her.

Maybe I was inwardly compelled to help her out because of my recent bad karma points, but after talking to her a while longer, I invited her over to have some food and take a hot shower. I asked her a little more about herself and she said, “Well, I’m highly educated. I went to Brown University and majored in World Religion. I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. Sometimes, I write for The Village Voice. I am sort of a famous artist in the neighborhood, like the people who know art, know me. I just got out of an abusive relationship. Hopefully, he is in jail. Also, I am totally against September 11th.”

Sold.

She helped me fold my laundry while we talked about religion. “If Jesus died for our sins to end our suffering, why do people suffer every day?” was her opening question. She quoted Bible scriptures that didn’t sound quite right. We came back to my apartment and I made her some Cream of Mushroom soup. She guzzled all my Diet Dr. Pepper and took an oddly long shower, which was nice because I had noticed that she smelled a little funky. She wore sandals in the shower too, which I thought was a classy touch. I looked online for shelters in the area while she watched ‘Project Runway’.

She explained to me her philosophy of “Anti-Homelessness” – ‘If everyone was given a job then there wouldn’t be any homeless on the streets. I want to work with people to fight the homeless crusade. I was traveling in Eastern Europe and broke my foot. I couldn’t walk. My parents moved and didn’t tell me where they were going. I think I was the product of an illegal, secret adoption. I still don’t understand how there is war in the world because the internet is such a great invention. The internet should have ended war and homelessness.’

Trina borrowed my phone to call some girl to see if she could stay with her, rather than go to a shelter. Trina said, “I’m not going to a shelter again because being raped isn’t my idea of a good time.” I put her in a cab to the motel her friend was staying in and gave her the only cash I had on me ($9.00). Before she left, I asked her if she would take a picture with me. She said, “Absolutely, I used to be a model before Tyra Banks went crazy. She tried to make me crazy, but I am a normal person.”

She gave me a can of jasmine scented room spray as a gift. Then, she wrote down her email address for me. What?

Whatever, Security

Coachella Valley Music Festival used to be one of my favorite Southern California activities that I would attend every year. I haven’t been able to go back since moving to NYC and that’s very sad. Not as sad as how afraid I am of those creepy windmills out there in the desert, but sad anyway.

Several years ago I lost my mind at Coachella. All day I was wearing a navy blue T-shirt with “SECURITY” printed in bold yellow lettering. I didn’t think anything about my choice of clothes until later that night in the dance tent. Two of my best gays and I decided to push our limits and ingest an entire eighth of shrooms. I was dancing/flying through the music and people, in the middle of a terrific experience, then, out of the electronic shadows, a guy threw himself at me and pushed me on the ground, yelling “Whatever, security!”. My brain twisted. My soul caught on fire. I knew I had to leave the dance tent immediately.

Outside in the fresh air, I was a little relieved. I felt like everyone had seen and heard the incident. I was embarrassed and felt bad that I possibly gave someone a bad trip for thinking I was “SECURITY”. I thought I should go meet up with my besties back at the spot we designated as a meet up point, but that spot was back inside the tent! I definitely could not go back there! I had been invisibly banned form entering the tent. That was absolutely not an option. I walked away from the tent towards the bright ball of purple and blue thunder.

Along the way, I passed a group of hot chicks that were giggling. As they floated by, a blonde one laughed and said, “Whatever, security!” I walked faster away from them. I couldn’t believe everyone knew about this incident! I got so self-conscious of my shirt, I had to get rid of it. A brilliant idea ignited. I will go to the bathroom and turn it inside-out! Problem solved! I will be able to go back to the tent and see my friends!

The problem with the outhouse situation was that it was an outhouse. Every hippie and coked out frat dude were told to poo in this muddy, stinky, slippery field-like area. There were no lines, just a mob of sweaty humans – way too crowded. I wondered where Cameron Diaz went to the bathroom when she was at Coachella the year before. I wanted access to that bathroom. Just as I was about to walk into a stall, I heard a voice behind me say, “Whatever, security!” I turned around and saw some teenager boy laughing. What an asshole! Why do you have to keep reminding me? I ducked inside the outhouse and turned my shirt inside-out. Done deal! All better! The inside of the dingy bathroom felt like salvation.

Upon exiting I heard someone say, “Oh thats the guy with the security shirt, he just turned it inside-out.” My head exploded and I ran away. Off in the distance I heard the soothing sound of Bjork. I followed her voice.

I got lost and ended up sitting down next to a deserted trash can at the edge of a field. I played the What’s-in-my-pockets game for a few minutes/hours. I studied the intensity of a one dollar bill. A straw wrapper freaked me out. Bjork sang about children. I looked up from a giant blade of grass and an old dude looked down at me. “Whatever, security!” he said and threw his half-eaten burrito in the trash. I clearly was not welcome at Coachella any longer. Even though the tent was a world away, word had spread about my shirt and I was a marked man – the scarlett letter.

I traveled through the other end of the huge polo field and out the front entrance. I thought if only I could get to my car and listen to some of my CDs, I could get myself back to “normal” and re-enter society. Sitting in my mom’s Aerostar mini-van proved to be a whole new problem. I sat down and automatically buckled my seat belt. I reached back to grab my CD case and couldn’t reach so I tried to unbuckle my seat belt. It was stuck. I thought I was just tripping so I tried again. No, it was actually, very soberly, broken. I was trapped. Without music, without love, and without sanity. I came up with a plan.

I figured I would look suspicious just sitting in the front seat of my car, so I pretended to talk on my cell phone. The occasional hippie in the fields looked at me, but I didn’t care because I was busy “talking on the phone”. Then the phone actually rang and I almost pooped my pants. I talked to a few friends over the next several minutes/days and grounded myself a little better. I turned the radio on to a decent station (static?) and closed my eyes. I watched the little movies unfold in my little head for a little while. I zoned out and fell asleep? Anyway, I was startled by a loud knock at the window. It was my bestie gays! I had felt so separated from them and I was so happy to see them! I was instantly back to “normal”. They hopped in the car.

One of them said, “Whatever, security!” I almost died. Without missing a beat he went on to explain how some security guard was being a jerk to them on the way out. It was then I realized that I hadn’t heard all of those people say that (except the first guy who knocked me down). I was tripping! We were all so excited to be together again. They had been looking for me the whole time! I told them I was trapped in the belt and they had to use a switchblade and set me free. We drove to the Motel 6 and I was so excited to be in a new place.

Then my foot started to feel like it was falling off.

Ouija Bored

Spooky Halloween is upon us. The Day of the Dead. I am always reminded of the October back in 1999, just before Y2K, that some college theater friends and I became CONSUMED by the mystical wonder that is known as Ouija. (Cue ominous cello music)

The first time I played the Ouija, it was very dark outside. There was no moon. A slight breeze blew threw the trees in the park where we had set up our dead people communication device. I wanted to believe, but didn’t really, and thought this would be fun for ten minutes and I would be over it. Our serious friend asked “Are there any spirits present? Is there anyone here who wants to talk to us?” The planchette moved slowly at first, then slid smoothly to the ‘YES’. We were a little freaked and our serious friend asked the spirit its name. It was so dark we couldn’t see so we lit a lighter to see the name it spelled. The breeze died and the air was still. The lighter exploded. I had a heart attack.

The second time we opened the door to the spirit world, we spoke to a spirit who moved the planchette in a constant figure eight. He told us that he knew all of us. When we asked him if he was a good or bad spirit he responded by pointing at the picture of the sun. We were barely touching the indicator. We tested it by one of us removing our fingers from it and asked questions that no one else would know. One friend asked the Ouija where his dad worked. “B-A-N-K-1″. No one knew that his dad worked there and yet, we spelled it out while he was standing behind us watching. Without asking another question, it began spelling out what everyone’s dad did for a living. We were total believers. We talked to the spirit for about two hours in amazement. It told us how we were all connected and that the combination of the people there was special. When we asked ‘why’ it responded with “M-A-M-E-M-P”. We asked what that meant and it spelled it again. The planchette did a few more strong figure eights and then stopped. We could feel the spirit leave through our hands.

The third time we were in the back of a parked car. We were in a dimly lit parking lot of a grocery store by the beach. The spirit we talked to said that it was killed in a fire. He was 8 years and it was not an accident. He was sad and scared. We asked why and the planchette stopped. It started again and began moving erratically. We asked if he was still there and he said ‘NO’ immediatley. We asked this new spirit his name. He didn’t tell us. We asked where the boy was we were talking to a moment ago. This new spirit responded ‘FIRE’. I asked, “Are you a good spirit or a bad spirit” and it stopped. The lights in the parking lot and the front of the grocery store turned off. Coincidence? i don’t think so. We got the hell out of there.

Throughout all my discussions with spirits back then, I found two that had taken a liking to me. I discovered that one of them, CJ, is always around me. She said she knew me in all three of my past lives and that she was assigned to me through this life as well. I saw her in bathroom stall at a Burger King on Interstate 5 on the way to San Francisco once. She had long blonde straight hair and was wearing a sheer white robe. Her face was milky smooth. A bright glow that matched the intensity of the coke I was doing surrounded her entire being.

Another spirit, CHARLEY, is never up to any good. He claimed responsibility for anything bad that ever happend to me. He would pretend to be another spirit and play games with us but always had to answer truthfully if I asked him if it was Charley. He would say ‘YES’ and slowly mope off the board. I never have seen him, but I sense him around me often when things are going downhill. I try to fend him off by saying his name outloud. That always seemed to put a damper on his mischievous plans. He once flushed a toilet when I asked him for a sign that he was real.

All of that was just crazy bullshit…..right? To this day, whenever I have tried to play with the Ouija, it never works. It just lays there like a dumb piece of wood. Hmm. Weirrrrd.

Jail Bait

One of the many cars I used to drive back home was a 1977 Crysler Cordoba. It ran great but screamed ‘PULL ME OVER’. Unlike the sweet ass NYPD, cops in California are mean, bored and fat. I got pulled over for not using my blinker when I was turning into my driveway at my apartment complex. Seems that I had a warrant out for my arrest. I knew it was a fix it ticket, but The Bacon Gang didn’t know and didn’t care. They cuffed me and hauled me in and impounded my disco era beauty.

I was stripped of all my clothes and told to put everything in a plastic bag. Some super hot copper had to wrench out my tongue ring with a metal clipper of some sort since the ring was stuck and wouldn’t unscrew. I got an orange jumpsuit that was really too starchy for my liking and made me itchy. My bleached hair had grown out enough so that the roots were looking really trendy. The officers all started calling me ‘Smashmouth’ since apparently they thought I looked like the guy.

“Stand up against the wall, Smashmouth”
“Hands to your side, Smashmouth”
“Get on your knees and open wide, Smashmouth”

Oh, the macho fraternity feel of all of it. I didn’t know whether to be scared or excited. I opted for scared for the first 30 minutes, then I settled into this amazing venue for people watching. They hurdled us from one cell to the next while they performed “intake” on us. Sounds spicy but it really just meant that we had to wait to see the nurses and stuff before we got to our real cell. I chose not to say a word to anyone. I am very intimidating as long as I am not talking. Many guys were talking testosterone at each other.

“I’m here cause I want to be here. They got good food.”
“My wife told me not to hit her, but I have a problem with that”
“Stolen cars are alot more fun to drive, ponchito”

No one ever approached me. I took it as an acting class. Sort of a very method type of thing. I was so manly. I oozed quiet straight machismo. I never said shit to anyone….until I had to see the nurse. I told her that I was prone to passing out when I had blood taken. She seemed almost motherly. She was the only snatch around so she seemed alot of things to alot of creeps around there. She either didn’t hear or didn’t care about my heeded warning as she jammed the sharp needle into my vein. I immediately saw spots, lost all sense of balance and screamed “Holy fuck” as I tumbled to the cold concrete floor.

After I returned to my cell the cops AND the criminals had started referring to me as ‘Smashmouth’. Really really awesome. I was let out two days later and my warrant was erased from my records. Thanks to the state of California for that experience!

Poo Story

AYSO Soccer teams are a necassary rite of passage as a young kid. I hoped and wished back then that performing in the muscical ‘Grease’, making the perfect mixed tape or reading the entire Nancy Drew Mysteries series in one summer had a little more clout than all the sports I was forced to play. I guess my favorite would have to be soccer. Baseball was boring. Football scared me. Basketball seemed redundant. Soccer however, included a refreshing orange slice and Capri Sun buffet at intermission and if I was doing a bad job on the field I was always able to sit on the sideline and be exchanged for a better player.

During one particular game, I had to poop. I was on the backline – uh fullback or something? Placed just above the goal keeper, who if our team was doing their jobs at the other end of the field, I would be able to chat with – and I felt a very weighty poo making its way through my intestines. I tried to ward it off by standing firmly in one place and squeezing my butt cheeks together. However, this only spurred yelling from my father who was consistantly perched on the sidelines giving the entire team pointers and more importantly screeching at me to “get my head in the game, Marx”. I never understood the need for our real coach if my dad was always doing his job for him. To avoid my fathers berating, I walked around a little bit.

A thick turd escaped from my poop shute. It curled into a ball between my butt and my underwear. The crap was so scared and out of its element, it didn’t know what to do so it just tucked itself together comfortably by my ass. I felt that I needed to escape my own soccer crap fest that was not my element either.

I told the real coach that I had to go to the bathroom. Coach Dad told me I was full of excuses. Actually, I was full of shit. Well, not too full anymore. I “hustled” to where the bathrooms should have been at the high school, but they were locked and chained up. Hmm. I looked around. There was a small residential area just beyond the parking lot. I walked across the street to the nicest, pinkest looking house and knocked.

A very sweet old lady who smelled like Estee Lauder (I knew my perfumes better than I knew my teammate’s names) answered the door. I politely explained that I needed to use the restroom and that the school’s facilities were locked up. She let me in and even offered me some punch. I declined and locked myself inside her floral explosion bathroom. I stripped my dirty underwear off and buried it at the bottom of her basket trash can. I then proceeded to put a bunch of toilet paper on top of it. I cleaned myself off and put my soccer shorts back on. I ran faster than I ever have on the field back to the game. I left poopy underwear at an old ladies house! I was shamed, but what was my other option? I didn’t know. I was maybe 10 years old.

Luckily the game was ending and after we all gave each other the obligatory “good game” high fives, I jumped into my dad’s Aerostar minivan and we sped off down the road. I didn’t even care that he was loudly proclaiming how disappointed he was at me for making it up that I had to use the toilet. He launched into a monolougue that had something to do with effort and sportsmanship. I just wanted to get as far away from my poop bomb as possible.

Nancy Drew case #13: Death by Design was my favorite out of the entire series.

Baby Broseph

In 1981, my little brother was born today. You know, the same year MTV was born and “Video Killed the Radio Star” was all the rage.

My earliest memory is from when he was brought home from the hospital. The entire family was at our house celebrating with wine coolers and potato salad. I played in the cul-de-sac we lived on while we waited for my brother to arrive. I remember chasing one of the neighborhood kids around in a circle.

The new baby was swaddled in a basket. Everyone ooed and ahhed. I wanted to be outside chasing kids. I don’t remember seeing a baby before this moment. The adults all went into the kitchen to refill their Berry Blast Seagram’s and left the new brothers alone for a second. I peered into the basket. Surprise! A soft and cuddly, little, wee baby. His arms were spinning with happy new life and joy. We looked at each other.  I thought – “How precious. Is he here forever?”.

Then, I bit his baby arm.

He screamed. The adults all came rushing. My mom asked me what I did. I was honest. I answered my mother.

“I bit him on the arm”, I confessed.

“Why would you do that, Jeffrey?”

“I wanted to see if he was real.”

We have both grown up. We are as different two kids could possibly be. We have both taken turns biting each other on the arm throughout life. I am confident in saying that I am glad he turned out to be real.