Sisters Of the Moon

             Years ago, George and I had this silly little thing we would do with our cat, Homer. George would lift homer up in his arms and stand behind me so that his paws would rest on my shoulders , then we would turn our attention to an adjacent mirror.  George would point his chin toward the mirror and stare through it while i would lower my head and look toward the mirror's lower frame ,then, after asking him to do "Stevie's girls",  Homer would inevitably turn his head upward and stare into space. Our impression was a tribute to the pictures of rock temptress Stevie Nicks and her backup singers that usually adorn the back of her album covers . Less concerned with producing a direct imitation of Stevie and her girls then we were channeling their essence, we would occasionally wear blankets around our shoulders to give the illusion that we were wearing shawls, but that was about it. I always knew that we were a far cry away from New York's famous  "Night of a Thousand Stevies"  - an annual event known in the Stevie Nicks fan community as "neither a contest nor a karaoke show, but a riot of shawls, lace, baby's breath, twirling, tambourines and great performance" and that naturally saddened me, especially when I read their website's suggested dress code for this event and saw the following listed; "Nightbird glamour in black and blue, capes, cloaks and enchanted evening wear, eye makeup dark and careless, hand-held decorated birds, Stevie Nicks Boot fetish (all summer long), black glitter tambourines, Coq feathers and coke spoons, midnight blue velvet, moonstone amulets, Lindsey or John McVie prince of darkness interpretations, Victorian mourning hankies or black chiffon wings" . This is , of course, the kind of shit I live for experiencing , so, when we learned that a less epic version of the show was taking place within walking distance of our house we decided that it was imperative that we attend.

                When we arrived at the gay bar that was hosting the event entitled "Sisters of the Moon" (after an epic Stevie song), we immediately noticed a table of fat lesbians gathered around a poker table playing Texas holdem .
               
                 "Well, at least I'm glad to see we aren't the fattest guys here" I said .
                
                  George asked a flabby woman draped in gossamer who was collecting admission outside the showroom how much the price of tickets were .
               
                 "Five dollars apiece, but you can give more if you want - it all goes to charity" she said as she twisted  a string of beads in her hair.
              
                 "Two, please" George said without even a second of contemplation , passing her the ten dollar bill from his wallet.
              
                   Ripping two tickets from a spool she warned us "Be sure to hold on to your tickets till after the show - there's going to be a raffle and the prize is an original painting of Stevie Nicks . Oh, and I'm the artist!" .
              
                  I loved how she said this last part , the"Oh, and I'm the artist", like, I would never have believed it.  She spoke so proudly of the painting that i knew I had to see it , and , not surprisingly, once I saw it I knew I had to have it. It looked more like a painting of washed -up eighties pop singer Marilyn Martin then a painting of Stevie Nicks but that made it even more alluring for me. My obsession with "fan-art"  started a few years ago when George introduced me to a website that celebrates the television show "Eight is Enough" with heinous cartoon drawings of all nine Bradford children ( including late - comer Jeremy), Tom and Abby. When I first saw the site I assumed that some legal issues made regular photographs of the cast unattainable and that using charcoal drawings of Merle "the pearl" Stockwell was simply a loophole around it.   When I realized that the person who was responsible for the drawings did them out of love and admiration for the likes of Adam Rich and Willie Ames, I felt both captivated and disgusted all at the same time.  While I envisioned the Marilyn Martin painting hanging proudly in our living room , George went to get our drinks from a  male bartender who was wearing a leather bra. I didn't recall any mention of men dressing in black leather brassieres in the dress code ,although I suppose it could have fallen  somewhere between nightbird glamour and enchanted evening wear .
                
                      At a  table not far away from us, a petite young blonde woman in a corset and cape sat with her mother, a petite old blonde woman in a corset and cape. I  couldn't imagine attending something like this with my mother - she quite simply would never understand it. One Halloween when I was little, perhaps inspired by a reissue of the film "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" I decided I wanted to be the dwarf  named Dopey. My mother tried to convince me to go as Donald Duck , as I had done the previous year,  since she had already shelled out probably three dollars on that costume the year before, but I had my heart set on going as Dopey. Back then , all the Halloween costumes consisted of a hard plastic mask of the character's head that elastic banded around your head and a hot vinyl apron-like shirt that featured the character who you were supposed to be on it , making it clear to the people who passed out candy who you were supposed to be. These costumes were sold at K-mart , a place that my mother was apparently too cheap to shop at based on the following events; on Halloween morning I had to attend my elementary school wearing my costume, so, my mother pulled it together at the last minute . She pulled one of her sweatshirts over me and cinched it with a large belt around my waist . Then she pulled my socks over my pants , so that they would make my shoes appear to be boots .  She then took her lipstick and smeared some on my cheeks to make me appear "jolly"  ( which was decidedly more "elf" then "dwarf" ) and then took some flour from the kitchen and dusted it into my hair before hanging a pillow case over the back of my head as a hat. While in the car on the way to school I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and began to cry. Aside from the pillowcase that hung like a flaccid penis from my head, the combination of flour and Avon lipstick had made my face appear old and cracked like an alcoholics. I looked like a freakish version of Madame, the puppet that used to frequently appear on the dance show "Solid Gold" alongside her gay ventriloquist Wayland Flowers. I begged my mother to turn the car around and take me home , but she wouldn't. so, when I entered the school I raced to the bathroom , washed my face of whatever make-up my tears hadn't already removed and flushed the pillowcase down the toilet, leaving me to spend the rest of the day in an over sized sweatshirt and a belt , like any cast member of "The Facts of Life" might have worn . On subsequent Halloweens my mother offered to buy me a bag of whatever candy I wanted if I would forgo trick or treating to stay home and watch television with her , and without any resistance I agreed to it.
                 
                  Watching the performers on stage at the Stevie show I realized I had probably made the right choice in not allowing my mother to dress me up anymore.  The show's m.c., a seemingly ten foot tall transsexual, ignored the risk she was already running of cutting her head on a ceiling fan and wore high- heeled boots (all summer long) .  It is in situations like this where I have to wonder what I would call myself if I were any sort of gender illusionist that worshipped Stevie Nicks. 
                 
                    "Do you combine song titles like say "Sara Rhiannon" or do you go a little bawdy with something like "Stevie Dicks" ?" I asked George
                 
                    "You refer to yourself as "Kinda woman" ( after her song) and that's that". George replied and immediately the discussion was over.
                  
                    Much closer to a Stevie-like appearance then the giantess that had been tromping the stage was a performer who's overweight figure and wracked voice represented the late-eighties version of Stevie. Watching these self-proclaimed "Legends of Stevie Realness" we became more and more enthralled in their performances , and how seriously they took themselves during them. A performance art troop  did a piece called "A Tale of Two Stevies" that featured two Stevie Nicks impersonators  on stage singing "Gold Dust Woman" together . One stevie was the enigmatic performer we all know and love , while the other was the young Stephanie Lynn Nicks who worked as a cleaning lady , alongside them on stage was a sissy that was dressed as a silver cokespoon that pantomimed the act of digging a grave.
                   
                     Later, a tall, overweight , bald man came out on the stage with a beaded shawl wrapped around him and announced to the crowd" You know, i turned forty this year and I feel really good about myself." before launching into "If  Anyone Falls" .
                    
                     I turned to george and said " First of all, he looks more like one-hundred and forty. Second of all he looks like he should be singing "Sailing" or "Ride Like the Wind"  at "Night of Twenty-Three Christopher Crosses" or something . Third, if he feels good about himself, I feel great !"
                    
                      Because I suffer from instant karma, this remark was followed by me being cruised by some slug-like ghoul who seemed to creep out of a crack in the floor tiles . Despite my attempt not to make eye contact with him, he slithered over to our table and sat down with us, making it extremely difficult to avoid seeing him . the creature stared at me , actually through me as I moved my chair closer to George's , so, assuming that he could only track me if I was in motion I remained still through the end of the show, when my Marilyn Martin painting was given to someone with a home-perm.
                    
                       It was a consolation prize that the next day I was playing around on the internet and found pictures from the event on a myspace page . there were pictures of  what might have been Abe Vigoda in drag , the flamboyant cokespoon, the Christopher Cross  ( well, not the Christopher Cross of course ), the artist behind the Marilyn Martin painting , and a queen that we saw that had at least three rows of teeth , if only three rows showed up in the picture. in the middle of it all was a picture of us sitting at our table ,unaware of the camera that was being aimed at us. In comparison to the other snapshots , we look so..... boring , so mundane, so "normal". No victorian mourning hankies , no black chiffon wings , no moonstone amulets.  As the "Tusk" cd played in the house I searched the closet for that ratty old LL Bean blanket that we found so much comfort in , and crawled under it.

The Pink Part

           There are times when I am actually taken seriously, although it is usually during an attempt to be funny. Following the announcement of a promotion I received six years ago , fear set heavily in my coworkers minds . More then the usual dread-filled thoughts of how my exit would affect their own work environment came the fear of my exit itself.
           "David, this doesn't mean I'm going to see anything - does it?" one teammate asked with a tremble in her voice "Because I really don't want to see anything. really, I don't. so, please - don't".
            What she was referring to, was a quote I had made on more then one occasion to more then one party; "When I finally escape this shithole I'm telling all these assholes that they can kiss the pink part of my white ass!" .
             I never threatened to expose myself as part of my fantasy departure scenario but I don't think anyone was convinced that I wasn't above it. "Well," I said looking at her concerned expression "You never know!", and with that her expression turned into one of complete pain.
             It's funny to me that she went so far as to call off on my last day  - I mean, really, what exactly did she expect ? I was promoted - not fired! The only thing shocking I did on my last day was to get a little overwhelmed by it all , and cry. I don't even know what triggered it really, my tears are usually reserved only for Disney movies of a princess distinction, but there I was in the last 10 minutes of my old job sobbing like a baby , cradled in the large black arms of a 300 pound female coworker .
             The day after this uncharacteristic meltdown , I tried to pull myself back together with a typically bizarre plan to meet actor Patrick Bristow .  Patrick is best know for his work on  the sitcom "Ellen" but better known to me for his work in my favorite movie of all time ,"Showgirls" . The plan, would have me and George meeting him at The Center For Puppetry Arts,  where he would have gladly posed for a picture with each of us before signing my copy of the 1999 Fall Preview T.V. Guide that featured an exclusive look at Patrick's and costar Jaleel "Urkel" White's then all-new sitcom "Grown Ups" , a show likely cancelled before the preview guide hit the stands. My plan turned out to be about as doomed as "Grown - Ups"  , when I learned that his appearance at the puppet show was videotaped, not live. It upset me to think that I wouldn't have another picture of myself with someone that nobody knew or cared about other then me .
            To make matters considerably worse, I learned that same day that the legendary Bea Arthur had passed away, and with this news I suddenly longed for the dark pendulous arms that held me the day before . That evening  George and I honored Bea by watching one episode of "Maude" , two episodes of "The Golden Girls"  and by eating (collectively ) three slices of cheesecake. While we watched I reflected upon one of the highlights of my life , which was seeing Bea on Broadway in her one-woman show several years earlier. I managed to get a front-row seat, which only added to my pleasure, as I knew I was the envy of every old queen in the place. To this day, I still manage to catch the cataract-inflicted eyes of an older gentlemen but, it doesn't feel quite as glamorous as it did on the night of Bea's show.
             On my first day of work at that new job I wondered into the men's room and noticed four old men whispering to one another near the sink , which aroused my suspicion - and that only.  The scene that  followed resembled playing a round of the arcade game "Pac-Man"  with me taking the titular role. Sensing my presence the eyes of these four ghost all turned towards the corners of their heads as I passed them, and  within seconds they moved to corner me in the maze. With no interest in eating any of the cavorting fruit that presented itself to me, I exited the game.
            Later that day, my boss told me "You know everyone is really excited you're here. I think that this is going to be a perfect fit  - don't you?" .
            Her sentiment was just an echo of what the welcoming committee had already attempted to demonstrate to me earlier in the restroom, but I did agree with her - this was, at the time, a perfect fit. For years to come it could be as comfortable as my one coworker's thick ebony arms had been to curl up inside of and then, at the same time, be just as easy to breakdown in. Ironically, it would be my other coworker who would prove to be the most perceptive , as she knew long before I did , that the "pink part" of me , that soft, sensitive side was about to be exposed.

Sleeping Pill

    Forget the forty -year gap of time that has elapsed since this picture was taken , if you subtract my aunt babysitting me and the vintage Oscar the Grouch slippers, you end up with what essentially I look like at any given time of the day. For me, sleep can happen within minutes of resting my eyes, seconds after sitting on a bed, and precisely upon putting on pajama pants. It has happened while I was in my work clothes , just as it has happened  while I was at work. Laying on the floor to pet the cat is , essentially being passed a metaphorical baton in our sleeping relay race .  When I eventually wake up I am disoriented and confused , having dreamed of things as random as appearing in the credits to the nineteen- eighties sitcom  "It's a Living" alongside the legendary Ann Jillian ,  getting a chance meeting with both Judy AND Audrey Landers , or most commonly, being able to obtain the unobtainable  . Realizing I had not actually found the long out of print compact disc of "After Eight"  by international recording artist Taco is almost as depressing as my desire to find it in the first place, but this realization is generally coupled with my strong urge to urinate, which is infinitely worse. 

    Without my bladder , I could easily slip into a coma, but because of my bladder I could easily slip and piss my pants.  The good news is, should I ever have an accident , I have taken to wearing swimwear in public on a fairly regular basis lately. Starting with one embarrassment and leading to a bigger one, seems to be a trend for me these days. In this particular case,  I had ripped my shorts in public and was forced to change into  the only available alternative, a pair of swim-trunks.  I couldn't help but notice how much cooler and comfortable I was in the bathing suit then I was in the shorts I had on earlier that day , and that was before ever trying them out commando. So, it became a staple in my wardrobe much in the way nylon exercise pants did when I learned they were the most comfortable garment in the world to nap in.  If asked what I am wearing , I have been advised to say I am on my way to the pool, ironically one of the last places I would ever be found , as I am not one to regularly spend time outside at all. 

    Pictures I took of myself years ago suggest I was , at some point somewhat stylish ,or at the very least presented myself as such . A large portion of these were taken in the nineteen- nineties , during an era where my twenties coincided with Atlanta's 24 hour club scene. I felt, if you were going to be exiting a club in broad daylight , you needed to look as good as when you went in the previous night , or at least have hooked up with someone who didn't give a shit at that point either. It's hard to imagine there was a time when I was leaving the house at ten or eleven at night ready to go dancing , when these days I would likely be getting ready for bed at that time . So tired from a day of napping I switch out of my bathing suit and into my pajamas and fall asleep yet again to dream of obtaining the unobtainable - a smaller prostate, clothes that are both comfortable and stylish , and maybe a trip back in time to dance the night away without summoning the sun in the process. 

A Memory Of the Future

     In 1990, my aunt took me on a trip to New York City to encourage my dreams of becoming an artist. For years , my main memory from the trip was when my aunt was unable to get us tickets for a Broadway show and was forced to pick something from off-Broadway instead.  Not having heard of any of them beforehand, she picked one called "Those Were the Days" ,  thinking of the catchy Mary Hopkin song of the same name from when she was a little girl.  Arriving at the theater that night she read from the marquee that it was "voted the best musical off-Broadway" and was confident in having trusted her instincts until I pointed out it actually read "voted the best Yiddish musical off-Broadway".  Over the next two hours , we watched the primarily Jewish audience completely lose their shit at a performance that we could hardly begin to follow. Trusting we had not only seen the best Yiddish musical off- Broadway , but possibly ever , we stopped while we were ahead.

     My aunt has undoubtedly never forgotten that play but generally notes my obsession with taking pictures of porn theaters , sex shops and strip joints to be what has provided the most lasting impression. Looking back, I was in that Robert Mapplethorpe phase that likely no other teenage boy ever has gone through. Like many boys trying to emulate their heroes , I ultimately became my version of who I thought he was. I may not have shared his talent or technique, but I had a camera,  a leather jacket , wavy dark hair and a penchant for eroticism like he did , which was more then enough for a newly-turned eighteen year old boy to have. I certainly did not need his bullwhip for it was enough I already possessed his horns.

     I  remember being surprised by how much film I had shot on that visit .  Maybe even a bit aggravated by it since it caused me to have less film for a more provocative shoot I had lined up for when I came back .  Since the negatives were of places I thought maybe I would combine them with negatives  I had shot of people to make composite photographs. This was , however, a slightly ambitious project for a teenager who lacked any sort of real ambition , so , the negatives were processed but then remained undeveloped for the next twenty-three years . I expected that I would be rolling my eyes and sighing  when I went through them but instead I was able to quickly identify my motivation for every click of the shutter.

    The dumpster with Jessie Helms picture on it taken in response to the Mapplethorpe/ Serrano news of the time.

 
     The infamous off Broadway play "Oh! Calcutta!" often referred to in 70's sitcoms like "Maude" and "Soap". So intrigued by the idea of a live nude show I nearly missed the word "gaiety" off to the right!

      I think I found this particular porn theater interesting because of the Sid and Marty Krofft quality it had - not only  for the overblown peep hole and coins floating above it , but for the underlying plot of being led into a strange new world that is hard to escape.

      I was so obsessed with this ad for Kikit  that I took pictures of it every time we passed it. After I got home to find it in appearing in print I ripped it out of every  magazine I came across. 

      Who wouldn't want some gay's papaya?  At  the very least , you may want to have a taste of their sixty- cent frankfurter.

 
     Radio City Music Hall at Christmastime, or as I  was likely to have called  it..... "RADIO 1990". I just don't pass up chances to bring up Lisa Robinson and Kathryn Kinley.

     The windows at  Betsey Johnson's . I imagine without a model along, mannequins were my substitutes.

    Some perv.

    The Rainbow Room in glorious Black and White.

   

     My aforementioned obsession with pornography. I cannot help but look at these and see equal amounts of seediness and high-glamor!

    I think I liked the idea of a classic scene with a foreground comprised of the filthiest water I have ever seen!

     This I love for the fact the water is the only thing in focus!

      A crazy person preaching some hate . Timeless. 

    Possibly taken for just the little "Tron"-like lights , I actually shot this twice, once before dark and once after ( and obviously the after shot was taken on top of a frame of unadvanced film) . Most notably, the angles are almost identical, despite being taken at different times.
  
    It is one of those things I can never quite explain , that little voice that tells me that it's the right moment to snap a picture. When I look through old pictures I wonder why I was always trying to quickly identify the best picture in the group instead of embracing the fact that every picture that was shot has it's own merit  . My undeveloped negatives can sometimes read like the diary of an undeveloped adolescent. Obviously with growth there is plenty of embarrassment, but sometimes they document the maturity too. These photos have traces of my style, my interest and my sense of humor.    I realize more and more that back then I wasn't really being so much the copy of Mapplethorpe I wanted to be,  as much as the version of myself I didn't quite understand yet . While I eventually stopped wearing the leather, I simply learned how to conceal my horns in my wavy dark hair . As for the little voice, I can still hear it .

Character Study

     My memories of traveling without a seat-belt in the back of my parents car in the 1970's are some of my happiest. Listening to songs that were often cut in half by the 8-track player , I watched as the stars and street lights of night traveled through my reflection in the window .  Amongst other dangerous things  I shouldn't have been doing in a moving vehicle I often hung my head, hands and feet out that window as part of elaborate dance routines to the songs.  As Kenny Loggins sang "For once in your life /Here's your miracle/Stand up and fight" I  stood up on the seat and made little punching gestures to the sky before plopping down to the floorboards and singing the words  "This is it !" to the song of the same name.
      When my singing and dancing  began to grow tiresome with my parents we would switch to playing games, like spotting  different colored cars and fast food restaurants. Fascinated by the character cut-outs I would see attached to the outside of child day cares , I would scream out everyone I could identify .
      " MICKEY MOUSE, BUGS BUNNY, HECKLE AND JECKLE, GROVER, AND ... " my voice would grow silent as our car passed by , until minutes later when we would pass another "MR MAGOO. FELIX THE CAT, HUCKLEBERRY HOUND..."
       My head would turn back to see the daycare growing smaller through the back window of the station wagon before eventually disappearing for good, likely due to copyright infringement laws. Along with these characters , went the ones that decorated my cereal boxes and the ones that hung around McDonaldland when I went to burn my  (then)little ass on a hot metal slide.
       One day a few years ago, I thought I saw a Mickey Mouse out of my peripheral vision and the thrill of this unexpected discovery caused me to nearly wreck my car in a drastic u-turn. As I squinted at the sign for the daycare that featured the mouse in question I thought maybe he had been either been changed enough to avoid a lawsuit with the Walt Disney Company or that the daycare was for somewhat ungifted preschool artist. If it had turned out to be the later, the next piece of this exhibit was Disney's Daisy Duck interpreted as Warner Brother's Petunia Pig and the final piece was one I might have titled "Who ate the last cookie?", as it depicted a decapitated Cookie Monster.

        After seeing a beloved muppet reinterpreted  by a young Joel - Peter Witkin, I remained silent for two years until I inadvertently passed another daycare and began to scream again.
       "BIG BIRD !!! BRER FOX!!!!  " were the only two names I could scream this time, as it was the only two they had, but it was more then enough.

         As I pulled into the driveway I  quickly snapped the pictures on my cell phone delighting in the fact that it was a classic version of Big Bird ,as he might have looked back when Roosevelt Franklin was a major player on the street . Brer Fox on the other hand was simply unprecedented, almost unbelievable to witness . I could have believed I was dreaming until I took into consideration that I was a forty-three year old man taking pictures of a daycare while sitting in my car, and with that I realized I was in the same dangerous position I was back when I wasn't required to wear a seat-belt. I could hear Kenny Loggins ask "Are you gonna wait for a sign? Your miracle?" and with that I looked at the sky , and punched it.
        

Hot Dog and a Shake

     I had a friend of mine I used to work with who always told me such smutty stories, and I adored him for it. Once you start dating someone your stories become decidedly less bawdy and in effect less interesting by default. I know if I don't live vicariously through others my stories will almost certainly consist of mundane domestic bliss and who the fuck wants to hear that shit? I certainly don't.
      It was an early Monday morning when he told me about attending the city's flea market with his boyfriend over the past weekend . Taking notice of an attractive gay man who was cruising him there , he decided to bring his boyfriend all the way back home before immediately turning around and returning to the flea market by himself.  Upon hearing this much of the story, I expressed my disapproval .
      "You had to go all the way back and forth to that flea market twice? That is such a waste of gas! Your boyfriend is like one-thousand years old - could you not have easily convinced him to take a nap in the car? I mean that is a huge flea market - couldn't you have just left him somewhere to look at a bunch of boring old Civil War shit from his heyday while you went after that trick ?" I asked.      
      "Well, I just wanted to be able to take my damn time !" he said somewhat extravagantly . " You just never know what's gonna happen next! I mean, look at last week at the gym - I didn't expect to get fucked in the steam room! I figured chances were , I might only get to blow that guy at best! ".
       It's true you really never know in life when you are going to get fucked, but most of us don't give it that much thought - we just put on clean underwear each day one leg at a time and hope for the best. Even knowing full well that as a gay man at any flea market you could easily throw a rock and hit some cock ( or is it "throw a stick and hit some dick"? )  I could not help but applaud his confidence in this situation. The thought of transporting an elderly person around was enough to exhaust me to a point of doing literally nothing else with the rest of my day , but then to also bank on the concept of someone that you cruised still having any interest in you a whole hour later was completely unheard of - they surely would have thrown another rock. My ability to believe in my friend was validated when he told me that he did manage to find the stranger at the busy flea market again and then have some sort of mutual masturbation session with him in an out-of-the-way restroom  .
       "It was so fucking hot !" he exclaimed . "Only thing was , someone had left a half of a hot dog in the urinal and it was hard to keep a boner going whenever I looked over at it. The bun had soaked up a lot of the urine and it just sorta laid there all bloated looking .".
        It was with this detail that my memory began to jog back to a much simpler time , when I was about 12 years old and my family  had gotten a new refrigerator. Upon moving out the old refrigerator that had predated our time living there , a mysterious object rolled out from underneath it causing me to scream a loud , shrill , high -pitched noise that would generally come out of a woman's mouth in a horror film.  Much to our disgust it was an old hot dog that had managed to turn avocado green in it's undetermined time underneath the refrigerator of the same hue. For years I wondered about the green wiener's origin story , one that would keep me pondering what kind of person let's a hot dog roll under a refrigerator and then just leaves it there, and worse yet, does that said - person still reside in this house? It's hard to get something that horrific out of your mind until you begin to imagine someone you know from work trying to jerk off with some swap-meet stranger in a flea market commode with half a hard-on.
         I began to feel like he was telling me about the events out of sequence because surely the half eaten hot dog that had found it's way out of a mouth and into a urinal did so after witnessing the events that had transpired between these two men , not before. Still , I did my best to pay attention to the story of two men who shared a moment , were pulled apart by obstacles in their paths and then reunited by destiny only to face an ironic hardship .
         "I still busted a nut! We both did!" he said , as his devious smile became wider on his flushed red face , his eyes got noticeably smaller.
        Despite the inclusion of a happy ending , or so to speak, all  I could think about was that half eaten hot dog with the swollen , urine- soaked bun laying helplessly in the urinal. Was it happy to live vicariously through the actions of others or was it discontent to only function at half of it's capacity? It still managed to appear red, the tint of  excitement , while that other wiener , left home for far too long was simply green with envy .

Something Hard in my Mouth

  Because I live in both excess and denial, I decided that my lunch was not enough and I should treat myself to a dessert. Since I rarely carry any cash ( or more specifically, have any money)  I had to count out the change in my Kermit the Frog wallet and figure out what ninety-something cents could get me. I walked around the mall's food court which closely resembled a third world country and offered me little more then free samples of mystery-meat on toothpicks along with a bout of free diarrhea to follow. When I noticed a woman pulling a tray of peanut butter cookies out of an oven , I did not hesitate to make my decision.
     I bought the cookie and typically, began to eat it before the cash register drawer closed.  Two bites in, I bit down into something hard. Maybe, I thought in my haste, I had eaten some of the wax paper that the cookie was wrapped in,otherwise surely it was just a crispy edge of the cookie or uncooked wad of flour. Unable to break it with my teeth, i reached in my mouth and pulled out what looked like a little bone. I was about as pleased with this discovery as I was with finding the Gloria Loring compact disc George once slipped into my collection, and in fact made the same proclamation with both ("What the fuck is this?!?") . 
    I immediately turned around and confronted the Indian family that both worked at and apparently lived at the restaurant that the cookie was purchased at. They each handled the small ( most likely rat ) bone in their gloved hands , studying it and commenting on it in their native language until passing it to the final family member , a man who decided the best way to test the foreign object was to put it in his mouth and try to break it with his own teeth. Leaving his mouth open as he clamped his teeth down on the apparently unbreakable object his face contorted into what looked like a character from a "Popeye" cartoon or even worse,  an actor from the " Popeye" movie . I personally could have done without this haunting image, but since I had to see it , i felt a strong need to describe it to everyone I  have encountered since the incident occurred . In my experience, there is only two kinds of people who put things in their mouths without question; babies and whores. Whatever the object actually was mattered much less to me then the fact that it was definitely a non-cookie ingredient.
     I told my coworker I was having lunch with at the time ( a girl of white - trash descent ) about the ordeal as we left the food court.  She offered me the sort of comfort, I could have only gotten from her .
     "Motherfucker! I ain't trying to get in your shit or nothin' but that shit was in yo' mouth first, then his! Wasn't that fucker afraid he might get AIDS or somethin' from you?" she squalled in the food court as I picked up my pace to leave.
      "First of all," i explained "I don't have AIDS! .  Second of all , you cannot get AIDS from, sharing a bone, well, actually, oh, never mind!" .
       She went on to ask "You at least got yo' money back  from them motherfuckers - right?" . 
       I stared at her split ends and said "Of course I did!".
       Actually I didn't . The Indians had picked this exact moment not to understand English, and instead of money only offered me another cookie, which I of course ate, because I live in both excess and denial.

The Blind Photographer

        A popular anecdote I used to use as a photography instructor was "Before I became a professional photographer my photographs were blurry , scratched and over- exposed but now that I am trained I know how to make them blurry, scratched and over-exposed!"

         I especially love a blurry picture.For years I have taken high speed photos in low lighting to capture that little moment when my model lingers in between poses. When he stares off away from me . When she takes a deep breath .

    
          The logic of taking a picture out of focus on purpose is completely lost on my mother. 

          "She's cute. Too bad it is so blurry" she says after seeing a picture I have been in love with all day.
  
          "It's not out of focus - It's breathing!" I challenge back, as if I could change her mind.
          
          In recent years my eyes began to weaken and I would open them to see the world the way I had been presenting it for all these years, a beautiful blur . For a long time I ignored the handicap, partially out of vanity but mostly so that I could see my vision ( as ironic as it was) realized.  After giving it a little thought , and by that I mean I could hardly think with the constant pounding in my head caused by my eyestrain, I got my eyes checked . I got the glasses but hesitated in wearing them outside of driving or reading , fearing how they altered my appearance. Making myself a turkey sandwich one day , I patted down the bread to feel my palm greased with mayonnaise and the thought that glasses would make me look stupid suddenly seemed a bit petty .
        
          One day, upon completion of a self portrait, I put my glasses back on to inspect the image.  I took inventory of several new white hairs that had merged with my brunette curls and realized that maybe all they were doing was adding a bit of contrast . I noticed the little lines under my eyes caused from time and the little lines on my nose caused from where my glasses had been sitting and I think how these little scratches might actually add depth to the composition . Still, It can be quite off putting seeing life through this different set of lenses.  Everything is suddenly in focus , if not abundantly clear and oddly enough I want time to lag a bit longer  .

Pictures Sound Better with You

My friend Kevin has taken to naming my photos on Instagram .  His method is simply taking the name of the song he is currently listening to and then posting it into the comments when a photograph of mine catches his attention . I had never given my photographs names in the past - they are generally titled after the models that appear in them or simply "untitled" when a name is forgotten (for better or for worse). My reason for never giving them more then that is I did not want to influence anyone viewing my work into seeing something definitive . Knowing only what I was seeing when I looked through the lens it surprises me that the titles he gives them are generally so spot-on ;  Amy's blonde curls illuminating yellow in foggy sunlight ("Conjure") ,  Brandy's mind is somewhere else while her head lies resting in an angel's lap ("We Knew Him Well") , and Everett's ability to open one eye as the water pulses down on his naked body ("Teach The Blind To See").
     

  More uncannily, these descriptions are made by a man who I have known for only a year , and one that I am limited to only having brief conversations with . The main things we discuss are music, art and Cacey, the incredible woman we both love .  Knowing full well that these are three subjects that can be endlessly discussed we avoid getting off track with other subjects .We undoubtedly have other passions like books , movies and television but we both know there is not enough time in this life to even begin those subjects. When we talk , I can feel like a child  who just came home from a trip to Disney World  .
       ".. And I saw Mickey , Goofy and Donald and I rode Splash Mountain and Teacups and I ate candy and saw Stitch and rode on Haunted Mansion and I wasn't scared and......." I say without catching my breath even once.
         To be fair , this is what I sound like as an adult who just came home from Disney World but , my enthusiasm is met by his own.It is likely that enthusiasm that allows me to do exactly what I was preventing others from doing , letting a verbal passage guide my thoughts to see something that may or may not be there. Kevin marrying my images to music resulted in an inspired image I created that could probably pass as an album sleeve for a new wave act from the nineteen -eighties. Written in Japanese , it roughly translates to "I want my pictures to sound like music", which is to say, hear what you want to hear but feel every beat.

The Golden Age

I hate to sound like an old man but things were just better when cereal came with prizes, McDonald's fries were cooked in animal grease and the sex scenes in porn had a thin plot line to tie them together. The last time I watched a new adult film , there was no plot at all, just a series of woman with shaved vaginas pouting their lips for the camera. In the eighties , pouting was generally reserved for pretty boys wearing make-up in music videos not pretty girls wearing whore make-up in porn videos.  The film was a huge departure from what I consider to be the "golden" era of porn - there was beautiful lighting, ambient music , gorgeous cinematography and everyone pouting appeared to have escaped any previous physical scarring, cesarean or otherwise. The thing is, I don't want to see, let alone pay for, an adult film with high production standards. The way I see it there should never be high standards of any kind  in an adult film. 

        After a few years of watching scrambled porn for hours for a chance at the sight of a boob,  God took pity on me and my family got Showtime . Suddenly,  I was blessed to be able to watch "Lady Chatterly's stories" with the sound off in the middle of the night with my door locked.  The best I could hope for  back then was to see a breast , ass or on a better 3 a.m. viewing a mound of pubes. This was of course, during the dark ages, years before genitals were ever shown on television, especially men's genitals. Sure , you could see Christopher Atkin's cock in "A Night In Heaven" for 2 seconds but , you paid for it by having to watch "A Night In Heaven" with Christopher Atkins. I think I was twenty when I was at my parent's house watching television late one night with my dad  when "Prospero's Books" , a cinematic adaptation of Shakespeare's"The Tempest" came on. My father was asleep on his couch , loudly snoring and my mother and baby brother were asleep in their rooms . I will be first to admit that the only movie had previously seen with John Gielgud was "Arthur" and the only Shakespeare I ever attempted to watch before was on an unbearable episode of "The Cosby Show" , but neither of those had gratuitous nudity in them.   I must have been so mesmerized  by all the penises on the screen that I didn't hear my father's snoring stop . 

        "Well, you don't normally see those on television!" He said, knocking me out of my trance and causing me to instinctively flip the channel to a rerun of "Cheers" .      
         "Look! Shelly Long's on!" I squealed , realizing too late that I sounded way more excited about that then maybe I should have been.

          Sometime during the years between Shelly Long and Christopher Atkin's long cock , I set out on a mission to get my hands on some hardcore  gay pornography . My grandfather's basement was filled with straight pornography thanks to one fateful day when he actually dumpster dived to rescue a generous collection of skin magazines , so I had that angle already covered. A gay classmate of mine let me use him as a reference to get some videos from an older gay boy at my high school  who we will call "O".  Arriving at his home , "O" greeted me at the door wearing only a white bathrobe.  Because "O" was a darkly complected black teenager , and for whatever reason I was choosing to ignore he was keeping his house unlit, the white robe flitted around the living room like some sort of gay ghost . When asked by "O" what sort of gay films I was interested in borrowing , I asked him to explain what choices I had. 

          "Large black bottoms , black and white swirl, blonde bubble-butted boys......" He said , nearly moaning as he spoke.
          "Blonde bubble butt boys !" I interrupted , as though I had an opportunity to watch Shelly Long in something. 

           The movies were something of legend to me for years to come. I remembered everyone in these movies being blonde , even the few black people.  I was astonished that all the men in the film considered themselves straight , mentioning girlfriends and even sometimes being seen with them before participating in deviant gay sex acts with other men. There was even what might have been considered product placement for it's day  with a pair of fundies ( underwear built for two) that was used in a key plot line where a soldier carrying the fundies home on furlough with two of his army buddies wind up trying them out ahead of time on a dare. I won't spoil what happens next for you because hearing this much of the plot is what has you interested. Watching the events that lead up to the big moment is just like eating that cereal  you don't really care for to get to that prize you really want  - to sit through scrambled porn to see that second of boob or to sit through "A Night In Heaven" to see 2 seconds of Christopher Atkin's cock. The one thing it is not like is Shelly Long , who I always find delightful.

Refoccussing

   I asked my brother this morning over the phone "Have you ever stood in the shower so long you actually peed twice?"

   "Oooh exactly how bored are you staying at home everyday?" he replied.

   Unfortunately, he was completely right -I am bored. When I had first received severance from my job of 18 years , I looked at as a restart on my life. In my mind, I would eventually find another full-time job but for now I would only have my part-time one, and this would allow me the time to focus on far more important projects . First I finished the book of "Nancy" comic strips I was reading completely too soon, but how could you not? I then managed to see every show on Hulu , and Netflix that I was ever either completely interested in watching , or not at all interested in watching ,in their entirety . Finally I removed all the photographs, maps and souvenirs from the huge bag it had been stored in to finally make that Disney-themed scrapbook I decided to make years ago , right before gathering all that shit right back up into the same bag and tucking it away for the next time I become so depressed that I turn to scrap-booking.

   Putting the scissors down and stepping away from them I picked up my cell phone instead. I can remember a time where I was repulsed by the idea that I could own a device that allowed people to actually get a hold of me , but of course this was years before the inventions of texting and social media where people would only want to know your whereabouts so they could actually avoid those personal interactions with you in a much more civilized way.  These days I treat my smart phone like a little boy who just discovered he has a penis , and am constantly pulling it out to play with it. My habit is to check Facebook, lock my phone , put it away, then immediately pull it back out as soon as it hits the bottom lining of my pocket. I am always reminded what I have done as soon as I see the most current post in my news feed is the same one I saw a second earlier but it still is likely to be the one I see again a second from now. By chance I check Instagram instead of Facebook , I can be thrown into a surreal loop where images seem both familiar and strange.'Wait - why can't I make this picture bigger?!? " I gasp , while staring at the Instagram picture that I had previously seen on FB . "I swear I was able to see a bra laying on the floor in the background of their selfie a minute ago , but now I can't ?!? What the hell is happening??!!?" .

   I actually saw a friend's nipple exposed in her profile picture , and like a good friend I was sure to tell her immediately after I saved the picture to my computer. I am not sure how details like this get overlooked. I was a photographer long before digital came along, so I always knew to really choose my shots carefully - not so much because of the expense of using film but because I knew in the end I would be presenting the models with a contact sheet that documented the shoot in detail , and I wanted it to read like a beautiful story. Nowadays , I  try less to create a moment then to simply just capture one , and this means taking several shots at a time and editing later. This is why I will have fifty-seven pictures of my cat sleeping and I manage to find each one individually adorable despite the fact that they are completely identical to one another.

   Maybe I am confused about all this and I should just enjoy this moment in time before a new job changes everything. Maybe, this is the time to look at the details closer then before. Maybe I should just enjoy watching my cat sleep and my friend's nipple hang out. But right now I could use another shower -  just a quick one this time.