9.28.98
"Death day." So called, because so many people near and dear to me have died either on or about this date. Kinda freaky, when you think of it. Doug, Odie, Rich, Charles, Tim...what a coincidence. Three of the above surmise all of RR's ex's, leading him to inform me that "If I leave, I die." I'm starting to believe him.
This one was observed, like all the others at a favorite restaurant downtown, Indigo. Much gin is spilled, and many toasts to those who have gone before. All in all, I think of it as a celebration of life, rather than one of death. I won't tell mundane stories about all that have gone on 8/28. but I will tell you a very sad story about Doug.
Doug invented and lived by the phrase "Party in my mouth, wanna cum?" He was a rather odd sort, considering that he was only a couple of years older than I. You see, Doug was damaged goods. It sounds cruel to say, but he truly was. Perhaps that was one of his more endearing qualities. He landed on the front doorstep just after RR bought this house, which was falling down around him. It was an odd on again-off again relationship, he would come back here to stay when the shit got too thick in Chicago, and he needed an escape.
In retrospect, though, his life was an escape. It was fantasy, with remarkably little reality attached to it. Not a very pleasant fantasy, but nonetheless.... In one career, he was a stripper in a club in Chicago. "I shake my dick in the faces of old men," he would say. In a way, it satisfied a need to be accepted, regardless of the insalubrious situation. He would bounce back and forth between men and loves, clinging to the moves of each of them...he met a pianist, suddenly he was a prodigy. The weaver created a love of the loom (By far the most productive of his fetishes) etc,etc, etc.
One of the last times I saw him, he was confined to a wheelchair living with a rather robust social worker and his sometimes-lover Jay. He was being strapped into his Depends for the final trip to his Mother's place in Florida. She was ill-equipped, I think to deal with his rapidly deteriorating physical and mental states. 30 days later, we got the call that he had indeed died in a nursing home. Would we like the ashes?
His family, estranged as they may be, couldn't think of what to do with his earthly remains. Perhaps they would use them as fertilizer in the rose garden or such, but at the very end of his life, he still wasn't accepted by anyone. Granted, people frequently do not deal with death particularly well, but this seemed to reach above and beyond the scope of human weakness.
What ever became of him? Well, he is sitting on tope of a very tall commode in the living room. His cask is lousy with old deteriorating leis from past anniversaries of birth, death, etc., as is the Hawaiian tradition. In a tiny and insignificant way, I want him to know that I cared about that young man, and he isn't forgotten in my mind. His frequent stays here were extremely stressful, but this was more to the fact that he had some real psychological issues that needed tending to.
Fast forward 2 months...don't know why Doug is on my mind recently, but he is. Now, it is In Real Time (IRT) on October 12, 1998 and I have returned from a foray downtown on our municipal bus system, called quite appropriately, "The Bus." I ride the bus exclusively, amused by the things I see and do on it. For instance, there was this woman called Rose. There was a light rain falling, which is quite usual for this time of year, I noticed her scent, because she was sitting on the back bench next to me, it was the smell of a bar--that combination of beer, cheap cigarettes, and, well, sin. I can't identify the third component of "cheap bar." She mumbled "it's always raining." I replied "Well, it is that time of year, Rose." She seemed exasperated that I had remembered her name. We have had this conversation before. "Is it ever gonna end?" "Maybe in March," I said.
"Never was that way in San Diego...say, do you think I could have a couple of dollars for a sandwich?" This is where I draw the line. I actually had a few bucks to spare (quite a novelty, I assure you) so I offered to stop with her at Burger King to buy her a Whopper. She declined. You know, I can always afford $1 (the going rate for a whopper these days) to assist my fellow man. I've never been taken up on the offer. An interesting statement about our society, I think. I do talk to people who are "down on their luck" People think I'm insane, but one day, it may be me on the bench at a'ala park.
A gentleman who also posts a journal on the Internet has a very clever quote that aptly describes a life riding the bus:
This one was observed, like all the others at a favorite restaurant downtown, Indigo. Much gin is spilled, and many toasts to those who have gone before. All in all, I think of it as a celebration of life, rather than one of death. I won't tell mundane stories about all that have gone on 8/28. but I will tell you a very sad story about Doug.
Doug invented and lived by the phrase "Party in my mouth, wanna cum?" He was a rather odd sort, considering that he was only a couple of years older than I. You see, Doug was damaged goods. It sounds cruel to say, but he truly was. Perhaps that was one of his more endearing qualities. He landed on the front doorstep just after RR bought this house, which was falling down around him. It was an odd on again-off again relationship, he would come back here to stay when the shit got too thick in Chicago, and he needed an escape.
In retrospect, though, his life was an escape. It was fantasy, with remarkably little reality attached to it. Not a very pleasant fantasy, but nonetheless.... In one career, he was a stripper in a club in Chicago. "I shake my dick in the faces of old men," he would say. In a way, it satisfied a need to be accepted, regardless of the insalubrious situation. He would bounce back and forth between men and loves, clinging to the moves of each of them...he met a pianist, suddenly he was a prodigy. The weaver created a love of the loom (By far the most productive of his fetishes) etc,etc, etc.
One of the last times I saw him, he was confined to a wheelchair living with a rather robust social worker and his sometimes-lover Jay. He was being strapped into his Depends for the final trip to his Mother's place in Florida. She was ill-equipped, I think to deal with his rapidly deteriorating physical and mental states. 30 days later, we got the call that he had indeed died in a nursing home. Would we like the ashes?
His family, estranged as they may be, couldn't think of what to do with his earthly remains. Perhaps they would use them as fertilizer in the rose garden or such, but at the very end of his life, he still wasn't accepted by anyone. Granted, people frequently do not deal with death particularly well, but this seemed to reach above and beyond the scope of human weakness.
What ever became of him? Well, he is sitting on tope of a very tall commode in the living room. His cask is lousy with old deteriorating leis from past anniversaries of birth, death, etc., as is the Hawaiian tradition. In a tiny and insignificant way, I want him to know that I cared about that young man, and he isn't forgotten in my mind. His frequent stays here were extremely stressful, but this was more to the fact that he had some real psychological issues that needed tending to.
You and I
can share the silence
Finding comfort together,
The way old friends do
Times of joy
and times of sorrow
We will always
See it through.
I don't care
what comes tomorrow,
We can face it together,
The way old Friends do.
--abba
Fast forward 2 months...don't know why Doug is on my mind recently, but he is. Now, it is In Real Time (IRT) on October 12, 1998 and I have returned from a foray downtown on our municipal bus system, called quite appropriately, "The Bus." I ride the bus exclusively, amused by the things I see and do on it. For instance, there was this woman called Rose. There was a light rain falling, which is quite usual for this time of year, I noticed her scent, because she was sitting on the back bench next to me, it was the smell of a bar--that combination of beer, cheap cigarettes, and, well, sin. I can't identify the third component of "cheap bar." She mumbled "it's always raining." I replied "Well, it is that time of year, Rose." She seemed exasperated that I had remembered her name. We have had this conversation before. "Is it ever gonna end?" "Maybe in March," I said.
"Never was that way in San Diego...say, do you think I could have a couple of dollars for a sandwich?" This is where I draw the line. I actually had a few bucks to spare (quite a novelty, I assure you) so I offered to stop with her at Burger King to buy her a Whopper. She declined. You know, I can always afford $1 (the going rate for a whopper these days) to assist my fellow man. I've never been taken up on the offer. An interesting statement about our society, I think. I do talk to people who are "down on their luck" People think I'm insane, but one day, it may be me on the bench at a'ala park.
A gentleman who also posts a journal on the Internet has a very clever quote that aptly describes a life riding the bus:
"If your'e ever wondering what's wrong with the world--ride the bus. Soon, it will be all so clear."
--Casey in Toronto
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