This was in Boston. And it was some time ago. I used to go dancing, or to be more accurate, to dance clubs.
One of the clubs I haunted was called "Buddies", and it was on Boylston Street in the Back Bay neighborhood of Boston. Now the name seems trite, but this was the early eighties, and the place lacked irony completely then; name included.
My roommate at the time was a male stripper/dancer/actor, but mostly a pretty tawdry stripper. The rest of his resume was almost completely wishful thinking. He was very tall, built like a brick shit-house, and certainly had the genital volumetrics to wow any group of horny and drunk women looking to stuff a wild thong. But he was too fair---a strawberry blond---that suffered from bad acne, and his all consuming narcissism put most people off him permanently.
Before we had met he had won some idiotic contest at the bar which guaranteed him preferential treatment at the door. This was a good thing considering the wait could be an hour or more on busy weekend nights and I was his dance partner.
We would zip to the head of the line as forty people stood in the midwinter weather---typically a bone chilling wind blasting down the street, funneled by the Hancock Tower and other skyscrapers.
We would slither down the stairs at the entrance around 10:30 or so, freshly showered and decked out in our Izod shirts, well-worn jeans and running shoes. Gloria Gaynor would be heard blasting from the disco down the hallway, past the bar. It was a sunken dance floor... two steps down with access from three sides, the fourth was mirrored. The dj booth was a converted semi cab...
And did we dance. One song would lead to another. Shirts would come off, especially in summer. There were dancing cliques of two to five men. You saw many of the same faces night after night, and they would be the same faces after hours in the diners and cafes that served till 4am.
No ecstasy as I recall. Poppers though... and the pounding, deafening sound system building mixes an hour or more in length sometimes.
I knew one of the bartenders in the disco from the neighborhood gym. He lived a couple of blocks away from us, and we established a mutually satisfying business relationship. I would pay the full amount for the best cognac they had, and he would pour four times the normal amount into a soda glass. The challenge was to keep my eye on it as long as possible when dancing so that it wasn't cleared away by someone thinking it was a flat cola served hours ago.
As this was Boston the winters were long and dark. Cognac and dancing with friends and lovers kept me warm then.
It has been too long since I have updated the blog. Sorry, but I have been away and haven't got the stomach to try and do this via dial-up, let alone from my now ancient Power Mac that I gave to my parents.
Last year I received a letter from a big law firm describing my potential settlement in a class action suit against a credit card company. Because I had an account with this company I was going to be entitled to awards because they fraudulently charged for services. Guess what? The check arrived yesterday and now I am rich! See here.
What is the famous quote? "You can't go home again."
Well you can. Air Canada flies there every day. But when you get there it isn't really home. It is what home has become in the time since you left.
Barnegat Light is a town on an island. With a lighthouse. I have pictures... and a wee commentary. That is today's project. Oh, and the backlog of mail. And looking for a new job. The lawn needs cutting too. And I have to get chlorine before the pool generates a "swamp thing."
Jesus am I a bore today.
It was just after 9:30 in the morning---about the time the mail is delivered.
And it was a day in which I had lots of bureaucratic things to do; involving long lines and forms. It was a sunny and clear sky'ed MONDAY morning for chissakes. So the right thing to do is leash up both dogs for an early walk so I can get on with the day.
Click. Clack. Leashes are attached to collars. General hysteria at being taken for a walk. Pawing at the door. They have already tangled the leashes.
Open the door. Blindingly brillant sunshine. And then...
The mailman. Fifteen feet away and quickly approaching the mailbox right next to the door. Willie lunges forward becoming your worst nightmare in a millisecond. George is typically confused and runs between me and Willie, tangling the leashes even more and rendering the buttons to lock them useless. I frantically grab the cord of the leash as it streams out, burning a stripe on my inner hand. The leash handle flies out of my hand towards Willie and his prey.
Willie is on the poor guy, an attractive and doey-eyed man whom I have said 'good morning' to more than once. He leans forward to protect his legs, which Willie has identified as brunch. Mail goes everywhere... and the bag hits the dog on the snout. At the same time the leash handle hit his butt, giving me a second to detangle myself from George and start getting control of Willie back.
At this point 315 pounds of adrenaline hit my nervous system.
I must have apologized ten times. He said he wasn't hurt. I thought I saw bite marks. I mumbled something about 'timing' and dragged the still highly agitated dogs away for the morning defacation.
I turned back to apologize yet again. He was busy picking up the spilled pieces of mail.
News Alert
I have been granted permanent residence status in Canada. Seemingly, I am the first white male anglo immigrant from New York City in the history of this country. My life is such a unique journey...
So, the first thing I did this morning was to visit the local 'Human Resources' (read unemployement) office just a few blocks away. The purpose was to get a new social insurance number to reflect my updated permanent visa. The wait was a minimum of three hours at that point and the offices resembled a crowded ramshackle lounge at the Calcutta airport.
"No problem"
What is it about the use of this phrase in daily discourse that drives me nuts? And why does its use rankle me?
You must have noticed that it is absolutely everywhere; telemarketers, retail clerks, cops, waiters and waitresses, hotel employees, friends and neighbors. Everybody is using it in conversation.
What does it really mean when this phrase is used?
"No problem" means it isn't a problem. The would be logical. But, if I am coming into your retail store to purchase some liquid chlorine and I lug the empty containers in and the full ones out, while all you do is you chat up the girlfriend clerk and take my EXACT CHANGE, how is it a freaking problem anyway? So it really means... it is a problem. Because eveything is a problem with my shitty job and let me take it out on you...
You know exactly what I mean. Because you are so much more likely to hear this from someone who is trying to recover from giving you bad service. It is a passive aggressive good bye and good riddence. What I want to hear is, "Thanks for your business" or even the ubiquitius "Have a nice day."
Goodness, but I am cranky.
Mark had mentioned going to Georgian Bay a number of times before, so when the subject came up yesterday morning over coffee it was not an unfamiliar one. And it was a hot summer day in the middle of a long Holiday weekend here in Canada, so what better time is there to pack the family in the car and head for the beach.
I grew up on the Atlantic coast of New Jersey, on a barrier island that fully suffered the whims of the ocean and the elements; so a placid Lake Huron beach sounded just perfect. It would be like going home and something new at the same time. We could take long walks on the shallow-sloping, sparsely populated beaches that M. described to me. The dogs could run and play in the miniature surf and I could see another scenic part of Ontario, my adoptive home.
We packed the car enthusiastically---a cooler packed with beverages (including a gallon of water for the dogs), leashes, a change of clothes, towels, sunblock, mp3 player, digital camera, palmpilot, headphones, portable radio and the most recent 'New Yorker'.
Right away reality bitch slapped us. The dogs were whining with concern and confusion. The car's air conditioning and fan stuttered and stopped functioning right after we both gulped down fast-food 'veggie burgers' before getting on the highway. We were both instantly nauseated by the food since it had been a long time since a stop at Burger King. We had to stop and confirm the dog's leashes were in the trunk. The anxiety level was mounting rapidly.
And then, traffic. LA traffic; thick and dense with big tits. New York traffic; long and whiney with big noses. No, this was Toronto traffic; banal but massive. After a few minutes in stop and go, the air conditioning stopped completely. One crack of the window caused the interior temperature to simulate the core of the sun. George was whining continually like a 55 pound chicken/dog with his leg caught in a trap, and I instantly became my Uncle Buddy, demanding immediate silence by shrieking at all creatures in the car.
We pulled off the highway after a half-hour of sweltering and canine chirping. M. examined the car fuse panel while I gave the dogs a drink and let them go ape shit in front of a school in some god-foresaken corner of Ontario. Blissfully the air conditioning started up again; another obstacle thwarted.
But the next block in the road to day trip satisfaction was unavoidable. We arrived at the beachfront more than two and a half hours after leaving and it seemed as if the entire population east of the Mississipi had beaten us there. Nothing like experiencing the subtle charm of grid lock in a tiny and tatty lake resort after hell drive.
One of our favorite saying these days, 'We can't have nice things' became 'We can't do nice things.' then and there.
The car was soon parked illegally and we bolted down the path to the beach in the blindingly hot sun. We didn't bring anything but the dogs. And there we stood, like Coney Island or Atlantic City on the freaking fourth of July, a jam-packed beach and we were shackled to two frenetic dogs.
"What was I thinking?", asked M.
Executive summary:
Hours spent in car: 6.75
Time spent actually on beach: 23 minutes
Purchases: 10 ears of local corn and a peach pie from a road-side stand (both bland but massive)
Pictures taken: none
Appreciation of rural Ontario: Yeah right. More outlet stores and fast food crap than Long Island, NY.
Memories: priceless