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unlimited drinks
I freely admit that there are all kinds of holes in my intellectualism.
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iana the Redhead had set up a bunch of blankets on a swath of the floor for us visitors to sleep upon, but instead I'd chosen to sleep on the couch. I think I heard Matthew and Leah having sex in the earliest phase of my being awake this morning.
Diana got a phone call later from a friend telling her that William S. Burroughs had died yesterday. This upset her mostly because she had plans to have Thanksgiving Dinner with him this year. The poet/writer/notorious heroin addict was apparently the friend of Sarah "Rosy" Rosenthal's family. I know almost nothing about Mr. Burroughs except that Monster Boy has a RE/Search book that connects him in some mysterious way with industrial musicians such as Throbbing Gristle. I never got into that whole Beat Poetry thing, though I think my Dad did, just a bit anyway. I freely admit that there are all kinds of holes in my intellectualism.
When she awoke, Virginia (Verge) claimed to be completely recovered from her Strep Throat.
All of us, even Verge's friend Bob, went to a place called Stingy Lulu's Luncheonette on St. Mark's Place just before noon. Stingy Lulu's is a busy place with cadmium medium yellow walls and pictures of chiseled-faced drag queens. On a Sunday morning they have a deal where if you buy a "fixe" meal for $9, they'll throw in a limited variety but unlimited number of drinks for free. Our waitress was a bleached blond girl with a british accent. She said "shew-ah" to mean "sure" or "okay." Verge thought she was adorable.
Most people had eggy omlette dishes, but Leah and I had pancakes. Monster Boy made a miscalculation and ordered cheese-fries and they weren't one of the "fixe" items, so he had to order a "fixe" omlette too.
Leah, Matthew Hart and Diana had mimosas, a champagne-orange juice cocktail. Deya, Monster Boy and I had bloody marys.
Matthew had devoured his chicken liver first thing this morning in the privacy of the bathroom. He looked like hell; he had big red circles around his eyes and gashes in his arms. He casually attributed all this to being tired and rubbing his eyes all yesterday. I found myself being revolted to see his pupils reduced to tiny little mathematical points for a second day. I was thinking that if I was shooting chicken liver, sure as hell I'd be wearing sunglasses.
Happily flashing pathetic pin-prick pupils lost in broad islands of blue-grey iris surrounded by reddened moats of white, he went on endlessly about how happy he was to be visiting, how everything Verge was interested in he was interested in, how immeasureably Verge had improved his life.
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To an extent this is also true when Matthew isn't on chicken liver, but when he is on chicken liver, a horrible side of him comes out. He becomes extremely fake and overly unctious. In such a state there is always someone whom he is eager to please. That person today (and during the whole visit) was Verge. Everything about her he declared wonderful, beautiful, and most nauseatingly often of all, "the best." Happily flashing pathetic pin-prick pupils lost in broad islands of blue-grey iris surrounded by reddened moats of white, he went on endlessly about how happy he was to be visiting, how everything Verge was interested in he was interested in, how immeasureably Verge had improved his life. At first this sort of thing was mildly amusing. It is, after all, an extension of his usual charm. But he carried it so much further and it became utterly revolting. More revolting still was the fact that Verge was lapping it all up. She was apparently oblivious to how fake and disgusting it all was. She seemed to find Matthew Hart on chicken liver a completely adorable thing. Verge repeatedly said things like "I love you Matthew Hart." Of course, she wasn't on chicken liver, and when she said such things, they had none of the fakeness of Matthew Hart's praises. Still, there was a nagging, appalling superficiality to her responses. Their interaction was upsettingly alien to me. I wished I was back in Charlottesville or could go somewhere and cry. I recalled what Jessika had said about Matthew's behaviour her last night in Charlottesville, and I felt exactly the same way.
The bloody marys considerably tempered my horrible feeling (for the time being). But Matthew continually shot chicken liver and behaved in the horrible fake unctious manner for the rest of the trip, on the whole giving me a completely miserable experience. I eventually vowed to myself that I will never go to a large city with Matthew Hart ever again.
passed out on the boardwalk
ll yesterday, Diana had been proposing that we go to Coney Island, a sort of year-round carnival on the beaches beyond of Brooklyn. Today we finally went, that is, us from Kappa Mutha Fucka and Diana. Verge did something else.
We rode the subway. It's a long ride through Brooklyn to get to Coney Island. At a certain point you come popping out of the ground and travel in the glare of the sunlight while looking down upon the Brooklyn residential communities. There's a big majestic Jewish graveyard about half way. I remember that from 1989, when I stayed for a week at the Jewish Theological Seminary near Columbia University.
I was drinking vodkatea in complete violation of the no food/drink subway regulations. But anarchy seems to reign on subway cars. Each individual is in his own little world and oblivious to victimless (and even some victimful) crimes>
I tried to talk to Diana secretly about how horrible and fake Matthew Hart becomes on chicken liver, but she didn't seem upset in the least by it. She even said it didn't really seem any worse than my drinking. Cute little Matthew. Aww look, he's shooting up! Isn't he just adorable? His eyes look so fucking gorgeous when they don't have any pupils!
The others went for an overpriced $4 ride on "the Cyclone," a roller coaster. Meanwhile I wandered around and bought food at vendors. My friends seemed to think I was either a cheapskate, a coward, or both for not riding on the Cyclone. But Deya agreed it hadn't been worth $4.
We went down to the beach, drank some pre-mixed gin & juice, and waded out into the salty sea. Waves came rolling over my body (some even over my head) as I stood on the sandy bottom in dangerously deep waters (for someone who cannot swim). It was absolutely wonderful. I even joined some strangers in the tossing of a tennis ball. Then I came ashore and sat with my friends and covered my body with sand and drank more gin and juice. There was something so stressful about Matthew's behaviour and lack of pupils that I needed to sedate myself.
Deya came to my rescue and later told me some curious vacationers had been photographing me.
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I returned to the sea to rinse the sand off my body, but it was impregnated in my scalp and much of the rest somehow ended up in my pockets. [I was still accidentally grinding it in my teeth two days later.]
We all went into a purported freak show. I was in a deep alcohol haze at this point and don't recall that much. There was a skinny woman who climbed into a box and had a bunch of knives dropped through around her. Then there a "bearded lady" appeared and narrated something to do with a woman and her albino python. I later had an opportunity to pet the snake. But the freak show really hadn't been so freaky. The bearded lady might have really been a man.
Later, in the midst of yet more overly greasy food consumption, I lay down on the boardwalk and passed out. Deya came to my rescue and later told me some curious vacationers had been photographing me. Hopefully you'll soon see me sprawled across the cover of the New Yorker. So you see, I was drunk and Matthew Hart was on chicken liver, but it was I who was the most out of control. At least I had pupils.
Back at Diana and Verge's I pretty much went directly to sleep. When I awoke, there were lots of strangers present, mostly a group of gay men (sorry, I can't recall their names) and a guy named "High Five" who rolled countless joints which he was forced to smoke mostly by himself because the others (excepting Monster Boy) smoke very little pot. I didn't have any.
Diana had plans to go with her gay friends to see a band play at a nearby bar. Deya, Monster Boy and I joined them. Matthew and Leah claimed to be wiped out and went to bed instead.
Monster Boy was looking particularly glum, though a hard looking woman was dancing energetically near him and Diana shouted hoots of encouragement at her.
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As usual we walked past the very famous CBGB, which is only a block away from Diana and Verge's apartment, and on down to the ever-trendy/ever-trashy St. Mark's place to the bar known as Coney Island High. We went upstairs. The cost was $5 at the door, and those under 21 were marked with Xs on both hands. Diana, who is 19, quickly cleaned the marks off without difficulty. The bartenders were all pierced and tattooed punk rockers, but tonight's customers were mostly young white raver types, many with backpacks. The dancing- with- tiny- neon- backpacks trend swept the hip teenage girls of Charlottesville maybe two years ago, but now I see the hip kids in New York are wearing big drab coloured backpacks.
The band tonight was called something like the All-American Fun Cover Band. It was lead by a dapperly-dressed former raver, and would you guess what they played? Nothing but 80s classic pop-rock, the kind of music every Generation Xer knows all the words to. They opened with "We're Not Gonna Take It," moved into "I Love Rock And Roll," did a sterling version of Def Leppard's hit "Rock of Ages," had a little trouble with the pitch of the vocals in "99 Red Balloons" and carried on through Heart, Bob Seeger and the Silver Bullet Band, Billy Idol, you name it. Someone shouted "Free Bird!" and they said they'd get to it later. This band could have been just another cover band, doing their best on stage to help us relive those awkward teenage/pre-teenage memories. But this band went beyond that. There was a subtle subversive quality, a tongue-in-cheek Andy Warhol thing going on. The tunes were covers, no doubt about it, but they were coming through an oddly distracting frame or a thin little prism. Now and then the vocalist would lapse into punk rockesque screaming or the musicians would blaze away insanely. The music was being mocked as well as thoroughly enjoyed. I appreciated it rather more than my sobriety would normally have permitted.
The beers, meanwhile, were somewhat on the overpriced side, you might say. It would appear that New York City vacations are designer-made to encourage the excretion of surplus wealth.
My contingent all sat together crowded on a couch. Monster Boy was looking particularly glum, though a hard looking woman was dancing energetically near him and Diana shouted hoots of encouragement at her. She was convinced the woman was looking to sleep with Monster Boy this drunken night.
fun in a gay bar
The one unknown girl in our contingent did her best to drink her gin-tea cocktail, but ended up donating it to a bum.
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e returned to the apartment to get provisions (alcohol) with which to continue the evening. A raver in a car stopped at a nearby light had his music pumping loudly, and we all raved-out right there on the sidewalk. The driver leaned out and asked directions, and the instant the light turned green, all the drivers behind him leaned on their horns. I love New York.
The others were entrigued when Deya and I mixed up some vodkatea. They'd never heard of such a thing and went to try it themselves. Unfortunately, we made it with gin, which was all we had, and it tasted horrible to the others. The one unknown girl in our contingent did her best to drink her gin-tea cocktail, but ended up donating it to a bum.
We walked around a bit. I was becoming pleasantly drunk again and greatly enjoying the (for lack of a better word) energy of our little contingent. There was none of those disgusting Matthew-Verge vibes going on. And, something else I like, I felt sort of like the center of attention. More on that particular need in a bit.
Despite the protests of Diana and the unknown bum-pleasing girl, the gay boys led us to a gay bar. It looked like a perfect sociological adventure for me, so I marched right in. Monster Boy did too, but he looked around in fear and quickly fled.
I mean, it was quite the sausage party. After Diana escaped, Deya was the only girl in there. But unlike a real sausage party, the boys were plenty happy with their sausages. There was no waiting for the girls to arrive. Indeed, the only girl present was causing problems. Deya, you see, was clinging to me like velcro and there wasn't a chance for any of the boys to "eat me alive" (as one of the gay boys we'd come with had secretly predicted to Diana). I think Deya felt an almost maternal need to protect me, but in fact I would have been happier to fend for myself. Gay guys don't scare me, and this was supposed to be a sociological experience.
The damn 3D Pacman machine ate my 50 cents, but I still had a good time. So did Deya. We agreed among ourselves that this was the best sausage party we'd ever attended. Diana almost had to drag us out of there.
A cautiously friendly border collie named Gertrude paid me the ultimate respect of walking out from her hidey hole beneath the pinball machine and sitting dangerously underfoot at my bar stool.
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We bid our gay friends adieu and left them there. They were very excited that I'd enjoyed the bar so much. They credited me with being a "closet queen" and kissed me on the cheeks. They also kissed Monster Boy, who was much less enthusiastic. Diana urged them to "pull tongue" which is, I take it, a term used to describe a certain kind of intimate kiss.
Diana and Monster Boy while Deya and I went off to the nearby Mars Bar together. It's a tiny littl place and the Budweisers are cheaper than any other place I went to. An aging Gen-Xer with bad teeth scoped out a pretty blond [dreamlike, she waved at me across St. Mark's Place the next day] who had her hands full talking to a pair of Baby Boomer regulars. A cautiously friendly border collie named Gertrude paid me the ultimate respect of walking out from her hidey hole beneath the pinball machine and sitting dangerously underfoot at my bar stool. Deya needled me with fact that she was cramping my style if I hoped to pick up ladies. We were drunk, oh yeah, we were drunk. We started kissing when we sat in the chairs out in front. Under the NEW RULES that isn't supposed to happen.
And neither was the other stuff that happened way high on the roof of Diana and Verge's building. The pathetic thing was, I had to beg for it. The roof was gritty and hard, but the view was spectacular.
I feel underappreciated and underestimated. My social skills start to slip, and that reinforces a feeling of inadequacy or idiocy.
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essika has pointed something out to me, and on this trip I've decided that she's at least partly right:
The reason I dislike traveling is that when I go somewhere and don't know the people, I stop being the center of attention.
I've noticed this time and time again. When people sit around talking about people I don't know and events I didn't attend, I feel very left out. The others start to seem evil to me: superficial, overly-fashion conscious, and, most hypocritical of all, gossipy. In retrospect most of these feeling go away, but at the time, I suffer. I feel underappreciated and underestimated. My social skills start to slip, and that reinforces a feeling of inadequacy or idiocy. It becomes a vicious cycle, and I just want to go home where I can find the source of my power. This doesn't always happen. It didn't happen on the trip to Warren Wilson or on any but the first trip to Malvern and it certainly never happens on trips to Oberlin. There was something about the Matthew-Verge dynamic that really brought it out on this trip.