"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
For some reason, this past holiday season I attended more parties than I’ve ever gone to before in my life. It can’t possibly be because of popularity, since there were other times when I’ve had more friends. I think, more than anything, it has to do with who my friends are. Half the parties I ended up going to I barely knew anyone. But each one had it’s own little flavor. Parties are like Christmas presents; the wrapping may look nice on the outside, but you might be surprised by what you end up with, and not always in a good way.
One Trick Pony The season began at its peak, with easily the best party of the bunch. On Saturday, December 7th, my friend and possible future roommate threw the kickoff to the Christmas blowouts. As usual for Moby, the party was an interesting mix of uptight married people, raucous gay men, and anti-social lesbians.
I went to the party determined not to have the usual boring party conversations. "What do you do for a living?", "How do you know so-and-so?", "Where in New York do you live?" Ho hum. Instead I decided to find one topic and beat it to death the entire night. And that topic was; why does Jim Beam always seem to lead to rimjobs?
Right away I started in with the question. The lesbians staked out the living room couch, letting anyone interested in talking about the book publishing industry come to them. Others milled about in Moby’s room, having other conversations. But I made it clear early on that, if you were coming into the kitchen, then you best be ready to talk about rimjobs. Not surprisingly, this subject drew the gay men like bees to honey.
Of course, we didn’t talk about rimjobs the entire night. But that initial conversation, and the fact that I kept bringing everything back to it, established the talk of taboo that evening. At one point I left the kitchen and, when I returned, I found Watts discussing the importance of pubic grooming to one of the uptight wives. One of the wives doesn’t like to give blowjobs and the other doesn’t believe in trimming her shrubbery. What the hell is wrong with married people? But watching them get flustered is endless fun, and so was Moby’s party.
Yuletide Massacre The following Friday, the 13th, I threw the second of the endless string of gatherings. It was intended to be a small gathering after work (for those people who actually have jobs). I invited fifteen people, expecting less than ten. Somewhere along the way a good number of the Squares I used to work with decided to come, ballooning the expected turn out to around twelve. Naturally, it had to downpour that night, and water being to the Squares much like it is to the Wicked Witch, kept the ultimate number to six. Luckily it ended up being the six people I actually wanted to come.
As per my usual, I tried to make my party stand out from all the other boozefests. Since it was the holidays I consulted with Watts on a special festive drink menu. She suggested Southern Comfort Egg Nog, which I agreed to, and Warm Cider, which I vetoed. Instead we went with Mulled Wine, since that was what Clarence asked for when he and George went for a drink in It’s A Wonderful Life. Snacks were also specialized, and resulted in my renewed obsession with Port Wine Cheddar.
Overall the party was a rather sedate affair. After so much talk of rimjobs at Moby’s I decided to kill the topic anytime it was brought up. I was beginning to feel like I had nothing else to say than discussing anus licking. If I’m going to be known for one thing I’d rather it not be as ‘that rimjob guy.’ Instead I opted to talk about the impending war and how no one seems to care as long as we’re all kept updated on J-Lo’s engagement. Truly festive things to mull over Mulled Wine. Turns out, the side effect of having no job and too much free time is that I can only talk about blatantly shocking sex trivia or inappropriately heavy current events. Damn, I need to get a job if only so I can have something to gab on about at parties.
Toward the end of my party I wandered into the kitchen and found myself getting maudlin. It was all starting to hit me then. I’d set up my party as sort of a last hurrah and it was almost over. Once the party ended I would finally have to deal with the book disappointment, unemployment, heavy debt, two friends moving away, and a lonely Christmas day. Watts found me borderline sulking in the kitchen and snapped me out of it by telling me my brooding was kind of hot. She goes for those tortured artist types.
Away In A Manger The day after my party, Saturday, one of my lesbian friends was having a birthday party. Watts and I decided not to go. The lesbian was at Moby’s and had been rather unfriendly to Watts, so she wasn’t gung ho about attending. Myself, I was holding a grudge because I’d gone to every party this chick ever threw and she had yet to show her face at any of mine. The most recent instance of this was her absence from my party the night before. So we decided to be bitter and stay at Watts’s place and move her furniture around. And no, that’s not a euphemism.
Don’t Mess With Texas My favorite married couple in all of New York is gone. The Joneses decided to move back to Texas. Why, I’ll never know. But better them than me.
They gathered friends and co-workers at Black Star on Second Avenue in the East Village the following Friday. As it turned out, the majority of friends were also co-workers. Watts and I had the Joneses to ourselves for the first half-hour, but soon after that we were pushed aside as the group of people who knew each other closed in. It really was strange to behold. We all started out mingling around the empty back room and then it just turned into a little circle that neither I nor Watts felt like we belonged to. Maybe it was because so many of the people were boring married types who are only good to talk to when the discussion involves work. I don’t know. All I know is that Watts and I spent a good hour outside the powwow, feeling really left out. Not the way I wanted to say good bye to two people I’d hoped to know better and longer.
The Boiling Pot Italians and I don’t get along. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a lot of Italian friends over the years and I’ve had long term relationships with three partially Italian women, Watts included. But the problem I always have is that when two or more Italians get together around someone who isn’t Italian, they inevitably bond over their mutual heritage. From there it just becomes an endless testimony of how and why Italians are so great and why whatever ancestry you happen to have is inferior. And I always call them on it. You want to know how to get an Italian pissed off? Ask them why they have vowels at the ends of words if they’re not going to pronounce them. It’s mozzarella, not mozzarell. And when did ‘c’ turn into a ‘g’?
Anyway, now that all my Italian readers hate me, the fourth party I went to was thrown by the drummer of Watts’s old and current bands, who happens to be Italian. She lives out in the suburbs of Jersey in a pretty great house. On the ride out there I got to see the ultimate in Christmas house decorating decadence. Have you seen these giant inflated snowmen? They’re madness!
Watts was approaching the party with dread. Yes, they are good friends, but Watts was really afraid the party was going to be boring. And it was. But also an intriguing reminder of how truly fucked up so many families are. I didn’t know until after, but apparently the truce that was holding the gathering together was an extremely tenuous one.
Not even an hour in and one of the aunts walked up to me saying, "My family thinks I’ve had too much to drink…and maybe I have." One of the other aunts was rocking the Paula Poundstone lesbian look and had only just come out recently. None of the women could have children, so the United Nations of adopted babies were running around playing with walkie talkies. I was informed by a guy named Rocco that "No real man is afraid of snakes." And the male host of the evening was regaling the table with the list of all the guns he had near his bed, including at least one automatic weapon. And to top it off, I had to hear all these people talk about how great the "manigot" (manicotti) was and I couldn’t say anything because I was a guest and barely knew these people. Besides which, if I ridiculed their abuse of the English language I probably would have been shot and tossed in the snake pit.
I left the party glad that I was still relatively young. Watts left thinking there was something wrong with her because she preferred parties with gay men making out and talk of rimjobs to parties with little tikes running around and screwed up relatives pretending they get along. I mean really, how much more needs to be said about your kids and what you’re doing to your house? Sexual kink is a much greater untapped well. Or maybe I just haven’t been domesticated yet.
Up North Christmas Eve Watts and I made the drive Upstate for the dinner party of my other favorite married couple, the Beans. The only thing I was dreading was the presence of Watts’s dull as rocks ex-boyfriend, whom I’ve decided to name Papaya. I call him this because the first time I met him I had to endure his inane hour-plus diatribe about how he ate papaya while in Costa Rrrrrica (he made a point of rolling the ‘r’) because they serve it fresh there. Part of the reason I was dreading him being there is because he’s so boring, but the other part is that I’m simply uncomfortable being around one of her exes. Sue me.
Going to the Beans you can always be assured of two things, good conversation and amazing food. As usual, they delivered on the latter. The former? Well, there was plenty of conversation. Whether it was good is another thing.
By that point in the year I was really feeling down on myself. And now I was surrounded by a bunch of older, more established, more successful people. Watts is one of the top Production Editors at Ballantine. The Beans have their own business and are insanely well read. Another couple was an old-fashioned West Village Bohemian pair of artists, who actually make a living off their art. Watts’s ex is a computer guy who made so much money he decided to just take a year off and travel, having just returned from the Galapagos. And the other couple in attendance worked in music and were going for Masters degrees. Hell, even Mr. Bean’s high school-aged son is a fiend on the baseball diamond. And what do I do? I sit on my ass all day, watch television, and don’t answer the phone because it’s always bill collectors looking for money I don’t have.
So I was in a funk and had nothing to talk about, feeling envious of all these other people. The only time I did open my mouth was to put my foot in it. Mrs. Bean’s mother was there and had told me she was from the South. At some point people who didn’t know better started talking about Trent Lott and how all Southerners are racists. I jumped in with the little I knew and the stories my sister told me from her semester in Texas. And then the mother interjected about someone who was beaten to death by New York City cops recently and I remembered where she’d come from. Not that it changed my mind about Southerners. Still, it’s rude to shit all over someone else’s place of origin to their face.
The End And how did I cap off the end of this latest holiday season? What did I do on the biggest party night of the year? How did I put the cherry on the top of this festive sundae?
I sat at home and watched the Sex and the City marathon on HBO. For the three days surrounding New Year’s I didn’t shower or even dress, opting to lay on the couch in my boxers and bathrobe. Tentative plans had been made with Moby, but thankfully he called and said he was staying in as well. By the time this year drew to a close I was glad to be done with it, scared and depressed by what the beginning of this new year holds, and not looking to celebrate anything. I turned off the ringer on my phone in case Watts decided to call me from New Orleans and tell me how great a time she was having. At 11:30 I threw some dirty clothes on and trotted down to the deli to buy a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a large bag of Party Mix. I gorged myself on bad foods and didn’t change the channel to see any stupid ball drop. From across the street I heard some people yelling at midnight. Whatever.
And so 2002 is over. When it started I declared it my year, but it was anything but. Getting together with Watts was probably the best thing that has ever happened to me, and it almost makes up for the giant ‘fuck you’ the universe handed me in the final quarter. The way things are going lately I can’t even think about what I’m going to do with the next hour, let alone the next year. So I’ll try to end this on a positive note, since people love happy endings.
I heard a saying the other day. ‘In New York they say you’re always either looking for a job, an apartment, or a relationship.’ With the New Year I hope to find the first, hold on to the second, and fully appreciate having the third, because it’s that last one that is the most important.
From The Monkey House a/k/a Simon All partied out
The Random: My resolutions are as follows, to stop biting my fingernails, to eliminate the word ‘like’ from my verbal vocabulary, and to get in shape and stay in shape this time. So far I’ve kept all my fingers away from my mouth. In the healthiest move possible I fasted for twenty-four hours following my New Year’s Eve gluttony. And since I haven’t been out of my apartment for, like, three days, I haven’t had to say a word.
