"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…
Happy Chinese New Year. Depending on which restaurant you’re eating at, I’m told it’s either the year of the ram or the year of the goat. In typical New York fashion, with every holiday there are parties to be attended. My friend Moby was invited to one such party, thrown only a scant two blocks from my apartment, by a married couple I refer to as Gay Husband and the German Forest because I will swear ‘til my dying day that the guy is gay and the wife is on record as being against pubic grooming. What’s worse is that they are so dull that those two things are the only way I have of identifying them. So you just know this party was going to be killer. And it gets even better.
Putting The ‘Ex’ In Excessive Drinking The big deal about the party was that Moby’s ex-boyfriend was going to be there and it was the first time in almost a year that they have seen each other. In fact, this boyfriend became an ex on the same night as my last girlfriend departed; Kahloz’s birthday party killed at least two relationships that night. And since I dread bumping into my ex I can understand how Moby feels. Of course, the circumstances are a bit different. With my ex-girlfriend it would immediately turn into a trading of resumes, because actors only define themselves by what production they’re in at that time and what they’ve been in recently. But with gay men there is always the good chance of some diva drama.
Not that I’m sure he wanted to hang out with me anyway, but my invite definitely hinged on my ability to provide assistance in whatever way necessary. Best case I would just be there to provide a little morale support, be Moby’s pillar of strength. Should things turn ugly, like if the ex were to show up with some new hung pretty-boy stud, I may be called upon to act as stand-in boyfriend. Hey, get enough drinks in me and I’ll pretty much do anything. How you doin’?
Knowing how dull the people were, what my role may require, and with the current toilet residence of my financial life, I decided that the best option was to get half in the wrapper before even setting foot out the door. Moby agreed and came to my apartment beforehand. For every beer I had Moby downed a beer and a shot of Jim Beam. I would find out later that he’d started back at his apartment. So, considering his already respectable level of consumption and the fact that I’ve been eating very little all week in an attempt to lose weight, we had a good warm and fuzzy on as we took off to the celebration two blocks over.
Now, I was expecting it to be a little slow, but I never would have predicted what the truth would be once we arrived. We walk in to a second floor, one-bedroom apartment clocking in somewhere around a hundred and twenty-seven degrees. Gay Husband greets us dressed like Bruce Lee. Tink-tink-tink-tink Chinese temple music is the soundtrack for the event. German Forest gives us hugs, dressed in a red silk Chinese top. The place is decorated with paper dragons and assorted other Chinese appointments. An old dude with a pseudo-Beat beard is sitting on the couch with his Rachel Dratch-but not as good-looking wife near him. A chubby guy and his tiny little wife are ducking into a side room to change into their party clothes. He emerges wearing a black silk robe and she has a backpack made from goat skin. Moby and I look around, take it in, nod to each other, and head for the drinks.
As I’ve said before, I’m mostly a beer guy. With most parties the only problem that arises from this is that I might end up drinking Bud in a can. But this party decides to be ‘authentic’ and provide only Tsing-Tao, and only one six-pack of the Chinese beer to boot. On top of that, the bar is only stocked with the proper alcohols to make the two ‘Chinese’ drinks that the couple has decided will fit the occasion. This means no whiskey, no vodka, nothing but cheap brandy, rum, and some almond flavored crap. But we make do. Moby and I each grab a beer and decide we need to start with two shots of brandy each. For me this makes five drinks in two hours. For Moby he’s clocking in at eight and already starting to show it.
And then it happens. As we’re enjoying our second shot of brandy the ex walks in, complete with his new beau. Honestly, I think Moby is a better catch than this replacement the ex has found.
Dancing In The Streets The ex hands out fortunes. Mine says ‘Meet me in the bathroom at 2:15’. Turns out the only other person to get this fortune is German Forest. Would there be a chance to witness the extent of her southern foliage?
Moby and the ex go off into their own corner and catch up, or something. More people have arrived but I get stuck talking to the new boy. At this point I’m fully fitshaced and rambling on about how 2004 is going to be the year of the prominent male nipple, because I think we still need another year before clothing material and fashion develops to the point where men’s nips will be poking out all over the place. I’m also going on about how 2003 is going to be the year of random nudity, because at the time I was dealing with some of my own personal issues. To which he starts prodding me to prove it. But I’m not feeling the vibe of the party, tink-tink-tink-tink, so my clothes stay on.
After about two hours I decide I’ve had enough of the heat and open a window. Then I hear Gay Husband and German Forest discussing an Indian film they’d just seen and how they’re going to play the soundtrack once the Chinese record is done. Grand.
Another defining fact I know about the host couple, beyond their orientation and trimming reluctancies, is that they like to smoke pot. I’m always leery of people who are described that way. I don’t care so much anymore if random people want to do that sort of thing once in a while. But when you actually find your penchant for the Mary Jane as a predominant character trait then maybe it’s time to get a hobby. Of course, after two hours at this dull-ass shindig I was hoping a bunch of them would duck into the other room, smoke up, and come back as more entertaining people. Didn’t happen.
The Tsing-Tao had run out and my attempt to down a Mai-Tai failed after one sip. Moby and the ex tell me they’re going to get cigarettes and I figure this is my opportunity to get some beer. Moby takes off without a jacket and is dancing down the street, waving his hands in the air. We get to the deli and I ask him for some money for the beer. At this point details are fuzzy. He either bumped into or said something and spittled on a pair of nearby hoochies. Inside the store he apologized, but they started mumbling shit. Once outside he announces, "Fuck them!" fairly audibly and with the finger to punctuate. That was a good time to leave the scene.
Back at the apartment, the ex and Moby sit down on the stoop of the building. The ex asks me if they can have some time alone. I’m highly suspicious, but drunk, so I go inside. I find myself talking to an Albanian chick who really has nothing to say. On my right is the new boy. What our exchange was exactly I can’t recall, but at some point he said, "I wasn’t offering," in a tone that suggested he didn’t get whatever joke I made. With that I felt like I had failed Moby. Here I was supposed to be his surrogate partner and it comes off as I’m hitting on the ex’s new fella. Oh well.
Around one a.m. I’m getting tired of Indian music and decide to look through the CD racks. Lots of Charlie Parker and foreign film soundtracks. Not that I have anything against Charlie Parker, but you can tell a pseudo-culturalista by their prefab music collection. Ultimately the only thing I can find to liven things up is a Best of Pat Benatar. You know the evening is not going well when you have to resort to ‘Invincible’. And then I had to argue with Gay Husband just to get two songs played. God forbid we should all stop acting like pompous intellectuals for the length of a couple of pop tunes.
Moby returns and sits down next to me on the couch as I make a half-assed attempt to talk to a girl who wants to be a writer and therapist. Yes, even with the one person I have things in common with I couldn’t be bothered with a conversation the mood of party was so dull. I turn to my friend who tells me everything went fine outside. I mention the hoochie incident at the deli and Moby can’t even remember it happening. Almost time to go. Then he tells me he’s feeling like he’s going to be sick. Time to go.
We say our good byes. German Forest laments that we were forty-five minutes shy of our rendezvous in the bathroom. Whatever. She has a gay husband and enjoys soundtracks to Indian films. There was no way I was seeing her hoo-hah that night. And so the mystery of her shag carpeting remains.
The next day Moby calls me. He’s lost his wallet and can’t remember bits and pieces of the evening. He was the lucky one.
From The Monkey House a/k/a Simon Gung Hey Fat Choy
The Random: I was thinking today—something I try to do everyday—I lived in Massachusetts for a good chunk of my life and I never heard anyone ever say "wicked pissah". I’ve heard "wicked awesome" quite a lot, and occasionally someone say "you’re a pissah". But that notorious staple of Massachusetts speech is something that may just be an urban legend. However, I have heard "shittin’ me" more than anything. Two guys can have a whole conversation with pretty much just this phrase. For example, let’s take Mac’a (any guy with a Mac or Mc last name) and Murph (the new Sully):
Mac’a: Ya shittin’ me! Murph: Nah, I ain’t shittin’ ya. Mac’a: Dude, ya gotta be fahkin’ shittin’ me! Murph: Dude, I ain’t shittin’ ya. Mac’a: Sweah ta God, ya ain’t shittin’ me? Murph: Sweah ta God, dude, se-iously.
