"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…
Last Friday it finally came. As I was leaving my apartment to have dinner with Watts in Astoria, Queens, I checked my mail before heading out. Inside was a letter from a law firm telling me I had five days from the day I got the notice to either pay the three months back rent I owed or to surrender the premises. That’s two dollars shy of $3500 in five days. Suddenly I was in an Edward Norton movie. What else was there to do under these circumstances than to throw a party? Yes, it’s another column about a party. Maybe I write about these things because I’m intrigued by the sociological tapestry woven by such gatherings. Or maybe I’m just trying to make myself look cooler than I actually am. Bottom line is, it’s either talk about a party or whine incessantly about my shattered financial well being. Trust me, there will be plenty of time for the latter in the weeks ahead.
The Secret Order My grandfather and my father were Shriners. They were also Masons. I know my dad belonged to the local Lions Club and the Scottish Rites as well. Beyond that I don’t know what other secret societies they were members of. When I was younger all I knew was that once a year we went to a pancake breakfast where my dad worked the grill and I got to eat rolled up deli ham. Every once in a while a red fez would make its way into my life, putting in a brief appearance before being returned to the box it came from and then hidden back somewhere in my grandfather’s house. I knew the fez was what they wore to Shriner meetings, but it was never explained to me why. Maybe it was the mystique of these unusual hats that kept me intrigued for so many years.
By the time my grandfather died my dad had pretty much retreated into his can of Coors beer and pack of Winston cigarettes. He stopped attending the meetings of any of the various groups he belonged to. At one point in my teens we drove down to the South Shore and went to a haunted house the Shrine was putting on. My mother kidded my dad about secret handshakes and passwords, repeating over and over, "Yabba-dabba," the first half of the greeting between members of the Royal Order of Waterbuffalo on The Flintstones (to be responded to with "Dabba-do"). Maybe it was just the humorless way my dad was, but he seemed to take the secrets of the Shrine pretty seriously even then. Not quite as serious as the time I fooled him into thinking I got an earring, but close.
With the death of my grandfather and the fallout between my dad and I, my chance of ever becoming privy to any of those secrets is practically lost. And it’s not that I’m sure I’d ever want to become a member of a group of old white dudes who drive tiny cars and wear fezzes. Still, something about secret orders still bites at me. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m such a loner, the idea of widespread acceptance such a foreign concept, that I’m drawn to these things. The History Channel had a special on the Freemasons yesterday and I watched that (actually watched it again) rather than do important freelance work that will help pay my bills. I’ve also read books about the history of these groups. Dammit, I even wrote a script for a comic about them that was partially serialized in the first year of this column. Secret orders are fascinating.
Vicious Circle Another organization that draws my interest is the Algonquin Roundtable. Now, I haven’t researched or read about it nearly as much as I have Freemasons and Shriners. But still, the idea of a group of intelligent, creative people getting together to trade philosophy, debauchery, and inebriation can’t help but be something I’d be interested in.
And it’s not just the Algonquin Roundtable specifically that grabs me. There are plenty of similar groups throughout history. Plato’s Academy, the Renaissance, the Beats, CBGB’s in the late 70’s. Really any place where likeminded people got together and somehow managed to make an impact on the culture. That, maybe more than the Masons, is something I’d like to be a part of. Or maybe something that combines both.
One thing about these gatherings is that they always seem to be private affairs, invitation only. Or, at the very least, you have to know someone who can get you in. In something slightly related, my friend Moby has a friend who is a guy in-the-know to this wandering gay party. The party happens once a week at a different place each time. You won’t find it in the papers, but if you know the right people you’ll now where it’s going to be. We’re not talking rave here. No 90210, exchange an egg bullshit. Just simply a bunch of cool people who are throwing a regular party on a large scale that they only want certain people to be part of. Exclusivity can’t help but be attractive.
Geek Idea And so it came to pass that I had an idea. The one thing that I kept hearing from all the people I know is how broke they are right now. Some more than others, and some aren’t nearly as broke as they think they are. But poverty is definitely something I can relate to at the moment. It’s not philosophy, but under the Bush Administration you can’t be too choosy on what ties bind you.
The thing about my friends, and myself, is that we are basically social people. The thing about poverty is that it is somewhat prohibitive to being social. In New York, where drinks are usually at least five bucks a pop, being broke makes it difficult to join your friends for a night on the town. But who says you have to go out and spend a bunch of money to be social? And is it possible to host something that is more than just having friends over but is less than a full-blown party? That’s where Down And Out comes in.
The idea was this: take the four people I enjoy the most in this city, the people most open to anything, and get them in a room together. Make it BYOB and see what happens. And that’s just what we did.
I had to curb my Freemason desires in the initial proposition. The problem with having friends like mine is that, like me, they are social but not necessarily joiners. So it was with a lot of trepidation that I put forth the idea of an informal ‘social club’, for lack of a better term. I tried my best to downplay the thing as an organization of any kind. I focused more on the idea that we’re all friends, we’re all broke, and wouldn’t it be nice to all see each other once a month? Amazingly, everyone bought into it.
Watts and I decided that, since the majority of the first five members lived in Brooklyn that it would be a good idea to hold the first meeting at her place. The rules were simple. Down And Out meets once a month, on the second Saturday of that month, at a different location each time. Whoever is hosting that month’s gathering is only responsible for providing a couple bags of chips and some form of theme or activity. The theme or activity is as simple as possible and isn’t meant to dominate the evening. For example, Watts decided the activity would be board games. Ultimately the one game that was there sat on a chair and was never touched. It’s almost like a pretense, or a Plan B should the evening turn slow. The real reason for being there is to do what we would normally do in bars without spending nearly as much money.
Also, Down And Out is a good way to constantly expand our social circle. Watts frowned on my idea of having any kind of rules beyond the BYOB thing. So instead it is strongly suggested that if you came as a guest to a Down And Out meeting and would like to come back, the next time you should bring a guest of your own. These sort of things only work if they’re always bringing in fresh faces. And we got to see some of that already with just our first go.
Overall I would call the first meeting a success. We all drank too much. Two new people to our group were brought. E-mails were exchanged so that they can be included in the next round of invites. There was an attempted insurrection by one of the core five, who drank a bit, was missing her new boyfriend, and suddenly wanted to go out dancing. But the fact that five out seven people were opposed to the insurrection I think proves the success of the evening.
As usual, Moby was the belle of the ball. Watts thinks her dog should have that title, but I’d call the dog more the cock of the walk, since he was constantly begging for attention but was largely ignored. Moby, on the other hand, has this peculiar power with the ladies. It can’t possibly be just because he’s gay and therefore not a threat. Whatever it is, it’s powerful. Women meet him once, barely talk to him or hear him speak, and suddenly they’re talking about marrying the guy and referring to him as their boyfriend. I mean, he’s a great guy and all, but sometimes I just want to shove him in a closet and have the ladies to myself.
Other than that, though, we all had a good time. And it didn’t turn out to be nearly as geeky as I thought it was going to be. Maybe that’s just a testament to the people who were included in the scheme.
I got my notice to pay or leave on Friday. The next night I was at Down And Out. The perfect place for me to wind up.
From The Monkey House a/k/a Simon Franchises available in all fifty states and parts of Europe
The Random: By the way, I managed to send in a little bit of the money I owed and will definitely have the rest by the end of the month. So, I avoid eviction for the next month or so. That means you’re stuck with me at least until then.
