The Transporter Couch

Art is my partner in crime in this blog. It was he who put the bee in my bonnet and he who encouraged me to get into it. In some sense I owe him my life.

I met him in college. At St. John’s there are “core” groups. Classes are very small but in any given semester you will have four or five people who are in all your classes. Art was in my freshman core group. We didn’t click at first because I was kind of preppy and he was an anarchist. Yay! Then one day a couple of weeks into school, actually it was at night, I walked into the Peterson Student Center, sort of heading to my mailbox, and he was sitting on this bench, and I said hi and he said hi, and…….. I sat down and we talked for three hours.

How does that happen? We had nothing in common except that we were both prone to sarcasm. We’d come from completely different parts of the country, had had completely different upbringings. I disparaged his politics and he disparaged my pretentions. But by and by he taught me some things about politics and the ways of the world, and I taught him how to make a martini, and we’re best friends. I was his best man. Twice. Maybe one day he’ll get to be mine. Should it ever come to that, he’ll certainly be offered the job.

In a way it’s kind of weird. Art is married and has kids and respectability and while he PROBABLY doesn’t vote Republican, he does vote and he’s established and stable. I, on the other hand, well I DO vote but I’m sort of an anarchist. Interesting how things change.

OK, I’m ready to conclude my essay on David.

First let me describe him. He’s 5′8″, of latino heritage, well built, handsome, prone to hairiness. Dark hair, brown eyes, a rather chiseled face. OK thus that.

David is a dreamer. I mean, he works and makes money but his mind is always on a dream. His outlet is music. He doesn’t perform but he compiles albums and I am lucky be the recipient of many of them.

His mind is always on a dream. And while that proves frustrating, sometimes, most of the time it’s a source, the well from which we ladle hope into chalices.

Thank you, David

I’ve managed to endear myself with the folks at Cuvee. (Hmm, endear with? endear to? whatever) I mean, we all are friends now and so I was lucky to get invited to a party last night at the proprietor’s house.

Now I have to set this up properly. Carolyn Walls died. God rest her soul. (And I understand it was a hard hard death.) And I got that news exactly three minutes after I accepted the invitation to come over Monday night for fajitas. And in the ensuing fray of my weekend I FORGOT the party invitation. Carolyn was not really a friend but she was my friend Carla’s sister and out of respect and deference I went to the viewing yesterday afternoon. And there, I ran into Hilda. And Hilda, who is one of the most beautiful women in the world, is quite shy, and she sort of clung to me. So after we left the funeral home we went DIRECTLY across the street to Lincoln Street and consumed Moscato d’Asti. Quite a bit of it. And then Hilda said, “aren’t you going to a party tonight?” And I thought, “SHIT! Yes I’m supposed to go to a party!

Well two glasses of Moscato d’Asti do not make Brian drunk, but I was certainly lit up. Hilda and I left the funeral home at about 5 and then went to have a drink and we sat in the “front living room” at Lincoln Street, which was once upon a time a house. Lincoln Street is, first and foremost, comfortable. We sat in the front living room and I closed the doors so it was quiet and we both had a little cry and then we talked about many things and Shawn came in and refreshed our glasses and shut the door behind him, and then we laughed about stuff and it was the perfect counterpoint to viewing a dead friend. So I was actually in a pretty good mood.

And then I went to Len’s house, and driving there I got lost…. .LOST in a podunk town! But I found my way, and suddenly it was a party.

Present were: Sheila and her boyfriend Terry, Jen and her boyfriend Matt, Julie and Lance (married), Sherry, Len, and myself. We were the singles threesome. Len’s wife and daughter are out of town so he was only tangentially single.

At some point I was talking sort of across the room to Terry about driving fast cars. It was a GUY moment and I was enjoying it, but busy doing that I missed some larger conversation about “juicy tits.” That became a recurring theme of the overall conversation last night.

There was lots of food! AND… AND!!! I drank about 483 margaritas. I think that was where I was ultimately going with this post. I feel like shit. I haven’t even summoned the courage to look at myself in the mirror. I’ve walked past one eleven times and just don’t look. I know WHERE my car is but more important than where it IS is where it IS NOT, which is….. here. And I have to go to a funeral in 2.5 hours and it’s raining and I feel like shit and loook like shit and don’t really want to go. Maybe I should blow it off. Maybe I should send an elaborate wreath and a condolence card. Maybe I should muster the troops and put myself together. Maybe I should have breakfast …… .no….. well maybe some watermelon.

The party last night was sort of a double party. Sherry is going to Australia for a month and leaves in about a week. So it was a bon voyage party for her. And I turned 40 in December and ….. well that being the holiday season and all those folks being busy, no one took notice of it. So it was sort of a birthday party for me. It was sweet. It was nice. It was alcoholic. We ran out of lime juice so Jen and Sheila went to the store to get some and came back with this helium birthday balloon (that if you touch in the right place makes noise, not unlike some people I know) and some watermelon, which I had been craving. That was extra sweet of them, no pun intended! But I haven’t dived into the watermelon yet. Nice watermelon, all cut up and seedless and in a little container!

The balloon is sort of creepy. It reminds me of Terrence Stamp. It’s pretty big …. biscuit shaped, about 18 inches in diameter and 6 inches thick, metallic, helium-filled (it’s on the ceiling now) and metallic in color. It says “BLOWS YOUR MIND! ANOTHER BIRTHDAY!” and depicts a blue face wearing weird glasses with confetti exploding out of his brain. And did I mention it sings?

My complete and total incapacity to focus this post is sort of annoying, to me at least. The wages of sin …. as they say… is death. I’ve never understood that subject/verb disagreement though it was at some point explained to me. Anyway, all it indicates is that I’m hung over, and pretty majorly.

Have a nice day

The day does indeed dawn silver. Different, but embraceable. And not a cold metal car hood but a warm metal necklace, a gift from a friend.

I wrote a LOT yesterday and today I have some obligations so I won’t write anything at all beyond this post.

I know I know you’re tired of it but I’m on this Robbie Williams kick. It’s resonating with me. One lyric (that hell, maybe he himself pilfered, I can’t say) is “I’ve got so much life running through my veins, going to waste.” And later in that same song, “I’ve got so much love, running through my veins, going to waste.” And later, “I can’t give enough.”

They’re lyrics in a complicated song and they’re just “bit” actors but they really resonate with me.

I hate the term “nancy boy” for a gay man. But I heard it the other evening and couldn’t help giggling because it really was apt.

There are four Nancys (Nancies?) in my life.

First: Nancy D’Avila. She’s a landscape artist. I’ve actually known her quite a while but in a sort of distant way. I knew her when she was married to a self-absorbed and self-created “fabulous” chef. I knew her before that. I knew her when she and her companion came home one night find her son hanging by the neck from a tree. The wretchedness of that moment lingers in my soul and I will always always have a soft place in my heart for Nancy D’Avila. Now, she’s found some peace in her work, and I hope in her life.

Second …. (and the order here isn’t categorical, it’s just about how I’m thinking at the moment…… all these descriptions are honest, heartfelt, and valuable)

Next, then, I should say, is Nancy Doyle. She and her husband are my parents’ neighbors. My parents live on one corner and the Doyles live on the opposite corner, not across the street, but down the block. For a long while there was nothing in between but a pecan orchard. I call it an orchard but it was just twelve pecan trees in a long avenue. And it belonged to my parents. The Doyle’s property was just a big ….. yard, a nice yard, mind you, (with dogs and all) but it was sort of treeless. (Though in all fairness the Doyles have lovely oaks in the front!) (Though, no, in ALL fairness, my parents have one of the prettiest yards in the entire town of Fredericksburg.)

Anyway, on the border of the properties there was this bamboo. Everyone knows what bamboo is but not everyone knows what an insidious weed it is! It is IMPOSSIBLE to get rid of. And I don’t know how it came to be there but I suspect my parents brought some from Galveston when they moved (but I don’t know that for sure) but in any case it was the fence-line.

Where am I going? I got lost Ah, Nancy. Nancy is a realtor, and among the top 5 most reputable ones in this town where you can’t buy a house for less than $300,000, which means, of course, she has the wherewithal to take herself seriously. She’s petite and pretty and she is always kind to me though since she deals with people all the time and since I’m not in the market for a house, she tends to forget who I am. But I saw her out last night and she quickly recognized me. She was pleasant and complimentary and I appreciate her for that and her many other accomplishments. I’d like to know her better. But the thing about knowing “sales” people socially is that you never know when the “act” stops.

Now for the guys. Len White is actually straight, but he’s a Nancy Boy if ever there was one. Here’s how I described him recently.
“Len’s str8. More or less. Maybe he is or maybe he’s just crafted a comfortable str8 life but he’s the gayest str8 guy I’ve ever met. Tall, cute, careful about his appearance, a clothes-horse, picky, never bitchy or whiny but definitely particular about how things should be, confident, extremely good with the public, and a music lover, hell, he’s ME except taller and he has a wife and a child. I’m lucky to have him in my life.”

And I meant that. He owns the nicest restaurant in town and is the most knowledgable wine lover I’ve ever met, and, further, he asks me my thoughts on whatever he pours and he seems to be interested in my input so I find joy in those moments. He also seems to like me personally, and I take joy in that. If you’re reading this, Len, thank you!

OHHHHHHH I said four but there are five. Let’s have a little intermission with
NANCY TURNER.
I don’t know her maiden name but her first husband was Randy Booher, whom I’ve met (for they’re cordial) but whom I don’t know. But then she married Rand Turner…. a fabulous fabulous fabulous piece of work, about whom, more, later (but know in this instant he was my former employer). Nancy is a sweet, sweet woman. Confident on some levels but frankly, I think she’s a horndog. I mean, why the hell else would someone put up with Rand?

OK Back to the meat of the matter.
And if he knew I referred to him as “the meat” he would be secretly delighted.
David Marquez
He’s not a faggy fag, but he’s an openly gay man and being gay is very much a facet of his personality. He worked for New Mexico AIDS Services, for instance. He’s a grass-roots activist gay man. And he doesn’t do that because he’s ANGRY but because it NEEDS TO BE DONE. He has his lethargic moments (like I can talk, apologies, Dave) but he is mostly very active, and in fact is this very weekend going to the “Black Party” in NYC. It’s a moveable feast and he’s there.

I’ve known Dave since he moved into our dorm, day ONE of St. John’s. His door was directly across the hall. We introduced ourselves and I loved him then and I’ve never stopped. He and Art are my best friends in the world and you can’t categorize who is first and who is second, and it’s weird and fucked up that people ask you to do that but they do! They’re different persons, but they’re equally valuable. For instance, if I needed to get out of jail, I’d call Art. If I just “needed to be held” (which guys somesimes do) I’d call Dave. Art and I have an intellectual bond and Dave and I have an emotional bond.

And we’re all NANCY BOYS!

OK was that the longest Hallmark Card ever written or what? I’ll stop.

You know how you see someone or some people coming and you just clench up and say, “Oh god, please, why, why, why me?”

Adam and Nari are not those people.

Adam and Nari are this couple that came into my life back in October when I began working at the likka sto. They’re in their mid 20s, a couple from Atlanta. Adam actually spent much of his youth in West Virginia. He’s a goofy white boy, not at all unattractive but unkempt by choice and he could stand to lose a few. And he knows it and he doesn’t care so… cool. He’s a chef and a wine connoisseur and is knowledgable and didactic, boisterous but thoughtful, and a lot of fun and I like him. He’s really sensitive and wears his heart on his sleeve and I like that about him, too, though it may do him disservice down the road. (It may, indeed, already have done him disservice… who can say?)

I don’t actually know where Nari grew up but her dad is Thai and her mother is white and they didn’t stay married and I gather there was some back and forth in her life. I know she lived in Thailand for awhile. She told me pretty early on in our relationship that she’d had to sleep on the floor under a fishtank for a while. I didn’t believe her. (Then again, I told her I’d been married twice in my tortured youth and she didn’t believe me. Maybe we’re playing chicken.) She’s cute and very kind and has many endearing qualities, not the least of which is her sense of humor. I work with her so I know her better than I know Adam, whom I only see occasionally and only socially. I can say anything to her in a joshing manner and she doesn’t get offended. I can comment that she has monster tits (and she does) and she thinks that’s funny. I can fart in front of her. And she farts in front of me. There’s just a level of honesty that is so rarely met. Honesty and frankness about how silly life can and should be sometimes. And as I said, she’s very kind, and she believes in karma, not in such a “what comes around goes around” sort of way but in “peace of mind” sort of way. All this being said, the most phenomenal thing about Nari is her photographic memory. And it is, truly, phenomenal. Picture a 2,000 square foot liquor store jam-packed with 500 brands of vodka, gin, scotch, bourbon, rum, tequila, cordials, Schnapps, brandies, beer, wine, accoutrements, snacks and garnishes. Packed I say. And I pulled “500 brands” out of my butt….. it might be more! I don’t know. But Nari does. Not only does she know every brand, she knows where it is and how many we have in inventory. And while she usually writes a list as she takes stock of what’s on the shelves (for re-stocking purposes) she really can just walk around and look at things and then fill up the cart in the stockroom.

I’ve been to their house on several occasions and it always turns into a party and we… well, *Adam and I*, always end up drinking too much. Adam consumes his share, but Nari isn’t much of a drinker. Not like she’s a judgemental teetotaler but I guess she just isn’t interested. There are usually other guests, too, and it’s always very warm and friendly and cordial. My best story of being at their house is ….. I think it was after the Superbowl and I KNEW I couldn’t drive home and everyone else had gone so they offered me their guest room. I woke up in the middle of the night and it was pitch black. I didn’t know where I was but could just SENSE that I wasn’t in my own bed, in my own bedroom. The sheets were just *different* and the smell was *different* and I was in that purgatorial place where I was still drunk but the itchy edge of a hangover was brushing against my brain and I had to pee but it was dark and I was lost. And confused. And I went to the closet door and opened it and didn’t understand why it wasn’t leading me to a hallway. So I fell back on the bed and lay there wondering where the fuck I was and thinking: I’ve died and gone to hell. This is hell. I’m in hell. Hell! Then I passed back into sleep and woke to a bright day and a totally different sort of hell. A fully matured hangover. It wasn’t late in the day….. I mean, no matter how miserable I feel I always rise with the sun, but I had to go to the primary school to read to my kids so I NEEDED to put myself together. This time, I found the correct door, went out and took the very much-needed bathroom break. Adam and Nari had not yet risen and, it being Monday and their regularly-scheduled day off, probably wouldn’t. So I found some paper and left them a thank you note for their hospitality.

You know how you see some people coming and you say, “Thank god!”? Adam and Nari ARE those people.

They’re getting married in June and I’m very happy for them and very much looking forward to the event!

These are some of my friends.

Peter, thank you for being a great guy and a great boss! You make work a joy, not a toil, and you surprise us with pizza! Thank you! For future reference, I don’t really care for bell peppers, and I prefer the hand-tossed crust.

Brian