Today at work I played Depeche Mode during a long line for a theater show. I told one of my friends in line, “This is why they made Rambo.” I don’t know if it was funny. There was an old woman who interrupted the work flow with a loud, “Turn this off right now!” She did not care for Depeche Mode. Her opinion reinforced with spit as she yelled. I laughed. After work I stopped for a burrito. I received an email. It was not a good one. My friend from school has passed away. I remember when I first met him. We were in gym class. He was behind me in line. We were in line to do pull ups. He was charming from the start. He said, “There isn’t any way we can get out of this waste of time, is there?” We discovered that we both played drums. He said that we should knock his drums around one day, and I actually went over his house. He was all about John Bonham, and I was all about Neil Peart. (I really should’ve stuck with Larry Mullen Jr.) He offered me little Debbie treats. He purposefully gave me a moldy one, to see how long it would take for me to speak up. It was a good prank. I was awkward, and that hasn’t changed. Later in years I ran into him here in NYC. We had some really great talks. He hadn’t changed. He was a blast like back then. We fell out of touch again. And then I got that email. Struck me hard. So per usual, I went to the drag show on Monday nights. I had quite a bit of drinks during the show. On the way home, I saw a girl passed out in the subway station. I woke her up and told her that if she wanted to catch the train, the next one was coming. She just stared forwards, and didn’t move. Felt weird as the train left, seeing her still sitting there not moving. When I was walking and almost home, there was a man with no legs in a wheel chair on the corner. He asked me to push him across the street. I asked him what he was doing out here at 3 in the morning. He said that he needed to get to the store. I started pushing him across the street. Then I pushed him down the block away from where I live. I immediately noticed how bad he smelled. Then I thought that this must be some crazy guy, and who knows where he’s headed. (I remembered how my Sunday school/drum teacher used to bring me to his house to play drums; but he would always take a woman in a wheel chair around the neighborhood to get her out of her house. I remember he told me, “this is what it’s about, not all about your rock star ideas.”) But then this didn’t all add up to me. I thought that this David Lynch life that I have is taking its toll. The guy told me that I was going too fast. I kept asking him what he was doing out at 3 am. I got him a couple blocks, then started to feel like something’s not right. I told him that’s as far as I can go. He was calling me a mother fucker as I walked away. I looked back and watched him push himself on. I told myself I always think that I can’t take anymore, but that’s never the case. I don’t want to tell myself that anymore. I keep getting stronger, so that’s what I’m going to do! When I got home I told my roommate Sam about it. He started laughing and told me that this guy was out there seven hours ago. Said that he needed to get to the store. I guess all those feelings were for nothing. Haha. I am doomed to wander forever as a lost David Lynch character on nights in search of a moon.
Archive for April, 2014
I am the dark side of my father. I order all the drinks. I wear the dark mess of beauty. Gender fuck a definite yes. I am the dark extension of my father. I travel and play drums. Like his big band and jazz favorites, I travel and move the people with my beats. I don’t take orders or instructions from people of the church. My father locks up the church at night. I find a new meaning of existence in black tights. I am the darkness my father never wanted to accept. I dance with drag queens. I understand what my cat is saying in candle light. I answer to no one.
I’m in a fire. Fear of hell is on the hour. If he of she wants me, it is painfully debated. A war inside. The eyes burn at me. From across the bar. I smile. Put down another drink. The feel of grip tape of a drum stick. My hand wants more. Earlier, destroying what we know as drums. Did you ask for a beat? I’ve got it covered. Yes, I recorded tonight. Yes, you gave me your number. Be a mother fucking peacock, man. Live your dream. I remember his green wig. I remember the other’s mesh top. I can summon the memories of fog surrounding me in my drums. The sticks in my hands. The pounding of the snare drum. Waiting for the train home. Thinking of you putting your make up on. The sound of your voice. He wants to tease me. John Waters movies on all the screens. The lights of the city while on the Q train. My black tights. Jesus on the cross, half naked, tortured, believers up in arms about violence. I run along the east side of New York. I do sit ups, drum rudiments, every morning before I make espresso drinks for people. I’ll never get tired. Another shot of whiskey. Yeah, I miss you. I’m not going to lie. These drums are going to speak to you like you’ve never been spoken to before.