Tag Archives: friends

Guerilla Art Fair

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Something happened to me today that has happened to me an alarming amount of times in my life. It’s difficult to explain.

But first, the context: thanks to the vacation calculator on my HR platform, I discovered that I had to use up sixty hours of vacation before the end of the year or risk losing it forever. I don’t really want to go anywhere right now, and I don’t have that much money. I do however, have some intimate friends I love to see, so I came out to Colorado to see one. Another reason I decided to come here was my sister is here, and I have presents.

For breakfast my first day, I sat down in a greasy spoon diner, the kind you have to go out west to find. The waitress called me honey when she took my order. She engaged in a loud and animated conversation with a fellow waitress about menopause. Later, the second waitress yelled into the kitchen, “Hey, Pablo! You know Men at Work? The band! Liz and I are going to see them next weekend. The band!”

I ordered chicken fried steak with two eggs over-easy, wheat toast, and hash browns. It was delicious.

Emilie and I hung out on the couch my first day, until we moved to a coffee shop called Corvus. She informed me that Corvus offered a class in pour-over coffee for sixty dollars. While I formulated an opinion on that, my mouth delivered a standard disclaimer, “Look, I don’t want to judge …” I paused because my brain hadn’t caught up yet. Emily’s latte evacuated her face through her nose, and she laughed hysterically.

This is a very relaxed vacation. This is why I came here as opposed to New York.

Today, after a walk in one of Denver’s many beautiful parks, Emilie found me an art supply store. Because it opened at noon, we stopped at the best coffee bar in Colorado, apparently, and were greeted by the world’s most eager barista. When he finished my smoothie, he turned and asked me, quivering with joy, if I wanted whipped cream on my berry smoothie. I considered it and decided no. He accepted my choice with a shrug and a grin. Our drinks were made with two pumps of sincerity, and you could really taste it.

After another stop in a park, it was noon, and we drove out to the shopping center where a large, flat building, covered in colors, waited. And this when I entered familiar territory. For some reason, I don’t know why, I tend to wander into art galleries when I’m not expecting it. There are worse Eldritch horrors than “Suddenly: art!”; but you can’t deny it’s weird.

There were five galleries, with names like “Edge” and “Core,” and they each had their own approach to art. One gallery was full of parasols. Another had tiny little pieces, another had vast, geometric canvases. There were sculptures, collages, paintings, jewelry. One place had merch, including stickers, but they were all of babies wearing dark costumes, so I passed.

I started conversations with two attendants, which is not like me at all. All of the galleries are different, but most of them were co-ops. That meant all of the attendants were artists, and they had a lot of insight in the process. One of the attendants even encouraged us to play with his sculpture.

There was another gallery/tattoo artist in the complex, but they were closed. There was also a store, called “POP Culture,” that I investigated, only to find it was a Funko Pop store. Wall-to-wall Funko Pops. I fled. Funko Pops are an invasive species, and they appear where they are not invited.

Maybe one day I’ll understand how art just kind of sneaks up on me, but until then, I might as well see what it has to say.

It’s Time to Play the Music

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When I was a teenager, I was into community theater. Don’t come for me. It was fun, it was goofy, and I met a lot of very effusive people. I tried to act, but I could not project, as I learned from the Gallup Independent’s review, in which the reviewer couldn’t understand me. I reacted to that in a rational, logical, well-thought-out way: I quit acting forever.

I still wanted to hang out, so I worked behind the scenes, building things, getting props ready, rearranging the scenery. I met some great people, including the woman who introduced me to Terry Pratchett and knitted me a Doctor Who scarf. There was the woman who used the bag my dinner was in as an ashtray. She later became one of my favorite English teachers.

As I grew older and more cynical, I got real judgy. Community theater was for people who couldn’t make it in a real theater (though you’d be hard pressed to find a real theater in Western New Mexico). They’re a bunch of hilarious narcissists. They have no idea how dumb they look. I could pick community theater people out of a crowd. They are so much more expressive and shameless and sincere and silly and genuinely fun than us latte-sipping serious people.

Even as I grew to value sincerity, I still continued to mock, out of affection now, the same way I make fun of writers, people who love The Matrix, people named Jeremiah, and so on.

I don’t have a lot of time for people with my busy schedule of writing and drawing at all hours, but I realized I was ready to make time. I’m not an unpleasant person, but I’m also afflicted with the kind of shy I haven’t experienced since high school. I’m also middle-aged, and adult men have a really hard time making new friends as they get older.

My therapist recommended the St. Mark’s players. I remembered what it was like as a teenager, so I sent them an email. They told me that they were opening a show that weekend, but I could volunteer to be an usher until they started looking for people for their next show.

They didn’t need ushers. At all. I’ll explain in a minute.

When I arrived, the door was locked. People started showing up, unable to get inside. They were all laughing and joking and not letting it get them down, and not one of them saw me. I was completely invisible.

The door opened, and the staff showed up to tell me what to do. The man taking tickets was a tiny, older bald man with a beard trimmed by a straight razor. He was charming, and he wore a three-piece suit. The lady was also charming. She fussed like a Jewish mother, and she showed me how to use the credit card machine, which is so intuitive, Oscar could use it. There were no programs, only the world’s largest QR code.

I didn’t need to be there. The venue seats thirty, and it’s free seating. The chairs are right next to the door, which is wide open when the house is, so basically, all I did was stand around and chat with the lady and gentleman. (I didn’t get their name because I have Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.) There was also Fiona, the house manager. She was interesting, startlingly pretty, and she was invisible if you looked at her from the side.

I discovered that it was the cast who had ignored me. The crew, while not particularly interested in a volunteer usher (who can blame them?), were friendly. I met the stage-manager while he was filling liquor bottles with iced tea. (Some people think this is how John Belushi survived chugging a quart of whisky in Animal House. On the other hand, it is John Belushi.) I haggled the price of the last Snickers bar with the light guy, and I was barely registered by the intense producer who was probably an extra in The Sopranos.

How was the play? It was called The Birthday Party. There was no author named on the marquee. It’s a two-act play, with the first act taking up three-quarters of the two-hour runtime. Up front, I’m going to tell you that the acting was amazing. The set and the scenery were perfect. The blocking was engaging, and in only one scene did I feel it was lacking. The director put together a really great production.

And I did not understand a thing that happened on that stage. There were six characters, and most of them spoke with English accents. One of the characters was Irish, but he spoke in an American accent. One of the characters was an asshole, but he was also having a depressive episode, so I wanted to punch him and give him a hug (like I said, the acting was amazing). At one point, the Irish-American and the Posh English guys in suits one took turns shouting nonsense directly into the ear of the depressed asshole.

(My favorite character was the wife. The performer was an attractive woman, but she played her part like Monty Python in drag.)

All in all, it was a good experience. I don’t get out of my comfort zone a lot, but I am gratified every time I do.

The Furminator

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“Listen. And understand. That cat is out there. He can’t be bargained with. He can’t be reasoned with. He doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And he absolutely will not stop, ever, until the birdie-on-a-stick is dead.”

In another regeneration, I went out a lot with my friends. Sometimes it was with one friend (Hugh or Mark) or it was a salon of drunken idiots (Rita) or it was rock and roll (Satanicide). Even though I was depressed, I cherished my adventures, and every Sunday, during my downtime at The Post, I summed them up and sent them out to a select group of friends who hadn’t yet told me to stop sending them.

I’m at an age where I stop telling people how old I am and start rounding up. My ex got custody of almost all of my friends in the divorce, and all of my hobbies are solitary, so I don’t have as many adventures anymore. That said, three big things happened to me Monday and Tuesday, and I’m going to report them to you.

First, Oscar is growing up to be a cat, where before he looked like a black ferret. He’s a teenager now, so all he wants to do is play, and when he’s not trying to convince me it’s dinnertime, he’s bugging me to get the birdie-on-a-stick and wave it in his face. He’s sweet, but I have a job.

One of my favorite things to do with Newcastle was take him outside to explore our backyard. One of my favorite things to do with Henry was put him in a harness and take him for a walk. I bought Oscar a harness, and a backpack so I could go for walks with him. It stressed him out, but if he could get used to it, he might have a good time.

Monday, I got him into his harness, which is hard because he’s coated with a thin layer of butter, loaded him in his backpack, and walked the three blocks to find the only open area of grass in my neighborhood.

I opened up the backpack, and he very slowly made his way out, saw me, and freaked out. He squeezed out of the harness and ran straight into traffic. I ran right after him, kicking off my flip-flops in the street, and I didn’t care if I got hit by a car, as long as Oscar got to safety. You’re not going to believe what happened next.

All four lanes of traffic stopped to let us make it across. I was expecting to watch Oscar die, but the asshole drivers of DC had our backs. I chased him through three backyards until he tried to hide under a hosta, and I scruffed him and brought him home. Because flip-flops are flat, you can’t tell they got run over.

That was Monday.

I love my job, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t fray my nerves. Between ending my day with that and public transit (still better than driving), I don’t want to have to deal with the nuisance of our concierge only being at the desk 50 percent of the time. So when I pick up any packages that come in for me, I tend to pick them up after I get out of the shower. Don’t worry, I dress first.

At 4:30 this morning, I picked up a package from Missouri and just assumed it was the carved owl I just bought for my owl shrine. It was not. With Oscar’s supervision, I opened the box to find another box, and in that box was this mug:

I did not order this mug. In the mug was a business card for a potter who lived in Florida, along with something that looked like a bookmark. On the back was a lovely note thanking me (yes, me—it said “Dear Jeremiah) for the letter I’d sent years ago and how moved they were. Life was happening, so they hadn’t replied, but they sent the mug as a token of appreciation. Signed, “William Pona tawa sina.”

I had no idea who the holy hell this was. I did not remember writing that letter years ago, and I didn’t know a William who made pottery. I visited the website and found out that’s a luxury mug. The clues clicked into place. It wasn’t the potter, it was one of my college roommates, Will. He lives in Missouri. I sent him an essay I’d written about him two years ago, and I’d never heard back.

I figured it out, but I didn’t figure it out in time to stop me from sending a polite email to the potter thanking him for the gift and expressing joy that my words touched him so much, as if I knew him.

That squared away, I had one last detail to attend to. What the hell is “Pona tawa sina”? I looked it up, only raising more questions. Pona tawa sina is from a language called Toki Pona, which was invented in 2001 and bridges the gap between all languages. Kind of like Esperanto, only less baffling. Pona tawa sina literally means “goodness toward you.” It’s a way of saying goodbye or thank you.

That was before work. When I arrived, there was a surprise waiting.

One of the many, many perks of my job is that we get stretch breaks lunchtime Wednesday and Thursday. When I started eating at my desk a year ago, the stretch instructor was Katja, a young, slim, petite, cute-as-a-button person with a pink pixie cut and a lot of energy. Katja was recently replaced with Hali, a young, slim, petite, cute-as-a-button person with a pink pixie cut and a lot of energy.

I hang drawings of Newcastle, Oscar, myself, and other pictures I’ve done, practically daring people to ask me about it. Hali took my dare, and I found out they were a bit of an artist themselves. They’re just learning about watercolors and painting around town, so the next day, I brought them my retired brushes, the cool travel set I’d purchased in Doha. There’s nothing wrong with them, I’ve just traded up. They’ve been occupying a small space in my art drawer, and I wasn’t going to throw them away. Now they have a loving home.

There was a thank you card on my desk when I got to work this morning. Hali wanted to tell me how important those brushes were to them, and they could not wait to take them out for a spin. They have an Etsy store, and I bought some stickers.

I’ve become such a hermit, it’s hard to imagine that I am having any sort of impact in this world. And yet today, the first thing that happened to me today was someone making sure I understood I had affected them, twice. Maybe I was wrong about my impact.

Trapped in Amber

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I’ve been thinking lately about perfect moments. There those events in your history that aren’t weighed down by the stresses of life. You can start your day anxious and cranky, and you could end your day depressed and disappointed, but in the middle, time stands still, and everything is as it should be. I’m almost fifty, and I have so many.

I can remember with clarity my first kiss (in the back of a GATE van, fist-bump), even if I can’t remember the reason we were in Albuquerque, or the fact that I figured out shortly after that I didn’t even like this person. I can recall what she was wearing, and the fact that she had to make the first move before I noticed.

I remember walking by a canal in Florida with my parents, who were married forty-four years by this point and were still holding hands. I recall the yellow-green of the grass, the fence to the left, and trees in the near distance.

I remember Newcastle chasing me through the apartment until I jumped onto the bed, and he joined me, and we snuggled together on the green sheets.

There’s so many.

I have a favorite. It’s stuck with me for over twenty years because it was perfect. It’s an unremarkable moment, and I feel safe in assuming that all of my friends, including Facebook friends, experience this. There was something about this time, though, that didn’t fade.

In January or February, 2003, I had spent the night at my girlfriend’s apartment. We had known each other as long as we’d lived in New York, but we were still in our honeymoon period. Work beckoned us, so we bundled up and walked to my subway station in the cold and snow, surrounded by drifts of dirty ice. She lived on 210th Street, so the trains were all elevated, so we hid from the precipitation under the tracks, with the painted girders. Casually, she kissed me goodbye before heading off to her own train.

And that’s it. That is the moment that sticks out to me the most. I remember the black belt of her black coat and her debutante gloves. I remember the leopard print lining of her hat. I remember her hand on my heart, a gesture she made a lot with me. I remember that it was the most natural thing in the world.

She had kissed me goodbye before, but something had changed. This time I felt like I was an important part of her life, not just some guy. She seemed a little more relaxed. And for the first time, I felt like I was good enough for her. She and I had dated twice before this, and we felt hopeful that the third time would be a charm. There was a lot of hope in that kiss. We were really good friends, even before we started dating (again), so there was comfort.

The third time was not a charm. A few months later, I had a depressive episode and broke up with her over the phone. We stayed friends, though not as close as before, and then we became really close again long-distance. Unfortunately, I was cut off from most of my friends during my marriage, so we drifted apart, and our current lives are about as opposite they can get. I don’t expect she even remembers this because it was so mundane. It was my moment.

Why is this my favorite memory? I think it was the intimacy of it.

So many lifetimes later, I will always have that moment, that kiss in the snow, when everything was perfect.

With a Single Step

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I have a lot of vestigial dates on my calendar. For example, September 13 will always be the birthday of my ex, Andrea. I make a note of it every year, despite that she will never speak to me again. May 7, the day after my dad’s birthday, belongs to a high school best friend who grew up to be odious. These are people I no longer have a relationship with. But that’s the past. On the rare occasion I make a new friend, I can’t remember when they were born.

Other dates that have no relevance for me are April 30, which is my wedding anniversary. December 13 is when she served me divorce papers. Her birthday is March 23, but I can safely say that I haven’t noticed it the last five times that day has passed. August 22 (today!) is the twentieth anniversary of when I left New York.

In 2004, I was miserable a good half-to-two-thirds of the time. This was mostly because of my untreated, undiagnosed mental illness, and also, I was really lonely. Kate was the solution to this because she was, at the time, my soul mate, and she was opening her home to me. The resulting adventure was epic.

Was it a good decision? Well, Kate treated me like her property. She convinced me that all my friends were insane and that the only ones I could trust were hers, all of whom turned their backs on me following the split. (Some of them pretended to be “neutral” while actually being Team Kate. These are the people I think the least of.). She convinced my doctors and me that I was incompetent and couldn’t take care of myself. She tried to create a rift between myself and my family.

On the other hand, she was the biggest cheerleader of my art. She bought me supplies I still use and encouraged me to start my own art business. (She wanted to make greeting cards, which I did not enjoy.) She hired me a personal trainer, and for five years, I was in great shape. (You can’t tell by looking at me now that I used to run 5Ks for fun.) Most importantly, she was a champion of my mental health, and the only reason I can function at all is because of her.

In addition, she turned me into a Mac person, she expanded my flavor palette, she took me around the world, she taught me to be more financially responsible. She brought Newcastle and me together. I dressed better when I was married. I feel like I was more of an adult back then, even compared to now.

I honestly think that leaving New York twenty years ago was the best decision I could have made at that point of my life. It was when I took the first step to being an adult. It was when I packed up and chased true love. It was when I was brave. That’s why I remember August 22 every year.

The Oscar for Best Kitty

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As anti-Woke comedian Jerry Seinfeld would say, “What is the deal with Oscar?” Since I think a few people might be interested, I decided to fill you in.

I used to have a cat named Magik. When Magik was a kitten, there was a mishap, and he didn’t get fed for two days. Magik, as a result, was food insecure. He ate each meal like he was preparing for a famine. Since Oscar was starving when Nicole rescued him, I was concerned that he was going to overeat and be a roly-poly like Magik was.

Luckily, he has different ideas. He used to try to steal the food out of my hand, no matter the cuisine. Now he has no interest in human food, except for meat sticks, and even then, he spits out the teriyaki. Original flavor only. That, the wet food, and a little bit of dry food are the only things he eats now, which is a huge relief. If he started getting chubby, I was going to have to start saying no.

Oscar has grown. Again, when Nicole found him, he was starving. The vet couldn’t give me an estimate of his age because of the damage. But he’s all repaired, and now he’s starting to become a cat. I mean, I knew he was a cat this whole time, but he had the build of a ferret and an unnaturally long tale. Now he’s starting to fill out, and his coat’s growing in.  

His favorite perch is my shoulders. Despite having claw marks (through clothes) all over my back and arms from him making himself comfortable, I really love having him there. Of course, that means I have to stand until he gets bored. Also, he’ll hop up on the bathroom counter while I’m getting ready for a shower, and his eyes will start to focus on my deltoid muscle, and I have to intervene before I pass out from the blood loss. He bit my shoulder as he settled in, but he suddenly stopped, as cats are wont to do.

I still haven’t told management I have a cat.

Even though there’s a heat wave (otherwise known as An Average Summer in DC) right now, I’ve been opening the window so he can experience the outdoors. I’m pretty concerned that he’s going to get bored. I have a very small studio, and he’s already explored every corner. He becomes a fuzz-saw when I put him into his harness, and when it’s on, his legs don’t work. So no walks.

He is constantly begging me to play, and I try to keep up with him, but that kid’s got a lot of energy. I have to tell him, Dad is very old, and his elbow has been giving him problems. His favorite toy is the long, skinny ribbon someone left in the hallway (Exhibit A). As you can see from Exhibit B, it’s the most stylish toy any cat has.

I still miss Newcastle. I’ll remember how happy he was exploring the backyard, and it doesn’t make me sad, for the most part. Sometimes a memory will drag me to tears, though. It’s not because Oscar isn’t a good cat. Oscar is a great, well-behaved cat. But he can’t replace Newcastle.

I love having the little guy around. He’s a great lap cat, and he’s always so excited to see me when I get home. He’s a talker, but at his high pitch, it sounds more like singing. He tends to stick close to me, even if he’s mad about something. His favorite place to play is on my bed, so he’s starting to shred my comforter. He hasn’t settled into routines, so he’s unpredictable, and that is exciting.

I could go on for pages, just rest assured that Oscar is getting spoiled, and so is his dad.

Lovely Rita

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When terrorists crashed planes into the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, they inadvertently brought Rita and me together. You have to look on the bright side.

Basically, a high percentage of a tribe of friends in Brooklyn were born in September, so they couldn’t celebrate their birthdays that ear. One of them said “Screw that, we’re celebrating!” and threw what we would now call a rager. My girlfriend’s thirtieth was September 13, so we damned well went. She and I were at a point in our relationship where we were just fine not hanging out, so I partied like I did all my life by smoking cigarettes outside and letting people come to me.

The people I met that night were largely forgettable, except for a pair who came out kind of early with their manly Camels. They were like anime characters—the duo who look almost exactly alike, but one has platinum blonde hair, and the other is a dark, dark brunette. They introduced themselves as Anne Marie and Rita, respectively. I’m pretty sure one of them dropped a bullfrog reference on me, but Rita felt my pain because of the goddamned Beatles.

Rita and Anne Marie were, to be clear, really cute, and I was feeling like Mr. Charm by keeping their attention. Eventually, I became comfortable enough that I opened my wallet, took out the only money I had, and said, “I’ll give you five dollars if you make out.” They said no. “What can I get for five dollars?” They shook hands and took my money.

I probably never would have seen them again were it not for a friend from Nebraska. I had always thought of her and her husband as a unit, but she called to tell me they were getting divorced. I had never been through a friend’s divorce before, and I didn’t have any friends who might tell me what it’s like, so I tracked down Rita, who had described the nightmare of her own divorce in vivid detail.

Also, she and Anne Marie were really cool, and I wanted to hang out again.

Rita and I met at the International Bar, on First Street in Manhattan, between Second and Third. I haven’t been to New York in ten years, but it was still there then. It’s the kind of place you assume has multiple health- and building-code violations. Their bathrooms are single stall, without the space for a sink. It was there, outside, in full view of the entire bar, so if you didn’t wash your hands, we knew. They only served beer in bottles, and the only beer that didn’t taste like watered-down yak piss was Amstel Light. Rita answered my questions, and we became instant friends.

Rita is (still) thin, not as in skinny, but as in lean. One look, and you know she’s as affectionate as a housecat, but she is fully capable of clawing your eyes out if you do the wrong thing. Her eyes are as dark as her hair, and she does his goofy head bop when she listens to cool music.

Whenever I hung out with Rita, it was either one-on-one at the International Bar or we’d go to a larger bar to house the Group. The Group was kind of like a French-style salon. We were vulgar and talked a lot of dumb shit, but we also discussed politics and philosophy until we could drink no more. The group had a rotating cast, and they all had one thing in common: they all were really cool, even the dorky ones.

Did that mean I was at least kind of cool? I did introduce the group to a catchphrase. When someone mildly annoys you, you say in a flat tone of voice, “I never liked you.” We were independently fans of the same hiphoppunkfunkmamboska band. I played a crucial part in one guy’s trip-hop remix of our bar conversations. I kept getting invited back. It’s not like they didn’t know how much of a nerd I was—Rita and I had a sleepover the day I watched my beloved Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man.

Rita had a pet iguana. I do not remember the iguana’s name. I have asked Rita four times for the iguana’s name, and I have forgotten it four times. Next time I ask, she’s going to tattoo it on my arm. On Spider-Man day, I discovered that she had inherited some birds from an aunt (?) and kept them in a cage in her kitchen. She would never hurt them, but if they suddenly fell over dead, she would not be sad.

That was the first half of 2002. After June, we didn’t see each other as much, mostly because I started hanging out with different friends, who I had just met. However, after I bought a leather pea coat and took on the alter ego of Jack Murphy, cop on the edge, she started calling me Jackass Murphy because the true duty of your friend is to take the wind out of your sails.

She came to Jersey City for my going away party in 2004. My ex-wife told me afterward that she had said something mean to one of her friends. This only was the first time my ex would try to distance me from one of my people, but unlike the later times, she did not succeed. This time, I just didn’t believe it. Rita could get very angry, but she was never cruel. I assumed my ex’s friend had misheard something.

Seven years later, I wanted to honor the tenth anniversary of September 11 by making it a celebration of life. What I made it was the celebration of friends. I split the day three separate ways with three friends, each reminding me of an aspect of New York I treasured. Rita was the ability to start a new story, whenever you want. We went for a run in Central Park, we had dinner, and I played with her oldest kid.

Rita told me that, on September 10, 2001, she was shackled to a cubicle during the week and in a dehumanizing marriage. By the time I’d met her, she had gotten rid of both. She swore she’d never marry again, and she was never working in an office again. She hasn’t, twenty-three years and two kids later. It’s one of the things I admire about her.

I’ve always been a bit of a hermit, but for a while there, I was surrounded by people who wanted to hear my thoughts on a subject. They wanted me to tell a joke. Even though I make Obi-Wan Kenobi look like the wedding crashers these days, I did manage to captivate a small crowd on New Year’s Eve. I’d changed my story, and I don’t think I would have done that if not for her.  

Happy Birthday, Rita!

Oscar Update

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I’ve had Oscar for three weeks, and for a third of that, I called him Potato. He is permanent part of my household now, and I keep “forgetting” to tell management so they can charge me pet rent. He’s always excited to see me when I get home, which means a lot.

He’s put on some weight, and his coat is starting to fluff up. He’s going to look exactly like Newcastle in a year, which is great because I won’t have to change my phone’s wallpaper. It’s really bothering me, though. I don’t want another Newcastle. Last week, I was spacing out with Oscar in my arms, and when I came back, I thought he was Newcastle for a minute. I wasn’t upset, though. I wasn’t disappointed to see Oscar in my arms, and I got to spend another minute with Newcastle. But I still don’t feel like I’ve had enough time to grieve.

Oscar felt like my cat when his collar was delivered, and I put it on while he fought and squirmed. It’s orange because that’s my favorite color, and he likes to direct traffic. I took out Newcastle’s automatic feeder when I had to return to the office because my non-profit’s loose work-at-home policy made it possible to have paternity leave without having to use up sick leave, and I had a whole week at home with him.

He trusted me right away, which is an honor, especially from a former stray. With the exception of meals and when he sleeps in my laundry basket, he needs to be around me at all times. This is great because he’s soft and warm, like a predatory tribble, but it’s hard to do art at home. I can work or look at my proofs by stretching and twisting, but sketchpad is out.

Today, he discovered paleo meat sticks. He’s really pushy when it comes to my food, especially cinnamon rolls, but this cat would have straight-up murdered me if I didn’t give him a piece fast enough. Because I could not give him a piece fast enough, he bit my thumb, and he’s got alligator jaws. Teriyaki flavored is his favorite.

Skin-on-skin touch releases hormones that your brain needs to function properly. Sucks for me because I’m touch-averse (though I won’t say no to a hug every now and again). The good news is that petting your pet counts as skin-on-skin touch. I needed Oscar. I still miss the last guy so much it hurts, but I’ve fallen in love with this hairy little goofball, and I’m really grateful to have him draped over my legs like a heavy scarf as I type this.

Also, he’s a jumper, unlike Newcastle. I think I’m in trouble.

An All Hallows Eve That Will Live in Infamy

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To explain to you what went wrong on Halloween night, 2003, I have to tell you about Satanicide.

If you’re an educated Satanicide fan, at some point you have had this conversation in your head: “Doesn’t –icide mean to kill? Killing Satan? They’re on God’s side? Or are they just that stupid?” You never learn the answer to that question because the band in question rocked your face off. Satanicide was a Spinal Tap style of band, i.e. comedy, but can actually rock out.

Front man, the voice, Devlin Mayhem, was played by Dale. Devlin represented hard, biker rock. His chaps even had flame-detailing on them because Dale’s girlfriend (now wife) is amazing at that kind of thing.

Aleister Cradley, played by Phil, is a glam rocker, complete with teased hair and spandex tights. Part of his joke is that he’s an f-word but doesn’t know it. In the Satanicide movie, Aleister moons over Devlin while their cover of “My Heart Will Go On” plays in the background. I thought it was funny. Other people might not. This will get me into trouble during the Halloween in question.

Satanicide goes through a lot of bassists, and their replacements are always relatives of the first one, Baron von Goaten. None of the von Goatens could speak English, and, mentally, they weren’t operating on the same world as the rest of us. Last I checked, they all wore masks to hide their Frankenstein hideousness from the world. I’m pretty sure the second Baron was my contemporary. He might have been the first. His name was Jake, and he was the sweetest guy. The von Goaten clan represents European metal, which is some weird, scary shit.

English punk was represented by Sloth Vader. One minute, he was tearing some shit up in London, and then he wakes up in a dumpster in New Jersey, so he joined a band. Griff, the English guy behind Sloth, was a big guy. He loped along like a bear. So when I tell you he routinely did stage dives on top of me, you won’t question my commitment to taking one for the band.

I first saw them because Beth invited me to a show. She did that within five minutes of meeting me, before she even asked me for my name, if I remember correctly. Since that initial concert, I don’t think I missed more than one show during my last two years in New York. Beth’s boyfriend was Dale, so we had the inside scoop. I even recommended a fragment of a song that Devlin sang at one of their concerts (“P is for pussy, that’s good enough for me!”)  

In 2003, Beth thought that it would be funny if, on Halloween, Steve and I dressed as Devlin and Aleister, respectively, and go to a Satanicide show. I thought it was a brilliant idea, but my execution was loathesome and half-assed. I wore a curly wig when Phil’s was straight. I couldn’t find exciting tights, so I wore these pants that looked like a cheetah-print pajama bottom. I wore makeup like a drag queen, thanks to Beth. Steve’s costume was on point. We were a terrible mismatch.

Right before we left Steve’s apartment to go to the bar, we had to decide if we were going to eat something for dinner or do vodka shots. We didn’t have time for both. We chose vodka shots. Later at the bar, before the concert, we did shots again, more than once. We watched the show with beers in our hands. After the show, I had a Jack and Coke.

It was in that state that I encountered Moby. That Moby. He went to high school with Beth and Steve. I called him a homophobic slur. The reason I did was because juvenile gay jokes were part of the Satanicide experience. However, this did not endear me to him. Next, I encountered Ed Helms, who was a very, very loosely defined neighbor of Dale. Ed Helms is a cool guy. On the street you will recognize him as Ed Helms, but he looks completely different than the dork that is his brand.

I sat down at the bar and ordered another drink. After I finished it, I swear there was an earthquake, and I fell off the stool. Immediately, I was escorted out of the bar. I ran into Beth and Steve outside, having a cigarette, and we all agreed to call it a night. Beth went off on her own adventure while Steve took me home and put me on his couch.

That’s where I proceeded to puke all night, like young Regan on The Exorcist. That was not the worst part. The worst part is that I tried to cover it up.

Steve missed this because he went out alone after he’d dropped me off. Later, he described himself as kind of a zombie, but one with a single-minded focus on eating a slice of Ray’s Pizza. When he arrived at the storefront, he lurched up to the counter and somehow ordered a slice, which they brought to him lickety split. As he was walking away, tasting victory in the mozzarella and sweet tomato sauce, he noticed the long line he had just cut in front of.

Beth went to sleep on the sidewalk somewhere.

I don’t know what happened to Moby.

Steve and I never spoke of how I befouled his couch.

While Beth agrees that the night was pretty horrible, she can’t stop talking about it. She treats it like it’s a warning tale for the youths.

I had a hangover for days. I didn’t quit drinking until 2007, but when I was coming up with reasons to stop, Halloween 2003 was Exhibit A.

Meet Potato

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Meet Potato. Potato is his placeholder name. It’s short for Hot Potato. We’re not even sure if he is a he, but I’m going to keep calling him a him until the vet tells me otherwise.

Last night, Nicole and her boyfriend happened upon a young cat licking a Reese’s wrapper, and they thought it looked skinny and really hungry. They fed him, but they didn’t want to mix him with Henry because what if he had worms? Or leukemia? Or HIV? So they brought him to me until we can find him foster care and perhaps a home. He’s already made himself at home.

He’s a real sweetheart, but he’s skin and bones. He’s eating, but after the initial feast last night, be doesn’t have a lot of interest in food. He slept peacefully on my bed all night.

He’s good company, and it’s been a while since I’ve been able to pet a cat.

He also likes to read what I’m writing about him.

I don’t know if I can live with a cat who’s not Newcastle. He looks like Newcastle did at his age (I’m going to say from nine-twelve months), but I’m trying not to let that affect me. I’ve enjoyed hosting Potato, though, and as long as he’s well-behaved, he’s welcome to stay.