Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Old friends
Just coming in from New York last week, I checked the messages on my land line. The message was:
Dear God, you could have knocked me over with a feather.
For those who don’t know TJ was my roommate my senior and his freshman year of undergrad at UIC. My first impressions of this living situation were not good: I walked into a room with a cheeseburger sitting out on the desk, Icehouse boxes taped to the wall as décor, a lot of metal music and the door wide open with nobody in it.
Of course by the end of the semester we were each other’s most trusted friends. And that's bot sarcasm.
Why shouldn’t we have been? Though there was a superficial divide between the gay and straight thing, we shared a firm value in friendship, and --most importantly -- a love for a raging party and debauched time, the ties that bind. It was the most unlikely friendship ever.
Over the years I've though of him from time to time and would have liked to catch up, but haven't been able to find his contact information. (I wasn't sure how or why we ended up loosing touch but once I move from Chicago, we simply lost eachother's information.) But here he was, looking me up after all these years – it’s been about 8 years since we’ve even spoke. I guess it's the force of destiny.
We were able to hang out over the weekend; I was able to meet his very cool fiancée, down the hooch like old times as though not a day passed. But, dear God, a long time has passed: the last time I saw him he was 18!
Hey, this message is for Matt. I’m not sure if I have the right number [I
still have not been able to figure out how to personalize my greeting] so if
it’s not, just delete this. If it is: hey man, this is TJ, your old
college roommate.
Dear God, you could have knocked me over with a feather.
For those who don’t know TJ was my roommate my senior and his freshman year of undergrad at UIC. My first impressions of this living situation were not good: I walked into a room with a cheeseburger sitting out on the desk, Icehouse boxes taped to the wall as décor, a lot of metal music and the door wide open with nobody in it.
Of course by the end of the semester we were each other’s most trusted friends. And that's bot sarcasm.
Why shouldn’t we have been? Though there was a superficial divide between the gay and straight thing, we shared a firm value in friendship, and --most importantly -- a love for a raging party and debauched time, the ties that bind. It was the most unlikely friendship ever.
Over the years I've though of him from time to time and would have liked to catch up, but haven't been able to find his contact information. (I wasn't sure how or why we ended up loosing touch but once I move from Chicago, we simply lost eachother's information.) But here he was, looking me up after all these years – it’s been about 8 years since we’ve even spoke. I guess it's the force of destiny.
We were able to hang out over the weekend; I was able to meet his very cool fiancée, down the hooch like old times as though not a day passed. But, dear God, a long time has passed: the last time I saw him he was 18!
Thursday, May 26, 2005
OBTW: I actually broke down and got a TV last week. . . . AND cable!
Now that's progress.
Now that's progress.
New York
Boy, it’s been a while since I’ve blogged. (This is because my computer is in the bedroom, which doesn’t have an internet connection, and I’m too lazy to bring it out to the living room to plug it in.) Last weekend I was in New York to visit Rob. I know what you’re thinking “Brace yourselves”.
Of course I caught something at the Met. They have a “dream team” cast in Faust this season along with a new production, so I indulged in a box seat (you don’t want to know how much that set me back). The performance was glorious.
Faust was one of my favorite operas, and also one of the first I’d ever seen at the Met. At that first performance I was talking to a lady I standing room who explained that she goes to opera with her deaf girlfriend. Opera, for the deaf?! I guess it makes perfect sense: with the subtitles, someone who cannot hear can actually follow the story – unlike a Hollywood movie. (I met such interesting people in New York.)
So Rob and I met out to the Monster on Friday night. I got there before Rob and before you know it, my first skeleton came out of the closet –I don’t remember his name but he remembered everything about me (don’t you hate that). God, I really didn’t want meet anyone I knew that night. Luckily we were sitting next to two identical twins who caught his fascination (they were from South Africa) and I was eventually left to catch up with Rob once he arrived.
Saturday night we started out in Chelsea, and also tried out a new sports bar (yes, a gay sports bar in Chelsea – I give it 6 months before it’s out of business). Chelsea didn’t last that long before we longed for the Village. So we hopped into the car and blared “Ring Them Bells” a la Liza Minnelli all the way down.
The rest of the night was history, and so were we! What fun.
Sunday I was able to catch up with Sonya, a New York socialite that I used to work with there. So imagine two love-starved, jaded queens having drinks and smokes – it was a sight to behold.
Not having enough, I went out to the Townhouse afterwards to check on the piano player and sing some songs with the family.
To add to the decadence of the weekend, I was able to stay at The Algonquin for the weekend. The service was flawless, even if the room was a little small.
Ahhhh, I miss New York.
Of course I caught something at the Met. They have a “dream team” cast in Faust this season along with a new production, so I indulged in a box seat (you don’t want to know how much that set me back). The performance was glorious.
Faust was one of my favorite operas, and also one of the first I’d ever seen at the Met. At that first performance I was talking to a lady I standing room who explained that she goes to opera with her deaf girlfriend. Opera, for the deaf?! I guess it makes perfect sense: with the subtitles, someone who cannot hear can actually follow the story – unlike a Hollywood movie. (I met such interesting people in New York.)
So Rob and I met out to the Monster on Friday night. I got there before Rob and before you know it, my first skeleton came out of the closet –I don’t remember his name but he remembered everything about me (don’t you hate that). God, I really didn’t want meet anyone I knew that night. Luckily we were sitting next to two identical twins who caught his fascination (they were from South Africa) and I was eventually left to catch up with Rob once he arrived.
Saturday night we started out in Chelsea, and also tried out a new sports bar (yes, a gay sports bar in Chelsea – I give it 6 months before it’s out of business). Chelsea didn’t last that long before we longed for the Village. So we hopped into the car and blared “Ring Them Bells” a la Liza Minnelli all the way down.
The rest of the night was history, and so were we! What fun.
Sunday I was able to catch up with Sonya, a New York socialite that I used to work with there. So imagine two love-starved, jaded queens having drinks and smokes – it was a sight to behold.
Not having enough, I went out to the Townhouse afterwards to check on the piano player and sing some songs with the family.
To add to the decadence of the weekend, I was able to stay at The Algonquin for the weekend. The service was flawless, even if the room was a little small.
Ahhhh, I miss New York.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
The new job is finally picking up. After a couple of weeks of rather boring orientation and self-study, I’m finally getting out there and meeting clients, starting a project, and getting to know my colleagues. All and all, it’s good. (Hell, even if it were a complete bore, I can at least say that I’m being paid a lot more than the previous job.)
So what is this exciting new job of mine? Well, let’s see, I’m working in an industry known as “marketing analytics”, which can perhaps claim the responsibility for the annoying deluge of media that comes your way. For the time being, the project I’m training with is for a barbeque sauce manufacture. I’m doing some statistical modeling to determine how much sales their media are driving.
We are owed by a London-based media conglomerate that helps clients manage and create their brands. And, apparently, they felt it was natural to have an analytical team to test its efficacy. So we work out of our sister company’s Chicago office. The climate is a lot different then the conservative world I came from: there are radios playing, people screaming at television stations, and a pool table in the meeting room. . . . . And, oh yea, people are nice.
So what is this exciting new job of mine? Well, let’s see, I’m working in an industry known as “marketing analytics”, which can perhaps claim the responsibility for the annoying deluge of media that comes your way. For the time being, the project I’m training with is for a barbeque sauce manufacture. I’m doing some statistical modeling to determine how much sales their media are driving.
We are owed by a London-based media conglomerate that helps clients manage and create their brands. And, apparently, they felt it was natural to have an analytical team to test its efficacy. So we work out of our sister company’s Chicago office. The climate is a lot different then the conservative world I came from: there are radios playing, people screaming at television stations, and a pool table in the meeting room. . . . . And, oh yea, people are nice.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Discovering Chicago, for a second time
Last night Diggerblue invited me out for an evening at the CSO, my first –and long overdue – classical cultural experience since my return to Chicago. Having lived in New York long enough to think that everything outside of Manhattan is second rate, I had forgotten about the great institutions here: the CSO is one of the world’s great orchestras.
There was a Stravinsky piece in the program that seemed more like a tranquilizer dart than a piece of music, but the hour-long stretch of familiar, soaring Rachmaninov melodies more than made up for it. Add to this the great seats we had on the main floor in CSO’s relatively intimate hall and you had the stuff of a great evening.
In more of a Chicago style, we went out for beer afterwards in the loop (as opposed to martinis at the Algonquin) and reminisced about yesteryears (Diggerblue and I have known each other since we were 10). Needless to say, this took us a few pitchers of beer and kept us out until about 1am.
So it begins. Once the Lyric season opens in the fall I’ll be a pig in shit, and it will be my turn to shoot a tranquilizer dart Diggerblue’s way. I plan to take him to see a live opera.
There was a Stravinsky piece in the program that seemed more like a tranquilizer dart than a piece of music, but the hour-long stretch of familiar, soaring Rachmaninov melodies more than made up for it. Add to this the great seats we had on the main floor in CSO’s relatively intimate hall and you had the stuff of a great evening.
In more of a Chicago style, we went out for beer afterwards in the loop (as opposed to martinis at the Algonquin) and reminisced about yesteryears (Diggerblue and I have known each other since we were 10). Needless to say, this took us a few pitchers of beer and kept us out until about 1am.
So it begins. Once the Lyric season opens in the fall I’ll be a pig in shit, and it will be my turn to shoot a tranquilizer dart Diggerblue’s way. I plan to take him to see a live opera.
The Gym
I joined this gym close to my apartment.
Working out, for me, is a personal thing that I do for and hour and forget about for the other 23 hours of the day. The gym is also a time for me to listen to an act of a great opera and think. But this personal time has been interrupted since I moved to Chicago and started going to this gym.
Last Thursday I go to the gym and am torturing myself on these elliptical gizmos. I’m listening to music and noticing someone across the gym looking at me. He looks somewhat familiar but I dismiss him as just another face in my life.
After my workout I walk into the locker room and pass by that same guy. He stares at me and I stare at him. Finally he says “Matt?”. I stop, look at him. Do I place that (very attractive) face? I stare a little longer and we both say at the same time “it’s Kevin.”
Kevin. . .
Kevin was my first “boyfriend”, for all of two weeks, and whom I broke up with for violating my trust by kissing someone else (who would ironically become a good friend). I was 18 years old and haven’t though about him or that situation for quite some time. The memories start flooding back.
So the next thing I do is pull off an Oscar-winning performance by seeming happy to bump into him, I ask him what he’s doing with his life and all that bull shit. He give me some sappy story about a bad break up and my performance continues with me pretending to be concerned (the fucker deserves it). He gives me his number and says we should get together for coffee sometime. For some sick reason I really wanted to call him that night and catch up. But I resisted.
The next day I go into the gym and suddenly I hear: “Gosh, you’re everywhere.” My heart sinks: Kevin again. And we engage in 30 seconds of small talk until finally he just comes out and boldly says it:
“You know, I wanted to let you know this yesterday. But I wanted to say that I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”
I’m at a loss to say something intelligent but sweak out: “You don’t have to. It was, what, at least ten years ago?”
He says “No. I have to apologize. I’ve done some bad things to you, among others, and want to make good on them.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. What do you say at a moment like this? I didn’t say much. Except to remind him how long ago it was.
It was good to hear the apology, but I’ve decided I will never call.
Working out, for me, is a personal thing that I do for and hour and forget about for the other 23 hours of the day. The gym is also a time for me to listen to an act of a great opera and think. But this personal time has been interrupted since I moved to Chicago and started going to this gym.
Last Thursday I go to the gym and am torturing myself on these elliptical gizmos. I’m listening to music and noticing someone across the gym looking at me. He looks somewhat familiar but I dismiss him as just another face in my life.
After my workout I walk into the locker room and pass by that same guy. He stares at me and I stare at him. Finally he says “Matt?”. I stop, look at him. Do I place that (very attractive) face? I stare a little longer and we both say at the same time “it’s Kevin.”
Kevin. . .
Kevin was my first “boyfriend”, for all of two weeks, and whom I broke up with for violating my trust by kissing someone else (who would ironically become a good friend). I was 18 years old and haven’t though about him or that situation for quite some time. The memories start flooding back.
So the next thing I do is pull off an Oscar-winning performance by seeming happy to bump into him, I ask him what he’s doing with his life and all that bull shit. He give me some sappy story about a bad break up and my performance continues with me pretending to be concerned (the fucker deserves it). He gives me his number and says we should get together for coffee sometime. For some sick reason I really wanted to call him that night and catch up. But I resisted.
The next day I go into the gym and suddenly I hear: “Gosh, you’re everywhere.” My heart sinks: Kevin again. And we engage in 30 seconds of small talk until finally he just comes out and boldly says it:
“You know, I wanted to let you know this yesterday. But I wanted to say that I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”
I’m at a loss to say something intelligent but sweak out: “You don’t have to. It was, what, at least ten years ago?”
He says “No. I have to apologize. I’ve done some bad things to you, among others, and want to make good on them.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. What do you say at a moment like this? I didn’t say much. Except to remind him how long ago it was.
It was good to hear the apology, but I’ve decided I will never call.
