He started barking at our golden retriever as he passed us on the sidewalk.
First we looked at each other, amazed. The Golden barked. She's an old lady and easily provoked. Dogs, anyone wearing a hood, and wheels set her off. I pulled Maddy back while my husband tried to restrain our two other dogs, lest then join in the melee.
"What the f-ck are you doing? Jesus Christ. What the f-ck?" We both shouted back at him.
The man puffed out his chest and spread out his arms in some kind of macho gangsta pose. And he smiled back, self-satisfied.
I cannot imagine in what parallel universe, he seriously thought he could pull off that pose of bravado. He was tall and skinny and pale and covered in a black frock coat to his knees, where the white silk stockings took over. Thick, black rimmed glasses further withdrew his credibility in this stance, but the giant mink sphere on the crown of his head ruined any hope for tough guy posturing.
But he just continued his posing as he backed away from us smiling, as we shouted and herded the dogs away.
I turned to Mark, "Is it a full moon or something?"
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Old & G(r)ay - NYC, June 2007
I slipped my orthotics into the black boots I used to wear only to sex clubs, put on expensive jeans and a red “vintage” t-shirt with a white Target bullseye. It was a brilliant, sunshiny Sunday in mid-June. The temperature sweltered near ninety, as I left Bed Stuy for Chelsea, taking two subways before hobbling up 8th Avenue to 21st Street and into the Rawhide.
Feeling around at the air like some bad skit, I stumbled into the bar, blinded by pitch darkness: black walls, floors, bar, and stools. The Rawhide goes back 30 years, as do much of the clientele. We come here once a year for the proximity to Folsom East, the kitsch, and cheap drinks.
Clive called out: “Over here.” He emerged from shadow, next to the front window.
“How old do you think he is?” Clive pointed to a man outside.
“A hundred?”
“Not me, sweetheart. Him.” Clive stood up and we kissed hello.
Clive had two more years until turning forty himself. Today he sported an aging rock-a-billy look: black combat boots, white undershirt, red suspenders, with the hair on his head shaved to the length of his facial stubble.
"God bless him," said Clive. His English accent made that sound kind.
The gentleman we were discussing, stood off the curb, pretty far into the street. Scrawny and ridiculous, he was shirtless, with one hand akimbo on his hip, trying to hail a taxi. He had tanned his skin to the color and texture of a football. His ass hung deflated, gently undulating, out the rear of his black leather chaps.
"I hate getting old. Older."
(To read the full story click here.)
Feeling around at the air like some bad skit, I stumbled into the bar, blinded by pitch darkness: black walls, floors, bar, and stools. The Rawhide goes back 30 years, as do much of the clientele. We come here once a year for the proximity to Folsom East, the kitsch, and cheap drinks.
Clive called out: “Over here.” He emerged from shadow, next to the front window.
“How old do you think he is?” Clive pointed to a man outside.
“A hundred?”
“Not me, sweetheart. Him.” Clive stood up and we kissed hello.
Clive had two more years until turning forty himself. Today he sported an aging rock-a-billy look: black combat boots, white undershirt, red suspenders, with the hair on his head shaved to the length of his facial stubble.
"God bless him," said Clive. His English accent made that sound kind.
The gentleman we were discussing, stood off the curb, pretty far into the street. Scrawny and ridiculous, he was shirtless, with one hand akimbo on his hip, trying to hail a taxi. He had tanned his skin to the color and texture of a football. His ass hung deflated, gently undulating, out the rear of his black leather chaps.
"I hate getting old. Older."
(To read the full story click here.)
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Epiphany
Friend: You look tired.
Me: Shit. I don't mind being tired, but I don't like looking tired. I wish I knew of some procedure to get rid of the dark under my eyes.
Friend: There is. It's called 10 days someplace warm, away from your blackberry.
Me: Oh. Right.
Me: Shit. I don't mind being tired, but I don't like looking tired. I wish I knew of some procedure to get rid of the dark under my eyes.
Friend: There is. It's called 10 days someplace warm, away from your blackberry.
Me: Oh. Right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
