Up On The Roof
“When this ol’ world starts getting me down…”
Not feeling very wordy lately. So instead, more video experiments.
“Sounds like Blade Runner,” says Deborah.
experiment from Jamie Boud on Vimeo.
Yearly Wrap UP
Yeah, that about wraps it up.
Resolutions
My New Year’s resolution this year is to be meaner to my cats. Last night I woke up with the boy, Rory, sleeping on my pillow. And I don’t mean he was just clinging to a corner — he was sleeping dead center as if it was a special pillow purchased at a fancy pet store. Once I was awake enough to realize what was going on, I pried him loose, threw him to the foot of the bed, and reclaimed the pillow for myself. He made a sound that was half-purr, half meow, did a Yoga stretch and sauntered back to the pillow, waiting for me to settle down. Convinced I was finished fussing, he circled a few times then collapsed onto my face in a smothering ball of fur. This time, I did what I should’ve done in the first place and threw him off the bed entirely.
Although I’m describing the events of last night, I may as well be telling you about the previous night, or the night before that. One of the drawbacks of having an apartment with an open floor plan is the distinct lack of doors behind which to lock annoying pets, otherwise my resolution would be a lot easier. As it is, I still have a few details to work out.
Speaking of New Years, Deborah and I were in bed long before midnight. Deborah isn’t drinking these days and generally speaking when she stops, so do I. Instead of a bottle of champagne, we bought a bottle of sparkling pear juice and a couple of frozen pizzas. The girl at the check out counter laughed. “Better than my night,” she said. “I’m here working.”
“What time do you get off work?”
“Nine.”
“Oh, that’s plenty of time,” I said. “A couple of hours to rush home. put on your silver tights and tiara and get somewhere before the countdown. In fact, it probably even gives you enough time to be choosy about who you kiss at midnight.”
She agreed and laughed, but I haven’t seen her yet to ask how things went.
Daisytown Homecoming
There’s a story here. There always is after visiting Deborah’s hometown — if you can call it a town — but I’m not sure I’m ready to get into it just yet. I will say that things were a lot quieter without Deborah’s mom around. That’s not to say she wasn’t still a looming presence, however, as Deborah’s dad, Elmer, made sure to vocalize what he saw as his wife’s needs and wants. While Deborah cooked Christmas dinner for the first time in her mother’s kitchen, Elmer was right there as Barbara’s representative. “You’re mother never did it that way…”
Barbara never taught Deborah how to cook — she barely allowed Deborah in the kitchen, let alone allowed her to touch anything. Deborah had to hunt around for cookware, and take a few minutes to figure out how to use the electric oven. For the most part, she ignored “how her mother used to do it” and made dinner her own way. It turned out perfectly.
“I didn’t expect you to be able to cook so good,” said Elmer as he cleaned his plate. He hadn’t eaten a home cooked meal in months. “I’m not saying I thought you’d be bad or anything, just not this good.”
“I can do a lot of things, Dad.”
“You never did any cooking.”
“Mom never let me.”
“When did you start?”
“After Jamie and I got married,” she said. “When I was single, I never wanted to cook big meals for just myself. I ate out a lot, or just heated things from a can. I was living the wild single life. You know how it is, Dad.”
“Yeah,” he said and chuckled.
Time Waits for No One
“Dude…”
You know when I start a story that way, it can mean one of only two things. Either, I met up with Brian somewhere, or Brian called me on the phone. Called me back, I should say. I called him earlier in the day to see what his schedule was like, and whether he had time to meet and discuss the meaning of life.
“I’ve got my Chemistry final on Saturday, but my job doesn’t wrap up until January. I probably won’t have time before the New Year, my friend.”
Brain has taken a couple of around-the-world trips over the years and I probably hear from him more often when he’s away in some remote part of the world than I do when he’s home in New York. When he’s away, I get bi-monthly updates:
“Dude, I’m living in a Robinson Crusoe-style hut on stilts overlooking the Arabian Sea, surrounded by a parade of topless Swiss and German girls. Oh yes. The downside? Dog shit and cows on the beach, the Israeli trustifarian guitar guys, the Israeli drum guys, the Israeli frisbee guys, the Brit guitar guys, the Brit drum guys, the Brit soccer guys and the flies. Other than that, a veritable paradise.”
Sipping tea with Bollywood directors, skinny dipping in the sea of Galilee, all on his quest to becoming a mental, physical and spiritual dynamo, he always finds time to send me a detailed dispatch.
I’m never at liberty to discuss the juiciest details of his adventures since the emails invariably end with something like:
“All of the above material is not to be blogged. it is copy-written for the book. Sorry. You can however say that the Indians are very impressed with my large cock.”
In any case, point being, although Brian has been settled in New York lately, studying for a Masters in Social Work, for as much as I see him he may as well be several thousand miles away.
“I don’t know, dude, I might have time next week before I go to Connecticut for Christmas, but probably not,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
He was at work as we spoke, and his boss was giving him the hairy eyeball. He was about to hang up but stopped himself.
“Dude, wait, before I go, I gotta tell you this story.”
“Lay it on me brother.”
This woman I’ve been hanging out with was going to give me a ride home the other day, but she had to get her car keys from her daughter. Her daughter tends bar in the East Village so we go to the bar.”
As it was, the bar was one that Brian and I — though especially Brian — used to hang out at all the time in the days when hanging out at bars was nearly all we did. Brian was a heavy drinker back then and spent a lot of time at a lot of bars, but this particular spot was a mainstay because he could get getting seriously drunk on seriously discounted — if not absolutely free — alcohol poured by his friend Donald, the bar tender.
“Does Donald still work there?” I wondered.
“Wait,” said Brian, “I’m getting to that.”
Donald had always been a tall, handsome guy with a knack for finding second-generation celebrities willing to slum with bohemians. As a result he’d dated a string of fetching and fabulously well-to-do socialites. Brian never hid his envy over Donald’s successes. “That fucking asshole,” he’d say, with the utmost admiration. Brian was never a complete failure when it came to women, but with what can best be described as a more complicated personality than Don’s, supermodels and socialites proved elusive.
I was never very close to Donald to begin with, and I haven’t seen him in many years, nevertheless, I possess a small collection of vague facts concerning his life’s trajectory. I know, for instance, that he currently lives in a rent-controlled apartment near the bar he’s been working at for over twenty years — having had the foresight to sign a waiting list for subsidized housing while the rest of our circle aspired to higher rents in nicer neighborhoods. I also know that, along the way, he pursued an acting career. A couple of years ago, while walking through the East Village, Brian saw a stack of head shots strewn in the gutter. Photos of an actor’s smiling face, soggy and blackened with street grime. As Brian got closer he realized they were Donald’s. “Fucking Don,” he said, bending down to pick one up. I also know that Don still looks more or less the same. He isn’t bald, he isn’t fat. “I saw him skateboarding down the middle of Avenue A last year,” said Brian, “His ponytail flapping in the breeze. He was carrying a kitten inside his sweatshirt.”
“You know he was just doing it to pick up chicks,” I said.
“Of course.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No.”
“So, anyway, this woman and I walk into the bar and her daughter is there and, dude, she is hot. I mean, seriously smoking. Killer face with a body to match. So I ask her, ‘Do you know a guy named Donald?’ She looks me in the eye. ‘Donald?’ she says. ‘Yeah, I know him. He’s a fucking asshole!’”
“I was cracking up. I mean, for all she knew Donald was my best friend or my brother, but she didn’t even hesitate or think twice, just an honest gut reaction. I thought for sure she was going to say, ‘I love Donald! He’s so cool.’ Or worse, tell me she was sleeping with him.”
“That’s hilarious,” I said. “Of course, thinking Don’s an asshole doesn’t preclude the possibility that they slept together. In fact…”
“No dude, turns out everyone there hates him. The bar back overheard us talking and took the opportunity to go off on him, too. Turns out Don is the grouchy old man that all the kids hate.”
“Classic,” I said. “If you live long enough, you’ll see all kinds of marvels. What did your friend say? The girl’s mom?”
“She apologized to me after we left. You now, sorry my daughter called your friend an asshole. I was like, hey, no worries, ninety percent of the people who meet him come away with the exact same impression.”
