In a hotel, rather than a hotel room, in San Francisco, I was and remain the immediate cause of extensive structural damage to a bunch of rooms. Nonetheless, while for commonsense but legally intricate reasons I am not really to blame for the damage, I am afraid guilt will find its way to my USPS-perplexing address. I have thus done my best to cover for the damage. It's still pretty obvious. In the current room, frinstance, the nightstand no longer fits into the floor. There are gaps around the jointure whither light and/or water leaks. The same damage occurs in the same bit of furniture/floor plan on all floors below and above. I did this and I am sorry but fuck you I'll lie to stay unjailed.

Simultaneously: someone in my intimate circle (who is not quite the muscle hippy dreads-up street fiddler I snapped outside The Mix, or whatever it was called in 1992, though my presence there informed or maybe assaults our narrative) is trying to get us to the right airport to depart SF in time. The geography is dreamfukt. We're in the west end of the imagined city (ignore parkland), and SFO is easternmost—I guess where AT&T field is. This rendition of SF does not involve the insanely high and broad overpass highways previously intrinsic to visiting SF.

So most of the time (what time?) this broken hotel room is my sole worry; I stay here and I need to fix it convincingly before I leave. Still, it is after some social event and one by one individuals just show up at my hotel room door. Damage is def not hidden.

It's dusk so I turn on two-three lights—but a moment later they are off again. The exterior natural light is nearly enough to mask the on-offness of the electrics. But someone else calls it; and seeing the lit lights outened, the same friend calls for diagnosis. Maintenance (the department) is now on they way; but the solution is a duh moment at hand (cf. my recent real-life inability to operate a hair dryer). In this case or any, I'm still not caught for the damage I have wrought.

The room has eventually filled and we're all rehearsing something, maybe a staged reading. Nobody has enjoyed working with the NPC blond bombshell diva—she's terrible and she doesn't know it. Cf. Lena Lamont in Singin' in the Rain but she in affect she is much more Lynn Bracken (Kim Basinger) in L.A. Confidential (so one must assume Lana Turner and Barbara Stanwyck are there somewhere—only OMG she has been pissing errbody off).

So we're all hushed and attendant when one of the actors, upon finishing a scene, hies him to whisper in the director's ear; and are all delighted when the director then turns to the disingenue and asks her to step out of the room with him. I notice there is now an armed guard behind them to ensure she departs peacefully. We hear "You gotta be kidding me" from her as she is made to leave. I sympathise with her enleashed dissent; I just don't like her, so she must suck, bye.

In the aftermath (I'm listening to the Law & Order dénouement while I'm *still* trying to fix the room damage up): the newspaper scuzzlebutt is that la disparue was undercover from the DA's office but was attached as a prostitute--i.e., a solicitor nabbed for solicitation.

In other news, "At night I walk through the park with a whip between the lines of the whispering Jesuits who are poisoning me against me" is still a way more interesting line than "At night I walk through the park with a whip between the lines of the whispering Jesuits who are poisoning you against me.

Searching for Kupopo

Too late to the dance came I?

I just ran across the work of the artist known as Kupopo, whose blog Beasts and Brutes hasn't been updated since September 2014 and whose contributions to Y! Gallery are at least thrice as long out of date. Beastsandbrutes AT blogspot has been removed. I've googled this and that and so far haven't been successful in finding any online activity by the artist more recently than last fall (he thanked a blog patron in November) or in finding any contact information. Minor sleuthing suggests he is from Fiji. That's about all I can find.

This is an artist I fain would patronize.

Everything is Tense these Days

There are a bunch of people at Grandmom’s house, all of whom are fretting over some logistical or scheduling problem that threatens the party we were planning on having that night.  Can we fix the problem or do we need to reschedule the party? (Rupert) Giles and others spout suggestions and we discuss them in turn, but in each case there is a sticking point. I personally am rooting for “fix now; let's party” (duh!) but the solution is quicksilver evasive. Heather Mason pitches (for the second time) rescheduling the party in the grand hotel she has recently acquired. This sounds good to most so we all reluctantly acquiesce.

Now that there’s no party tonight, I need ride home. I work on various possibilities. I recognize how damned inconvenient hauling my carcass would be for the person I really want a ride from; and frankly I don’t care to ride with one or more parties for whom it’s no trouble at all—so I refuse all rides and purpose to walk.

It’s a crazy fucking long distance to walk, so I conjure Plan B: I call Roze to pick me up. Which means I need to get to that corner by Hammonton Lake, just before the road curves to the right, to meet Roze, who is, I’m afraid, put out by my request. Unfortunately, I leave a McGuffin behind and I have to go retrieve it, which means schlepping through a labyrinth of a retail media store, something like Tower Records. I discover to my chagrin and stress that I can’t simply retrace the direct route by which I left—there’s a door that locked behind me, maybe. I end up in unknown employee-only territory briefly, and fear I’ve gotten myself lost, but a bit of backtracking fixes that. Then I get stuck at a payment register (remember when we used to say “cash register”? how quaint) between stairs helping with a customer transaction. Run run run! There has already been phone trouble, and trouble explaining the location to Roze; now I’m not going to be on “that corner” when Roze gets there. She’ll be pissed off—or worse, she will think she has mistook the location and leave again and my phone is dead and…

Later, around a restaurant table with maybe eight friends sitting around, I relate the whole episode and explain my retail labyrinth troubles to Rex: “It’s like a record store but much bigger, more the size of a department store… not a huge department store like John Wanamaker in the ’80s, but still, it takes up several floors, just with a smaller footprint.” He is distracted, would much rather be participating in another simultaneous conversation at the table, but he promises he’s listening to me.

In the same location, a wee bit later, some of us are playing out dramatic scenes in that weird limbo between pre-written drama and real life. I and a random NPC have just finished up one such interchange and I immediately start a new one, in the same character, with not quite Chris Riggs as my interlocutor. My intent here is to drive at a confession of sorts, and he is getting increasingly defensive. The whole while, we are both fussing with small and various objects that are strung on a utility line around the room, at the top of the walls near the ceiling. Several of these objects in a row (but by no means all the hanging objects in the room) are tiny pairs of scissors. The drama builds until NQCR is livid (again, it is not clear how much of this scene is acting) and he brandishes tiny scissors at me and hollers, “Don’t you tell me how to solve my problems!” or some such. I haul out a hereto unrevealed factoid, which shuts him down. He hangs the scissors back up, and SCENE.

We both return to the dinner table and I replay the whole exchange in my mind. Inarguably, his was the more sympathetic part; but I am confident my character was right and will be seen as having the better position in the end—by, among others, NQCR’s girlfriend, who is sitting next to him at the table, critically processing the scene with him. Still, I am, with a staunch (misguided) sense of ethics, still portraying my character without any gratuitous cues for sympathy. Let the rightness be demonstrated by itself, I reason, rather than have any or all of these dullards side with me for lousy, sentimental reasons.

Finally—don’t ask me how we got here—I am at a market of some sort, cash for animals and embryos. I’m here to buy something exotic and ridiculous and wildly unethical. Wait, I need some water..

Crabby is as crabby does.

I am in the busy, populated long house, on the top floor. Perhaps it is the attic because the only way to get up here is to climb a small series of concrete abutments on the balcony, using some wrought iron railings as handholds. I have been exploring but now that I’m done and ready to head back down, I find the way down is much tricksier than the way up. It’s terrifically awkward; the handholds are in the wrong places for facing this direction; and I can’t figure out a good way to turn around and climb down in the same direction I clumb up. I can just foresee (or forefeel) my body weight shifting precipitously and inertia taking me over the balcony railing. *sigh* Another fear-of-falling dream! Anyway, Roze shows up and I lament my predicament to her. "How does one get down from here?" I ask. She offers, "You could always knife down—sticking knife points in the concrete, like Mike does." Of course Mike does. I figure it out without knives and join her below. 

I’ve been thinking that I want to move all the friends I sing with into the long house with me. This iteration of the long house is in a new town, however—Phoenix, maybe? Someplace out west. The legality of vocal auditions as a condition for housing is unclear, but the idea of having the whole group (it is a significantly larger chorus than Bamburía) living in the same house is immensely appealing. And as always the long house is immense—plenty of room for everybody. I recall previous (dream) visits, including this last time when I actually got lost wandering the halls of the second and third floors, and the atrium in the interior of both. I am also concerned that Paul will not want to move here because huge house = huge cleaning.  

As we’re walking down the stairwell, Roze says we have to go take hot showers. Still thinking about moving singers in, I ask Roze how the third floor is (there are still some old residents still living here); she replies, “Crabby. Crabby crabby crabby!” Apparently this means there is a major lice infestation; thus the hot showers.  

Roze leaves me temporarily in the bookshop on the ground floor to wait for a thing to happen. I find a newspaper and read a news story (not just an obituary) about a Ginger Raney having died overnight; her son, hurriedly traveling from afar to see her before she died, was waylaid with car trouble and was helped by a benevolent stranger, but still did not reach his mother before her death. I am wondering whether this happened to Mike Raney. (I cannot at this point remember his mom’s name; when I awake I remember it is Doris.) I start crying in the shop about the story.  

Also, I am naked and I can't remember why. It's mostly ok; certainly nothing that would concern the bookshop employees and anyone who knows me; but the customers walking in from the street seem startled.  

There is an imperious and whiny patron at the register: “I wish to see the [blah blah] books! I don’t want to wait any longer!” He is actually standing behind the register counter, separated from the clerk by, and berating her through the shelves of, a tall bookcase. He is a white, middle-aged, mustachioed, privileged asshole who keeps whinging despite the fact that the clerk is busy helping other customer.  

A William Byrd pavanne is playing on the soundtrack.

I've forgotten my mantra.

A hazy recollection of going back “home” (though not really home—presumably a hotel) and hunting through my disastrously floorstrewn suitcase for warmer clothes. En route, I puzzle over whether the blazer or the light fall jacket goes the outside: the obvious choice is jacket outside, but the jacket is shorter and tighter than the blazer and will look silly. At some point I explain to an acquaintance that I’m not always this disorganized—my clothes are home are stowed in very orderly fashion, I swear!—but the explanation itself is a distraction from a topic about which I’m even more embarrassed than the unkempt drifts of underwear and T-shirts.

Later: my flight home lands and my family greet me. Dad looks young and hot. As I hug him hello, he asks immediately about tomorrow’s plans; I reply that we’ll discuss... “logistics” (it takes me as moment to find the word) presently. In the process of hugging Mom and Bob there is a discussion going on and I end up hugging Bob twice by mistake— but I make the second time look like “It was a helluva trip so I need another hug.”

We fly out again tomorrow, four of us, maybe for a concert in Europe, to the aforementioned logistics are about getting home, unpacking/repacking and getting back to the airport in the morning. It is possible that in the course of our story one of the four travelers morphs into Bob; or perhaps I am merely considering him as the best option for car travel between Philadelphia and home tonight.

Meanwhile, there’s a party. We haven’t left the airport but we are at somebody’s spacious and well-appointed home. The bartender may be been a flight attendant: he was definitely on the flight but also appears to be friends with nearly everyone at the party. He sets up and announces shrimp cocktail on the rectangular island bar. This is actually a single dish with 6 shrimp, but it’s just an overture: the gist is, when six people claim those shrimp, he will make them drinks and set out more foods. While I do not see Jeff Goldblum on the phone, this party is definitely shaded like the Hollywood party in Annie Hall.

Heading outside to the patio, there is some issue with the floor of the entryway—like a weak sport in the floor disguised by carpet with woeful inefficiency. Henry and Jay Niepoetter are here. (Is Henry one of the performers? Not clear.) Out by the pool, several folks, including Dad and me, appear to be out of cigarettes. A young and very popular friend who is almost certainly not Jude Law is handing some smokes out; Dad rejects one that has wet spots and NJL selects a dry one to give him. I am next on the dole, and I find myself unable to similarly reject a wet cigarette. Once I have lit it with difficulty and torn the filter off and wrangled the remainder into smokable shape, I mumble, “Dammit”. Dad says “What?” I explain about and show off the shambles of a cigarette. NJL offers—or Dad offers to get from NJL?—a dry one, but I decline. Because democracy! Cue Rudy Vallee: Dry cigarettes are un-American!

While this cigarette distribution and smoking is in process dad and NJL are talking about heritage and ethnicity. Dad claims “Native American heritage, which my mother (?!) makes”, to which NJL says, “Oh, I didn't realize she was dead.” Dad corrects himself: “Sorry, ‘made’.” I try to work out the semantics of the tenses re the hereditary passage of identity, but I give up.

Back to logistics: While I had postponed the discussion upon landing, the next several hours are quietly vexing me. We’re flying in the morning but there’s at least some boat travel implied. The four of us are sort of naturally, socially divided into two pairs, and the other two are known to be planning to bring aboard a massive and varied stash of recreational drugs. I contemplate whether I can safely bring along any cannabis.

Then, as usual, there is a cat whining at me.

Short stories from this morning

I am not exactly sure who this guy is, but he is a musician, a pianist, and he must have developed or contracted one of those Oliver Sachs-type neurological disorders because he has forgotten how to play boogie woogie. (Full disclosure: He doesn't actually use the term 'boogie woogie'; in truth, he has forgotten that most basic of proto-rock 'n' roll chord progressions, I-vi-ii-V, as in 'Heart and Soul'. I forget what he calls this progression, though.) Anyway, we are sitting in a restaurant and he is telling me the story of the night said chords fled his faculties, and how he struggled to recover, in the middle of playing a set with his band. His solution was ridiculously complicated: something about dropping red markers on the floor tiles to indicate to his band-mates which notes to stay away from in any given measure, so they didn't clash with what he was playing. In the midst of his explanation, at least one minor second relation occurs to me as verboten, and I agree with his method at least that far. (In retrospect, though, the whole thing is nonsense.)

Later, after boogie schmoogie guy has gone away, I am running the broader arc of his story through my mind, as if it were (and maybe it is) the plot of a movie. I am still in the restaurant—or club, the sort of place and maybe the place where the pianist suffered his sudden harmonic lacuna—sitting alone at a round 4-top table and stirring what is partly a cup of coffee and partly a bowl of soup. The chunks in the soup correspond to elements of the story I'm rehearsing in my mind. At the end of the story, the pianist breaks up with his girlfriend and it's a very 'get out yr hankies' cinematic sequence. Turns out, I am meeting the (now ex-) girlfriend for dinner, and what do you know, la voici. From the cheerfulness of her demeanor I surmise she has not yet heard that Boogie Boy has broken up with her. I am suddenly verklempt, and it seems imperative that I tell her that I love her. Maybe she gives me a look, because I immediately qualify that utterance—honestly, we really haven't known each other long enough to reasonably profess even platonic love, but I am in the moment. She ought to be assured somebody loves her. I guess I spring the bad news on her then, but the scene cuts early for some reason.

In a different, mutated thread, we are acquainted with the behind-the-counter workings of a family bakery. We are in a medieval village in the demesne of an oppressive and possibly psychotic king, and the latest news is that the king has decreed that all bakers must create loaves of bread that depict bears. Our protagonist family has been struggling to figure out how to do this, so far with no success. The regime is represented by obnoxious guardsmen on the street, always the same crusty pair, who loudly bellow the king's orders, seemingly non-stop. The story includes a lot of soap opera detail about the baker family and their interrelationships, but most of these are lost; the important thing is, the morning has come for all bakers to display their bear loaves and, hélas! our family has nothing to show for it. Rather, they have a loaf of bread with some vague lumps and mounds in a topography that is in no way suggestive of a bear or bears.

This story has been told before, I realize—it is familiar, almost a fable or household tale—but we are now seeing it from a new perspective. In this telling, the various bakers' bear-shaped loaves are loaded up on carts for presentation and paraded through the high street of the village. (There are, BTW, far, far too many such loaves to be representative of the bakerage of a small village—we're talking Macy's Parade in New York City with all the bakers in all five boroughs turning out to show they shit off.) Anyway, the products are amazing: loaf after loaf is spectacularly bear-presentative, some individual bears, menacingly mid-roar or in repose, others whole scenes with multiple bears hunting, bathing, frolicking. The crust are mostly glistening and rich golden brown, looking like egg-bathed brioche, gorgeously highlighting the detail of each offering. We see them all in motion on their carts, along with the king's men, who are inspecting the loaves for acceptability. We know that we will soon see the awful, inadequate loaf baked by our heroes and the suspense builds slowly as each magnificent bear loaf passes by. When the offending loaf shows up, however, the king's guard almost miss it: a moving obstacle—someone driving an ox, maybe—obscures it as it passes by. But they catch sight of it anyway: one guardsman says to another, in effect, "The fuck was that?" And we know our family is in for some heavy punitive shit, maybe dungeoning. But we switch stories again.

I am female. My sister (or "sister": think Mary Richards and Rhoda Morgenstern) has sent me home from 'New Rochelle' to drop some stuff off. Typical for my dreams, my arms are ridiculously, elaborately laden and of course I have to fetch keys from my pocket. Once I get to the front porch, juggling all the packages I'm carrying, I realize that I have two keys for the apartment on me: my own set and a single, spare key that is destined for a house-guest. I think I'm supposed to find and deliver the spare, but for the time being I need to put stuff down in the apartment. It is a townhouse on a city street, but each such townhouse in this row have modest front porches, round and ballustered; some, like ours, have been subdivided, and two doors lead to separate apartments. My sister and I live upstairs, but I notice the downstairs door is ajar; so I put my parcels down on the porch (honestly? I let them tumble. Don't tell my sister.) and poke my head in to see who's about.

There are several family members and friends sitting in the front room: my cousins Michael and Jimmy are sitting on the couch just inside the door; my mom (I may be back to being male and myself at this point) and a couple other NPCs are sitting or standing throughout the room. Michael immediately asks me, 'How are things at New Paltz? Not New Paltz, I mean New Rochelle.' (Actually, I have no idea what followed the 'New' in either case... pretty sure it wasn't 'Paltz' and 'Rochelle'.) From here on out, everything anybody says is slightly off from what it should be, and somebody else corrects them: it becomes a game. I think somebody offers 'gin rummy tea' instead of gin seng. Jimmy isn't really Jimmy—he is (let us say) Greg Evigan, but he's still supposed to be my cousin in context—and he complains that somebody recently called him Gregory Peccary instead of Greg Evigan. Mom does most of the error-correcting. After a good chunk of this playful small talk, I take my packages and head upstairs.

There's a lot more where that came from, but this is all I remember.

Sonnet CLXXV: Come on ye[r] childhood heroes

I've never fathomed humans’ ravening need—

lampooned in Jethro Tull's Thick as a Brick—

for superheroes. Yet I will concede:

that recent movie good guys make my dick

get up and tap dance serves sufficiently

as common ground. For instance, Charlie Cox,

who couldn't be more aptly named: can we

burn all Daredevil’s tops and set his box

in neoprene relief instead? And yo,

Luke Cage: 

why ruin all those jeans and hoodies

with bullet holes? Just leave ’em hanging, bro.

(The clothes, I mean, not Mr. Colter’s goodies.)

And how does Aquamomoa 

require

more than a Speedo? Wardrobe, I’m for hire.

[2018 September 5]

McNulty!

Bob and one other guy in the quintet are not performing up to snuff, and I am annoyed. This is not Bamburia but the idea is the same: we are five male voices trying to perform out as much and as well as possible. No other members of Bamburia are in this group, just Bob and I and three NPCs. It is clear in our final warmup/rehearsal in the church practice room that we are not all we can be. Grrr. I throw out the idea that we need some reform in singer practices and standards, and suggest that musicians are replaceable if they do not adhere to the revised standards. Bob is deeply offended, feels that this is fraternal betrayal.

We go into the chapel itself, which is much bigger and more elaborate than the First Assembly of God in Hammonton, but the crowd assembled there definitely has that same feel. All the background memories of being a kid whose parents are intimately involved--in Sunday school, in the music program, friends with the pastor--are there even if I can't sort them all out; it's just a pervasive feeling: I know this place. It is before the service, which apparently includes our performance, but folks are gathered here and preparing for some sort of rite--not a baptism per se, but a family dedication to the Lord, I suppose. There's literature or swag about it in the hymnal pockets on the backs of the pews, but I don't take the time to read what's up: I'm concerned about out quintet's performance, which promises to disappoint. 

Later--I'd say after the performance, but there's no actual memory or record of that--we have a blow-up in the church bowels over my singer concerns. There is also some to-do about my coat; at some point I end up wearing a coat that is not mine and I realize this belatedly. Where is *my* coat? Of course I have to go hunting for where I left it.

There is a purely theoretical interlude where someone--let's say Scott Robinson, though I'm sure it wasn't specifically he--and I discuss theology and morals, Christianity and nihilism. I argue (Scott has heard me so argue in the past, and I'm pretty certain he agrees, so it's not really an argument, more like a pas de deux) that atheism does not preclude morality. I also contemplate the shakier ground of nihilism, which seems to me to require das ewige nein, a total absence of morality, attendant on the total absense of meaning. But I want nihilism to retain morality. I want "soft nihilism", I suppose. All the while we are having this conversation I am playing a "video game" but with real objects: I am using a power drill with a circular bit to cut circles in oversized decks of playing cards, which are lined up in a grid, three across and who knows how many north-south... possibly to infinity. Each circle cut takes out a particular character in the design on the backs of the card decks; each such cut is obscurely tied to a given statement in the "morality" argument. No idea of the particulars, but it is clear as I am doing it.

Later: in the well-traveled path between Point A and Point B there is a very steep hill whose downward approach one must take at a careful, controlled run. I have no idea why I'm on my third time tonight, but this time, just as I have gotten started down, I see some guy walking insouciantly up to my landing point. I have no control but end up sort of crashing into the front of him; and he has the audacity to give me shit about it. I start to explain that one needs to be careful in the upward direction to be sure nobody is currently heading down the hill; but seeing that he is John Doman, I break off and tell him, "By the way, I'm a big fan." He is gracious in response, and we start chatting. I ask him, "What are you doing now?" by which I mean what is he working on, acting-wise, but I immediately realize it could also be read as designs upon his immediate future--which is how he reads it, and he takes me back to his place.

His place is on 12th Street in Folsom/Hammonton, about where Tony's custard or Anna Martelini's house is/was. It's a gorgeous, sprawling, Jetsons kind of joint, where two entire exterior walls are just glass. We have drinks and talk; we do not have sex and there's no real tension in that direction, but at the same time I don't have the sense that it is off the table entirely. A lot of stuff happens from this point on, including some other people coming over socially, but that detail is lost. Mostly I'm pals with John Doman, so that's a big yay on waking up.

Yay penis.

In a department store that's really a second-hand store, I am browsing news stories. the format is unclear and perhaps irrelevant: they may be in books, magazines, on VHS tapes, or memorialized in extruded, cast, vividly painted polymers. In any case, I am trying to decide which take best represents the event in question (also a McGuffin--it could be a WWII battle or a Monty Python sketch for all I know) and I am carefully considering each. They are all on the bottom shelves of several adjacent sections, and having contemplated a contender I decide that it is inferior to one I perused a little while ago... where was that?

I retrace my steps but cannot find it. I assume it must be on the facing side of this rack of shelves, so I head around the corner and hunt further. Nope. I keep checking racks until I am several stacks away, in another department of the store. I finally allow that it can't possibly have been this far away, and head back to where I started. But now there are several women browsing the same little area, and they impede my search.

Waiting for them to clear out, I head over toward the front of the store, where a furniture display sits beckoning potential buyers through a great panoramic bank of windows. It is dusk outside and cars in the parking lot are turning their headlights on. (Back in those quaint days when one had to turn headlights on! And wear onions on one's belt.) I am wearing a yellow collared shirt and underpants; and, wandering amongst the furniture with no other shoppers around, I decide I can continue and finish my shopping without the underwear: the yellow shirt must be for tall guys because the front and tails  come down past my genitals and butt, respectively. I pull my undies off and rebutton the bottom few buttons of my shirt. This will be fine.

But the exhibitionist charge earned here precludes any further shopping, so the next thing I know, I go to check up on a number of friends whom I've been hanging with. They are all disposed, individually or in pairs, on bunks--upper and lower berths lined up three abreast against opposite walls of a basement room. In the middle of the far wall, perpendicular to the bunks, is a large TV display showing gay porn. All my friends (including a number of hetero ones) are busy having sex with themselves or each other. Adam and his girlfriend are in the upper left bunk closest to the TV and are unhurriedly making out. Various solo guys are working their cocks with various levels of abandon.

Speaking of which, here's John Dugan, lovingly tugging his outsize pud, upper right, center. As always, he is breathtakingly desirable. But this is new territory to me: while I am used to exhibitionism I am not used to everybody else doing it. This casual, communal fuck/wankfest is strange and wonderful. There are no bunks left but I park myself in the middle of the floor and start to masturbate--first with a blanket over me, then, emboldened by the spirit of the room (although I haven't officially been invited to participate, I make an assumption that it's fair game), out in the open.

Somehow, though, this prompts John to cover up. Despite his business being conspicuously unfinished, he wraps himself in sheets like swaddling clouts. And, honestly, fuck that noise: I immediately go hit him up and unwrap him. He is accommodating and friendly, as usual. Oddly, this version of John Dugan is extremely hirsute; and he has recently shaved his body hair, resulting in numerous razor burns and stubble. That's a bit of a turnoff but I am on a mission: I lick and kiss up the inside of his thigh to his taint, then sit him down and take his gorgeous cock in my mouth. And like a video game where I have conquered the big boss, this scene is done.

More Songs about Buildings and Terrifying Heights

Fomo and Andy Hoffman and I are hanging out on the balcony talking about a thing. What this thing is, I have no idea, except that it is smaller than a breadbox and motile. I am discussing the significant number of times I have lost track of this thing and had to retrieve it from the top of the building, because that is where the thing goes when it's not monitored. Brain runs through each of these experiences; in all cases they entail climbing out a window onto a ledge, manoeuvring onto the roof, climbing up to the cupola, climbing onto the cupola, and retrieving the thing from the very top of the spire at the center of the cupola. Despite the routineness of the routine, some of these episodes are hairier than others, but in all cases (I tell Fomo and Andy), "It's a pretty tricky thing to do."

Of course these climbs are exactly the sort of acrophobic dreams with which Brain loves to torment me. I almost always manage to avoid falling off the ledge, or the telephone pole, or the mountainside, or the wobbly 2-by-4 I have to cross to get from my home to anywhere else in the world—all such precipices impossibly high above the ground. Indeed, in many cases I am quite adept at traversing the nonsensical aerial obstacle courses Brain presents me with; but the acrophobia is always there regardless, a background of rank stomach-churning terror.

Anyway, we're on the balcony, which is more like the roof over the front of a bungalow—sloping very gentle down toward a steel railing. The slope is covered with Astroturf. Andy is skeptical that the climb of this building's roof and cupola, to retrieve the thing, is a bad as I have made it out to be. Fomo is looking over the railing at how high up we are; he drops a pillow over the railing to see how it falls.  and lands. I do not get near the edge or the railing, but I know the height is ambiguous: we are simultaneously on the second floor and thousands of feet off the ground.

It is time for me to go home. Home is currently a couple rooms on the third floor of a building that Barry Solan converted from a movie theater (not, curiously, the State; though we seem to be in Newark we are somewhere north of Main Street) into a boarding house. It seems I moved out of a second floor room some time ago and immediately regretted doing so; I have sorely wanted that room back. Barry's senior Video Américain employee Mike took over the second floor room I abandoned. Another video store employee whose name I forget is serving as the building manager; he told me—last week? two weeks ago?—that Mike has unofficially taken lodging elsewhere; and so he gave me a spare key to my old room, saying, "Effectively, this can be your room again..." but that's not what my lease says and it's unclear whether there may be unfavorable consequences to my staying in what it now Mike's room. Of course when I get to Mike's room, Mike is actually in there—or at least somebody is sleeping in the bed, so I head to my third floor room...

Which of course I cannot find. Apparently I've only slept there once or twice (maybe I've been couch surfing) and this place is huge and confusing. I head up a flights of stairs to the third floor. There is a woman sitting in the hallway ahead with whom I strongly wish not to interact—because I can't remember her name and I should? because it will be clear I have no idea how to get to my room?—so I turn in the other direction. I'm immediately doubtful this is the right way; indeed I pass a few other doors and then the only other egress is out French doors onto the roof. Well, maybe there's another way back into a different part of the third floor from here? Nope. It occurs to me that this house is deliberately set up as a labyrinth: unless you know exactly where you're going, you keep finding dead ends.

It is near month end and so I consider changing rooms again: I know one tiny room is currently vacant and would cost much less than my current rooms—and I ask myself, what do I need the room for besides a place to sleep? Except, oops, I own too much stuff to fit in a smaller room. Hey, no fair, this is just like real life!

The Stationery Store Considered as an Analog of Cocaine Addiction, and other stories

Today’s story is a theme and variations on “is this place real or invented?” The first such place is almost certainly an amalgam of both: a plaza in the middle of a semi-urban area, maybe compassing two city blocks, crammed with as many space-efficient amusement park rides as possible. Tucked under this but still at ground level, somehow, is a retail district with restaurants. My brother and I and some other folks—not sure who—are riding the rides and, later, eating in a swanky restaurant, the kind whose ugly lighting screams money, that caters to organized crime. Throughout our time together we are discussing the local area and how long it used to take us to walk hither or thither.

Enter Regina Spektor, or at least a little bag of cocaine. (Brain will keep singing "Hotel Song" these day.) This is in what I guess is my bedroom? but is really a public school classroom—I’m guessing the home ec room at Hammonton High (I never actually took a class there but geographically that is where it feels like). It seems I am a cocaine user, and I am almost out: I check my jar and it contains only a wee bit, all pressed together into a small disk, like the stub end of a piece of chalk that someone has used to scribble on a sidewalk, getting it down to the last bit they could safely scrape without burning their fingers. I shake this out of the (baby food) jar and into the mortar; I break it up with the end of an umbrella. But after that I apparently don’t do anything with it, except muse, as cluelessly as IRL, about the current cost of the stuff and how much it must cost those assholes you see in movies with enormous mounds of coke on their coffee tables. Necessarily given this mental image, someone sneezes. And we have a scene change.

I am carrying a stack of black plastic take-out containers to another, bigger, classroom space in which family and friends are gathering for a meal. It is an enormous square room, far bigger than any classroom should be, but it has a chalkboard along its, I dunno, 150-foot front wall. En route I realize the little cup-lets of sauce or dressing that I’m bringing are superfluous because so-and-so will have made her famous sauce that everyone must love and praise. Indeed, my bringing commercially bought sauce will be an insult. So, just as I’m getting to the classroom door, I compile the insulting sauce into another container (yay dream arms!); just inside the door there is a standard black classroom/office trashcan where I deposit my redundancies—then immediately worry that someone has seen me putting recyclables in the trash, but also worried if I make a big deal of the act of discarding it will come to light that I brought sauce. I grab them back out and take them to the recycle bin, which is all the way across the room by the fryer.

Speaking of which. I have also brought potatoes, a huge bag of them, and they are suspiciously uniform in shape, like cigars—or better still carrots with a few inches of point knocked off. Anyway, I set up to chop them and somebody volunteers to do it for me; so I take the few I have already chopped over to the fryer, where somebody else volunteers to fry them. “Unless you want to…” he says, and I admit that I really don’t fancy standing by the fryer in this heat. Because it’s hot.

Later, we’re on a bus ride home, and while I don’t remember exactly visiting a particular, beloved stationery store whence we have just departed, Bob and I are discussing its history. This is an amalgam of Dan’s Stationery on Bellevue Avenue, Hammonton, some stationery-specializing vendors at the Berlin Farmers’ Market (née Berlin Auction), and at least one dream store. I am running through the establishment’s names in reverse chronological order, and I’ve gotten through maybe four different names and owners when a guy across the bus aisle (I’m in the windows seat, Bob on the aisle) volunteers the next one: Tapper’s Stationery. Neither of us go any further, even though IRL the next older iteration (and, in my lifetime, the original, magnificent stationery store) was Dan’s Stationery. In this case, however, the establishment we’re talking about is a competitor that opened up across the street (and in some sense, across the mall) from Dan’s—a much more compact store, probably in what used to be Albright’s Shoes. (A few doors to the right of this:?)

The bus ride ends and we are, in whatever sense, “back home”. It now appears to have been a chartered bus and we are all one party; my mother (but not Mom) is at least in part Shirley Partridge. (Shirley Jones is still alive and working, BTW, 84 this year!) She is exhausted from the trip; we all know the script calls for me to be mightily pissed off about something and to take it out on her, briefly—a situation for end-of-reel resolution—but my dander and I are honestly not up to it. So, once off the bus and across the street, on the sidewalk in front of the park, I line up with the other children (Marcia Brady appears to be in the mix) to hug mom and thank her for a fabulous trip.

A Night at the Diner / A Day at the Cockfights

“Mark Tomasello, how come I ain’t never sucked your dick?” I ask Mark Tomasello just as he’s finishing up getting his dick sucked by some guy whom either one of us may or may not know. I’m hanging in a conference room with Mark and two other old friends. While Mark has been getting his dick sucked, the other two friends and I have been chatting about old times; but from across the conference table I cannot help noticing Mark’s dick sure looks like it would be nice to suck.

I honestly don’t know the answer to the question I asked, and I’m guessing Mark doesn’t either. We have always been friends. (IRL zero clue about Mark since shortly after high school.) I guess I am just now finding out he lets guys suck him off. Anyway, accommodatingly, he beckons me over, so I slide across the table on my belly. As a matter of teasing or reward system, Mark postpones the actual event by giving me other things to suck first: a squishy white latex buttplug-looking thingummy—it feels like a Stretch Armstrong in squishiness; it is obviously intended primarily for butt play because it sucks nothing like a dick—and then an actual dildo, which is much nicer to fake with. I guess Mark is playing with his own dick under the table while I’m demonstrating technique and getting myself hot with the toys, because when he finally says, “Ok, here ya go,” and stands up, his dick is huge and beautiful: not rock hard but exactly at the best stage of engorgement to suck on; the foreskin is pulled back and the top of the glans is dark purple and flat and sleek. The whole thing is a small Italian sub and I immediately put every centimeter of it in my mouth.

Timing is everything, and of course Mark is called away almost immediately with the others in the conference room (except me); but in a genuine act of kindness he leaves his dick with me so I can keep sucking it. And believe me, I do.

I spend an entire evening at an establishment that is part punk rock bar, part '50s style burger joint, and part Grandmom and Grandpop’s house on Edgewood Drive, Collings Lakes, N.J. At various points throughout the evening:

• I hang out at a big circular table in the starkly lit main diner space with Mark McKinney, Breck Young, Spike, surely a bunch of dead people like Ray and Chad. Possibly Dan BigBooté, though he is less welcome in my dreams and he knows it. It is an ordeal trying to decide which empty seat to sit in. Whom do I want to talk to most? Who actually likes me? (I am fairly certain Brain still has 40-year-old PTSD from a particularly cold and purposed experiment in ostracism Brain’s two best “friends”, not to be named here, ran in grade school.) Not that any of this matters much because the dialog from this scene, like the dialog from the cited experiment, is entirely lost.

• I go outside, where some of the seating is in little cars that move, slowly and continuously, along a track around the patio area, maybe 5 feet off the ground. I guess there are steps leading up to the track somewhere, but I don’t investigate. I just think it’s a neat idea for a diner/bar.

• I realize my party has run out of good steak, so I wind my way back into Grandmom’s kitchen, and further back down the hallway into a prep area that is where the little antechamber with the bookshelves should be. Here I find, on a white polypropylene cutting board, an already cooked prime-rib looking roast thing just begging me to carve it. This is perfect! Just what my friends and I were looking for. I take a knife that looks precisely like a scale model of a 2-person saw, and cut off a good, thick slice to try. Unfortunately, when I do so, some kind of sweet goo, like barbecue sauce but not quite, leaks out from the center, whereupon it becomes apparent that the slab as a whole was somebody else’s preparation that I have just violated. People have been wandering by me the entire time and nobody has hollered at me; I decide I have done minimal damage at this point, so I make myself scarce.

• I find myself at the bar across from Dave Silverman (the bar in this section appears to be in a long, narrow figure-8, with service areas in the loops on either side and between the loops, in the center of the 8, bar space where customers sit directly opposite each other). I have ended up with two beers; both of these are in what look like 24- or 32-ounce plastic iced tea jugs. In fact, the labels on the jug-handles have a sans-serif beige font against exactly the tannish-brown color you expect from iced tea labels. I have just got round to noticing that one of these beers in particular sucks; and when I consult the label I discover this is because it’s near-beer. “0% alcohol”, it tells me. Yuck. Dave is warning me about my social interaction with the guy on my left. Maybe he’s here fresh from Mos Eisley or something, but apparently I’ve already done something to piss him off, so I take my >0% alcoholic beer and go away.

Abruptly—no footage of the setup remains—I dash through the exterior door of the school or whatever public or institutional building where I earlier sucked Mark Tomasello’s dick. I instantly notice shadows and voices of colleagues in the hallway around the corner from this hallway; so I duck through an open doorway on my right into the same conference room from earlier. It occurs to me in rapid succession: They must have heard the exterior door open and close, mustn’t they? If they do not discover me here I will have the unique opportunity to be in this building after closing, which, well, who knows what I might find? But I believe they have already come around the corner of the hallway, so I cannot shut the conference room door behind me; and I expect one of them will almost certainly check this room, or at least lean in to grab the door and shut it, and there is no place for me to hide so quickly, and enough light is coming in that I will certainly be discovered if anyone leans in.

So I decide the thing to do is jump out and yell “BOO!” and scare them. So I jump out and try to yell “BOO!”; but because Brain is in dream mode trying to work actual vocal chords, it comes as out a vague moan with no chance of scaring the empty living room.