PRASHANT

I met Prashant the old-fashioned way: at a bar, in the flesh, face to face. I saw him wearing a tank top at the Midnight Sun and could not look away. I wasn’t sure if he was on a date or not, so I handed him one of my cards when we both happened to be near the bathroom. This chance meeting in September 2008 led to a relationship that I can only categorize as intense and sporadic. In fact, I feel weird writing about it now because I don’t know how much he shared with his friends and how much I can say without going too far. I even hesitate to invoke the designated abbreviation, which is more commonly used nowadays to refer to a large social networking site. It was that, but it was so much more, at least from my perspective.

During our first private encounter, at a critical moment, I uttered the phrase, “Just go with it.” Prashant found that oddly titillating and it immediately became our catch phrase. I’ve always wondered how much he told his friends about me, starting with this bawdy story and continuing through our other adventures. Now that he’s gone and I’m writing this down, I stupidly fantasize that one of his close friends will read this tribute and make the connection: “Oh, you’re THAT guy!” To be a character in one of his stories would represent the greatest honor.

One time, during a brief trip to Guerneville in July 2010, I had the chance to witness Prashant holding court poolside at the Triple R. He was there with his softball brethren for a tournament or something and he looked simply radiant in his little Speedo. To say that he had a magnetic personality is a ridiculous understatement. He commanded attention, but not in an imperious way. He was a true entertainer, that’s for sure. As such, he left everyone wanting more. I can only imagine what it was like to be around that warm, delightful energy on a consistent basis, and I hope that his close friends realize how fortunate they were to experience that kind of sustained intimacy with such a tremendous human being.

We bonded over our passion for “Jeopardy!” and joked that someday, after we finally found the right time to date each other legitimately, we would end up as one of those obnoxiously competitive couples on a couch, shouting our responses in the form of a question. As he wrote in one of his last emails to me, "I'll be around for the foreseeable future, so hopefully we can make it happen sooner than later."

I’d like to think that I’ve learned my lesson about putting things off and assuming that there will be time to make it happen. In order to drive this lesson home, I sometimes read through our conversations on Facebook, a kind of self-punishing act that never fails to make me laugh out loud at his witty, raunchy language. The last time I heard from him, three weeks before he passed, he sent me a short message: “HNY baby.” As far as I know, this was one of his favorite terms of endearment. At least with me, he used it all the time, along with some other turns of phrase that I will not repeat here. Now, every night when I go to bed, I reach for my cuddle pillow and say out loud, “C’mere, baby.”

When tragedy strikes, people often ask, “What were you doing when you heard?” In my case, since I’m a voracious reader of THE NEW YORKER, I can tell you that I was in the middle of an article by Nathan Heller called “Semi-Charmed Life” (14 January 2013) when I learned that Prashant had died in his sleep. A few days later, still reeling from the news, I eventually finished the article. The last paragraph left me breathless and transported me back to that first night I laid eyes on Prashant.

“At some point, it is late, too late, and you are standing on the sidewalk outside somewhere very loud. A wind is blowing. It’s the same cool, restless late-night breeze that blew on trampled nineteen-twenties lawns, dazed sixties streets, and anywhere young people gather. Nearby, someone who doesn’t smoke is smoking. An attractive stranger with a lightning laugh jaywalks between cars with a friend, making eye contact before scurrying inside. You’re far from home. It’s quiet. All at once, you have a thrilling sense of nowness, of the sheer potential of a verdant night with all these unmet people in it. For a long time after that, you think you’ll never lose this life, those dreams. But that was, as they say, then.”

LOST LITERATURE

Last month I dreamed about how things would end. A bunch of castaways, myself included, were perched on a promontory with stunning views of the ocean. (I may have “been” Boone, since Jack tried to save him twice, once successfully.) As we walked down a slight incline, the water receded to reveal a glorious beach cast in golden light (thanks to the energy source aka Magical Vagina?). All of us were in really good moods, knowing that the ordeal was over and understanding that the beach was somehow part of the reward. We talked about how much we liked each other’s writings, referring to the evocative names used for the characters: Locke, Rousseau, Austen, Sawyer, etc. 

EXCERPT FROM "THREE STRANDS"

red on black

black on red

in descending order

1-2-3-flip

 

the rain thumps its fingers on the roof

the cards click against her nails

her patience is a proud silent force

like her muted perfume

 

and I am so mesmerized

that I don’t budge

even when it clears up outside

and the locusts begin to beckon me again

 

cackling in their raspy voices

and my forearms stick

to the clammy surface

of the foldout table

 

so I am petrified that way

and long after she takes off

running after my sister

I am still there

CUNANAN MANIA

One day in May 1997, as I was mentally preparing to move to SF, I received a strange message:

“Hey, Mark. This is Matt. Greg was telling me about a news story he heard on the radio about some flaming homosexual from San Diego who was rampaging around the country killing people and who’s now apparently wreaking havoc in Philadelphia. Um, I was concerned that it actually might be you. So if it’s not you, give me a call. Otherwise, I’m going to call the police and tell them where to find you.”

Intrigued and alarmed, I turned on the news and instantly screamed to no one in particular, “Oh, I HATE that guy!”

Everyone in Hillcrest at the time had a Cunanan story. I used to see him at Flicks, which was basically a holding tank for Rich’s, the club next door where one might go to see a few hundred men writhing in a sea of spandex, Nair-ed flesh, crystal meth, and deep attitude. Although I usually steered clear of Rich’s (aka Bitches), Flicks still held a special place in my heart as the place where I used to watch “The Simpsons” on Thursday nights back when I didn’t own a TV.

One night in August of the previous year, David and I went to Mandarin House to have a civilized meal, sip a few (dozen) mai tais, compare our latest manicures, and—perhaps on a whim—stick the little umbrellas in our hair. David (aka Hilda) always tried to hide her yellowish-gray rat’s nest by twisting it into a severe Germanic bun that sat too high on her pinhead, but who the hell did she think she was fooling?

Suddenly, as David daintily toyed with his imperial shrimp and I suggestively sucked my asparagus chicken, we heard a commotion coming from the next booth. Even before I craned my swan-like neck to see who was loudly analyzing the ins and outs of rimming, I immediately recognized that blood-curdling laughter. (One of my favorite quotes about Cunanan went something like this: “If he was in the same restaurant as you, you would know it.”)

As I squinted behind my granny glasses, I saw Cunanan whooping it up with a similarly obnoxious, “moneyed” young man and two gymbots (appropriately attired for Rich’s in tit-hugging spandex) who seemed more interested in wolfing down free Chinese food than in contributing to the sparkling, butt-centered conversation.

At least one nearby straight couple had already asked to be re-seated, so the waiter politely requested that Cunanan keep his voice down. Cunanan threw a hissy fit: “How dare you, a lowly waiter, tell me, somebody important, to keep my voice down!” (Or something like that.) David’s eyes bugged out even more as I instinctively clutched my pearls and matching handbag. In spite of this confrontation, Cunanan happily paid for the meal with a flourish of his credit card.

Later that evening, David and I were at Flicks, coyly sipping our drinks (bourbon & 7, Cape Cod), when Cunanan and a considerably larger contingent of gymbots made their splashy entrance. As my face twisted into a sneer that can stop traffic, I spilled the dirt on Cunanan since David was a neophyte in terms of San Diego gossip. (As David put it, “Boy, for someone who hates this town as much as you do, you sure do know a lot of people.”) I’ve chosen to paraphrase my diatribe thusly:

“I HATE that asshole. Look at him, standing there in his designer sweatshirt (Polo or Hilfiger, not Versace), brandishing his credit card like a weapon to fend off questions about the source of his income. Those gymbots wouldn’t give him the time of day (if they knew how to tell time) otherwise.”

When the story broke (and then re-broke after Versace’s death), I chuckled to myself every time some professional Teleprompter-reader mispronounced Cunanan. What greater insult for a homicidal egomaniac than to have your name butchered after you’ve done some butchering of your own?

Clearly, the mainstream media botched the Cunanan story from the very beginning. But the gay press didn’t do much better. You know that it doesn’t take much to set me off about gay male body fascism, so you can imagine my reaction when I glanced at a friend’s Out magazine (I wouldn’t be caught dead with that rag in my possession) and encountered TWO references to Cunanan’s 38-inch waistline. The horror, the horror! No wonder he went crazy! Who could live like that? The reporter actually included this piece of crucial information while describing a crime scene, something along the lines of “among the items found was a pair of bloody Levi’s (size 38!).”

More generally, this whole sordid affair pointed to the difficulty of criticizing our own communities without resorting to a moralistic language. You know that I am the last person to raise a fuss about sex, prostitution, drugs, sugar daddies, etc. Much to my chagrin, then, I think I’m returning to an argument I made in my MA thesis about wealth and contested definitions of respectability. Whatever.

In any case, all the speculation about Cunanan’s returning to San Diego for Pride Weekend created such interest that the parade had its best attendance to date. Personally, the most poignant moment of Pride Weekend that year occurred when I saw a solitary man unofficially marching alongside the parade route and carrying a sign that read, “Remember Andrew Cunanan.” I heard that many people tried to dissuade him from bringing up this sore subject and source of embarrassment. As much as I despised Cunanan and everything he represented about gay culture, I must confess that I felt a little twinge of sadness. He was, after all, a “popular” member of our community who self-destructed and took five other people with him.

On a lighter note, the announcement of my imminent departure from San Diego in August was timed such that David came up with the following scenario: "Since you have an Italian-sounding last name (Cunanan's nom de bar was DaSilva) and you're supposedly moving to San Francisco (little did he know that my waist had been brazenly flirting with the number 38), why don't you throw yourself a farewell bash at California Cuisine and then make a cryptic statement about how people don't really know the real you?" Believe me, I gave it some thought, but I knew I couldn't afford it.

20 QUESTIONS FOR A CLUELESS WAITRESS

You know when you try in vain to get a server’s attention and your words hang in the air like a smacked ass, and you hope that nobody saw your craned neck, raised finger, or expectant eyebrows?

New York City: 1/1/93, 1pm. As is often the case in such day-after circumstances, my friend Ken and I were severely hurting for food to soothe the dissonant orchestras in our stomachs. After searching about six blocks while freezing our asses off, we ducked into a little dive called the Viennese Gourmet Deli, only to encounter a harried Russian waitress barreling towards us, waving greasy menus and yelling, “Coffee, tea, coffee, tea?!”

This is how Ken described her: “She wore a shit-brown polyester uniform that had slightly flared bottoms that strained to cover her frumpy, scuffed-up white shoes and her knees that pointed slightly inward. Her hair was straight, mousy brown, and pulled back in an unflattering fashion. Dry bangs parted in the middle partially covered her rather heavy eyebrows. Her complexion was pale bordering on ruddy. Her jowls were heavy and her nose pugged. I don’t think she knew any English other than restaurant English. She was the only waitress for all 12 tables.”

The stressed-out waitress threw our beverages on the table and took off running, so when Ken raised his head and opened his mouth to request Sweet ‘N Low, she was already gone in a cloud of cheap perfume and hair pins. Ken’s chagrined expression cracked me up. The food, when it finally arrived, was disgusting: oily omelettes, greasy potatoes, gritty pancakes, and cold/burnt toast. At this point, we were so hungry that we didn’t care. 

Our bodies were giddy to absorb these calories, so we started to get a little slap happy. Ken jokingly mumbled sotto voce, “Um, excuse me, do you think I could have another cup of coffee and TWO more packets of jelly?” I laughed, imagining that once again the waitress wouldn’t break stride to pay him any heed. Instead, she would simply continue to run around like a maniac, bump customers’ arms, write illegible checks, and leave food in the pickup window for over 5 minutes. (I timed it.)

As the conversation became more and more unhinged, Ken and I started to riff on ridiculous questions that we would pose to the waitress if only she would pause long enough for us to utter them. Ken asked, “Exactly how many calories does your lox & onion omelette contain?” I responded, “What do you think of NAFTA?” Ken cackled his approval and there was no turning back. We were on a roll, so this is where I’ll start numbering.

1. What do you think of NAFTA?

2. Is childbirth really the most incredible pain a person can endure?

3. Excuse me, do you write poetry?

4. Do you have a picture of your family? Can we see it?

5. What do you think of the pace of the free market mechanism in the former Soviet Union—too fast or too slow?

6. If I were a woman, would I look good in scarves?

7. Haven’t I seen you on TV?

8. What’s the difference between saturated and unsaturated fats?

9. Do you think I should gain or lose weight?

10. What position do you prefer in lovemaking?

11. If I were a wax model, which dessert in the rotating display case would most closely resemble my complexion?

12. Would you go up to the counter and tell that cute guy that Mark wants to marry him?

13. Do you know where I can get some really good X?

14. Is Russian toilet paper really like sandpaper?

15. Bottom line: How unsafe IS unprotected oral sex?

16. Do you think I should get a new muffler for my car or just wait until spring?

17. How would you explain variations in the galaxies if the Big Bang Theory was a uniform phenomenon?

18. Who do you think will be Time’s Man of the Year?

19. Do you think Woody really had sex with his adopted daughter in front of the other children?

20. Ummm, could we have the check?

P.S. Apparently, this greasy spoon is still there. Check out a recent review on Yelp:

http://www.yelp.com/biz/viennese-gourmet-deli-new-york

MUSIC TO MY EARS 2

From Chris Heath’s profile of Paul Rudd in May issue of GQ:

“Rudd’s conversation is littered with pop-music references. To be specific, while sitting in the diner today, he will introduce into the conversation the following artists, in order: the Style Council, the Boomtown Rats, Ultravox, Adam Ant, Nik Kershaw, Depeche Mode, Blancmange, Yaz, Alphaville, Aswad, the Adventures, Howard Jones, Limahl, Elvis Costello, Tom Petty, Seals & Croft, John Mellencamp, Squeeze, Boston, David Geddes, Neil Sedaka, Glen Campbell, the Bay City Rollers, Spandau Ballet, Visage, Fad Gadget, Feargal Sharkey, Erasure, Frank Zappa, Flat Lux, Duran Duran, Ron Sexsmith, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Wang Chung, Huang Chung, Go West, R.E.M., the Pogues, Hipsway, Curiosity Killed the Cat, Level 42, Haircut 100, Nick Heyward, Split Enz, Hunters & Collectors, Midnight Oil, the Hoodoo Gurus, the Proclaimers, Roman Holliday, the JoBoxers, Will Oldham, the Decemberists, Fleet Foxes, the Divine Comedy, the Magnetic Fields, Neutral Milk Hotel, Lambchop, Animal Collective, Television, James Taylor, Elton John, XTC, Sade, Status Quo, Marillion, Camper Van Beethoven, U2, Black, and the Housemartins.”

Reading this list caused some tummy flips of recognition. The words in boldface represent artists that have earned a place in my musical history. How about you?*

Since GQ pretends to be a heterosexual publication, the article didn’t mention “The Object of My Affection.” Also, inexplicably, it failed to laud Rudd’s work as the horny Lamaze instructor on “Reno 911!”

*We got spirit

Yes we do

We got spirit

How ‘bout you?

 

MUSIC TO MY EARS 1

A wondrous thing happened over the summer. My friend Ron got tired of repeating the same scene ad nauseam in restaurants and bars:

ME: I love this song!

RON: I have it in my iTunes library.

So he sent me a list of 7000 songs and said that I could have any and all of them. After much winnowing, I requested and received 619 tunes. (I remember the figure because it’s the “classic” area code for San Diego.) In the ensuing months, about 300 became permanent members of my iTunes family.

Listening to this music brings back so many memories that I’ve decided to start a series called MUSIC TO MY EARS. Ron’s gift has also produced lovely things like Lily’s Dance Party. (See previous entry.)

LILY'S DANCE PARTY

Back in the day, my sister and I used to do “the egg dance” in the living room. She (the egg whites) would dance in a circle around me (the yolk), typically to the accompaniment of several ABBA albums or the SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER soundtrack.

Anyway, since my sister is now raising her daughter at the old homestead, I was inspired to make a dance mix for my niece’s second birthday to celebrate that connection. It’s never too early to start with the dancing. (James and Ron always bring up the cookie dance I stupidly told them about.)

Gay uncles rule!

Below are the combined track listings and insert text.

LILY: MOMMY & I USED TO DANCE AROUND THE LIVING ROOM TO SOME OF THESE TUNES

1. ALICE EVERYDAY, Book of Love

Other girls with cool names you can invite over for tea and conversation.

2. PROVE YOUR LOVE, Taylor Dayne

Sassy big-haired diva dance. This chick had a huge mouth!

3. DANCING QUEEN, ABBA

Not my favorite ABBA tune but a classic nonetheless.

4. PLEASANT VALLEY SUNDAY, The Monkees

Fast, bouncy tune about living in suburbia. Jump around!

5. IF I CAN’T HAVE YOU, Yvonne Elliman

This song has it all: violins, French horn, flute…one of my all-time favorites!

6. CARS, Gary Numan

Maybe you can act out car-related movements in a trippy way.

7. COME GO WITH ME, Exposé

Ignore the stupid timbales at the beginning and the weak vocals. Just go with it.

8. KIDS IN AMERICA, Kim Wilde

Do a tough dance like you’re wearing a leather jacket and ripped clothing. “In your face!”

9. TRAGEDY, The Bee Gees

Why did I love this song when I was a kid? Bleah…

10. CRUSH ON YOU, The Jets

This reminds me of dancing with Liz in high school. You know her!

11. TOGETHER FOREVER, Rick Astley

I thought you needed to hear a baritone voice, for once.

12. LUCKY STAR, Madonna

Cool beginning, then listen for the claps and keyboard BOINKS on the chorus.

13. LOVE IS IN THE AIR, John Paul Young

Optimist anthem from Australia with nice ascendant line before each chorus.

14. IT’S A FINE DAY, Opus III

More optimism about tonight and tomorrow. Definitely trippy!

15. OH L’AMOUR, Erasure (Matt Darey Mix)

Start off in slow motion, then FREAK OUT! Could that be Cousin Nathaniel and Uncle Paul jamming on the drums?

Those of you who knew me back then may be surprised that I didn’t include my ultimate dance tune, Janet Jackson’s CONTROL. I agonized over this decision, but in the end, I thought it was a little early for Lily to hear lyrics about declaring independence from one’s parents.

WHOLE FOODS HYSTERIA

After many months of breathless waiting by the yuppie masses, the new Whole Foods outpost finally opened in Noe Valley on September 30th. BFD!

In honor of its two-month anniversary, I am proud to announce that I STILL HAVE NOT SET FOOT in that goddamn store. 

Yes, I've desperately needed milk for my pastry addiction on more than one occasion, but not free-range goat milk from New Zealand, extracted by sufficiently warm hands and candlelight. So I have to rely on Safegay (Church & Market), Se Fue (29th & Mission), or even Walgreen's (gulp).

I knew all was lost in early September when a crowd gathered to marvel at the re-paved parking lot, which was marked off with yellow CAUTION tape. Yes, like a crime scene...complete with slack-jawed dolts taking pictures. They had these weird, predatory smiles on their faces, like a wolf drooling and licking its chops in an old cartoon.

Of course, I promptly called Tommy to make snarky comments. He's my partner in crime, the Statler to my Waldorf (Muppet Show reference for you young people), and a fellow Noe Valleyian.

On opening day, I called Tommy to laugh at all the pretentious assholes promenading up and down 24th Street with their WHOLE FOODS bags. He confirmed my worst fears, reporting that he saw the same thing over the hill in the Castro. Oh, come on...do we need another status symbol? Are WHOLE FOODS bags the new children?

It's true that we should be somewhat grateful in this economy that Whole Foods has hired lot attendants to cut down on parking-related brawls. From what I've seen, they're really good at their job in terms of managing cars, SUVs, and delivery trucks. However, where they see a driveway, I see a fucking sidewalk! So they'll wave cars in without "noticing" that a pedestrian is walking in front of said car. Glare, head snap, tongue cluck!

I guess these annoying yuppies are the price one pays for living in a safe urban environment. I sometimes try to defend Noe Valley when people start ragging about "dodging strollers and leashes" on the sidewalk, but I find myself doing exactly that, especially during my Saturday morning routine (the subject of an upcoming entry).

Apologies to Seattle Matt for this rant, who currently works in the Whole Foods corporate office.

http://www.slate.com/id/2138176/

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/02/business/02food.html

CLASH OF THE TITWADS

After another scrumptious Friday lunch at Nopalito, I was waiting for the 24 at Divisadero and Oak in the middle of all that nasty construction, so parts of the sidewalk were blocked. I observed gleefully as two clueless shitheads barreled down the sidewalk on a collision course. The guy was texting, while the chick was walking her dog without keeping track of the leash extension. When they crashed and became entangled, I snickered out loud. No, they didn’t giggle, pop a mint, and fall in love as on TV. Instead, they threw each other major attitude. That is sweet justice for two of the biggest sidewalk infractions in my book. “You’re both at fault, asswipes! Deal with it!”