A Sweet Poem from Someone Who Once Loved Me

July 2

• For Paula
  
  
  
  Parked, a small sub-compact
  
  to the side of the dark byway.
  
  Parked, like teenagers two,
  
  Tho their twenties they’re well into;
  
  Destined in fact for their respective nestling homes.
  
  
  
  Parked in near-pure innocent delight,
  
  Though dawdling thru *the Darling Buds of May* - -
  
  Yes, Tulips too, but face is most to face.
  
  Peach fuze fine and yee-lashes of lace:
  
  to sate the scentifaction of the chaste.
  
  
  
  So alive and glowing,
  
  The reserve of the yearning,
  
  Love in taste blooms,
  
  Blush in face consumes.
  
  
  
  Ten + 20 + 50 minutes slow - -
  
  
  
  Could she sense my affection was
  
  Starved, that night so long ago?

Carlos Garcia aka New York Boy

When I was in my early twenties, my sister was working on her doctorate at NYU. She lived in Greenwich Village right near Washington Square Park, at the corner of Bleeker and McDougal Streets.

She lived in NYC for about a decade, and while most of her apartments were the size of a cracker box, it was the best vacation destination ever. Location, location, location.

On this particular visit, I was with my friend Laura. We had a friend that lived in Brooklyn, so we were shuttling back and forth between his place and my sisters. One evening, we met my sister at St. Mark's.

St. Mark's is a street in the middle of the Village. It's kinda touristy yet funky good. The streets are lined with tons of little shops, restaurants, and street vendors. Laura, Beth and I were there strolling along and we saw this REALLY hot guy reading tarot cards for a couple of bucks. What does a gurl do when there's a hot guy giving card readings? Why, hell yes, she gets her cards read!

Let me try to do Carlos justice in my description. His skin was the color of caramel, he's wasn't thin and he wasn't fat, just beefy. He had the kind of soulful eyes that made you want to save him and be saved by him, all at the same time. He smelt the way the air smells right after it rains, with a hint of testosterone. And then he called me "mamacieta"

The only thing I remember about the reading was my sister standing behind me whispering "go back to school, go back to school" like she was the cards talking.

Laura and I agreed to meet him at a club later that night. We ended up spending the next 10 hours with him and his friend, just clubbing, and chatting and running around Manhattan. It was one of the funnest nights of my life. Carlos had lived in NYC all his life so he knew the insiders tour.

Finally, at like 7 a.m., they rode the subway with us back to Brooklyn. After exchanging phone numbers and addresses, Carlos and I had a very long goodbye. There was love in the air!

Unfortunately, Laura and I had to get on a plane home a mere three hours later. Ain't that how it always goes? Don't worry, it wasn't the last time I saw Carlos.

Carlos is a writer. He uses the alias Micheal Dantilleon, because, he said, "Carlos Garcia is Spanish for Joe Smith", but I'll tell you all about that later. I have the most incredible collection of love letters he wrote to me over the years. Perhaps, at some point, I will open the memory vault and share some with you.

Andy aka Movie Boy

Some of the most glamorous things that have happened in my life were when I was with my good friend Laura B. She worked as a scenic artist on the movie sets that began springing up in the Tri-State area in the mid-eighties.

One of the movies that filmed here was an exact remake of "Pretty in Pink" with all the same actors and what seemed like an identical script. It was called "Wild Horses" and filmed in Northern Kentucky, and in the Clifton area of Cincinnati. Both movies starred eighties movie princess Molly Ringwald and, shit, I'm having trouble remembering his name. He always reminded me of Perry Como without the singing...just the dull, no, not John Cryer...oh yeah, ......poo, let me google it.....got it! Andrew McCarthy, and my inability to remember his name pretty much sums up his screen presence.

Anythathurtmybrain, Laura would always take me as her date to work parties if she didn't have a boyfriend at the moment. This particular party was a pre-production party for "Wild Horses" at this restaurant in Northern Kentucky. We had a terrible time finding the place, because neither Laura nor myself knew nothing about no Northern Kentucky.

Since I was always in doubt of what to wear to these functions, I just always wore black. One of my few fashion tips: when in doubt, wear black. We arrived fashionably late, as we always did, not because we were fashionable, more like irresponsible.

When we got there, it was like another planet, Planet Hollywood actually. Lot's of beautiful people, including the stars of the movie. The only thing I remember about them was chatting with Anne Archer, who I don't think was even in the movie. For some reason, I got the impression that she was having a romantic affair with Perry, uh, I mean, Andrew.

Laura, with me in tow, headed straight for all the set technicians. They consisted of light people, scenic artists, set builders, and the like. It was actually a very cliquish group looking back on it. Most of them were dudes, and Laura introduced me to all of them as they sat around a table in a back corner. Last, but certainly not least, she introduced me to Andy.

Andy was from Chicago, living in town for the duration of the movie shoot. He was very friendly and I could tell he was interested in me, very interested. Unfortunately, I would rather die than be some out-of-town guys local squeeze, no matter how nice and handsome, so I pretty much ignored him. He spent the evening trying to impress me and win me over but didn't get very far.

A couple of days after the party, Laura called and said that Andy was still asking about me. It turns out that he doesn't just work for the set company, he owns it. He was Laura's boss, which makes no difference to the story, but I thought I would mention it. At any rate, she asked if she could give him my phone number. After getting three yes's and a no on my pre-acknowledge your existence dating quiz, (Do you have a job, Do you own a car?, Do you have your own place to live?, and, Are you married?) I agreed.

The next day, Andy started his campaign for my affection. He called and asked me to dinner. It actually turned out to be a great date. We went to Dee Felice, had dinner and listened to the jazz band. I ordered Jambalaya and remember being surprised by how spicy it was. Hanging out with Andy was really fun because he had great stories. He had worked with Paul Newman on "The Color of Money" and a bunch of other stuff that I can't remember. To this day, I still look for his name in movie credits under "construction coordinator".

At the time, I was living in Clifton in my little Mary Richards apartment, across the hall from Patrick. Andy would show up at my little ghetto apartment, and just looked so out of place in it. He was very wealthy, and wasn't used to such living conditions. It was summertime, and it was really hot, and my third floor walk up had no air conditioning. The TV had a hanger for an antennae, and you had to use a pair of pliers to change the channel. I loved every bit of it because it was all mine, bought, earned and delivered.

The other Laura, Laura C. had moved to Atlanta earlier in the year. She kept inviting me to visit and I could never afford to do it. I must of mentioned it to Andy, because the next time we were at dinner, he casually slid a thick wad of cash across the table. I, of course, was highly insulted.

After recovering from me almost slapping the shit out of him, Andy went on to explain that the money meant absolutely nothing to him, and so much more to me, why couldn't he give it to me. He said that his per Diem for the movie was more than I made in a week, and he wanted to be good to me. For the first time in my life, I said to myself "fuck this shit, I'm taking the cash". The next thing I knew, I was on my way to see Laura C. for a week.

When I got back, Andy was waiting for me. The movie was filming a scene at the bar down the street from my apartment. He wanted me to come and hang around, which I was weary of, because I felt like he wanted to parade me around for all his friends. So after much convincing, we went down to the bar, hung out in the movie trailers, where I drank way too much, mostly because I felt uncomfortable. We came back to my apartment, where Andy tucked me in, and left for the night.

The next morning, I had a hang-over like none I've ever had, except for the one I got in Cancun drinking too much tequila with Laura C. Once again, a whole other post. Anyway, on this particular early afternoon, I was sick as a dog. Afternoon turned in to evening and I was still sick. Andy called and wanted to go out, and I told him I was far too busy throwing up to do any such thing.

Two hours later, there was a knock at my door. When I opened the door, there was Andy with a dozen red roses, Gatorade, and a 32 inch color television. I still have the petals from the roses in a mason jar to this day. It was like I was dating the "Wheel-of-Fortune". He set up the new television, handed me the remote, and went into the kitchen and started making me chicken soup.

His gifts weren't just extravagant, they were also very thoughtful and sentimental. When I ruined my favorite pink sweater by spilling printer ink on it at work, a cashmere sweater would take it's place. At one point, after noticing I never wore much jewelry, he gave me an emerald and diamond necklace. I drew the line on that one, and wouldn't accept it, because I knew I didn't feel the same way about him that he felt about me. There would be other gifts I wouldn't accept, like a car because I didn't own one, and a better apartment.

At Christmas time, he gave me a silver key chain with a silver heart on it from Tiffany's. He had them engrave "always my love, Andy" on the back of the heart. I still suspect my ex-husband of throwing it away because, years later, my keys, that had been on the counter, mysteriously disappeared never to be seen again.

After we had been seeing each other for four or five months, the movie wrapped and Andy headed back to Chicago and on to the next movie. He still visited me on the weekends, either flying me there or him coming here. It's not that hard to live in different cities if you have money.

I know that he was very sincere, and probably would have changed my life completely, but here's the thing. Have you noticed that the entire post has been about material things as opposed to how much I loved him? Well, I noticed that too, and that really bothered me. I argued with myself that people love people for different reasons and theirs nothing wrong with that. Andy was a handsome, talented, smart and funny man, and I should have loved him. But I just didn't, who knows why? Maybe not having to struggle in life seemed like cheating to me.

Andy and I still chat with each other from time to time. I think he likes to check periodically to see if I've changed my mind. His birthday is in the middle of April, so he's on my mind this time of year, so it was a good time to tell you about him. Ahhh, April, taxes, cherry blossoms, and Andy.

Zen and the Art of Self Awareness

For the last week or so, I have been having what can only be described as an out-of-body experience. This is bigger than an epiphany, more like ten epiphanies at once.

I am not what anyone would call self aware, if I was, all of this wouldn't have shocked me. It's no accident, my total lack of self awareness, it's something I've worked on my entire life. To me, self awareness is almost a luxury, a self indulgence I can't afford. I've lived the kind of life where you learn to pick yourself up by the boot straps, suck up whatever the emotional soup Du jour happens to be at that moment, and move on.

Trisha has always said that "you can't go around things, you have to go through them", and it's always bummed me out every time she's said it because I know it's true. But I hate that shit, you have no idea how much I hate self reflection. Let me say that one more time, damn I hate that shit.

So, listen to this story. On this blog, I am lucky enough to have people that actually follow my adventures. This is different than just reading it, to follow it you have to actually set up an account, which in my short attention world is a real commitment. I appreciate my ten followers because they are my audience, and they are to whom I am speaking. Without knowing they were there, I probably would stop writing.

I used to have eleven followers but I recently lost one. The profile name was Noam Dplume, which to me was just a profile name and I didn't really read much further into what it meant. I don't know who half my followers are, so I just try to be myself, and hope I don't offend anyone with my base, twelve year old humor.

About a month-ish ago, I posted a rant on middle managers, which was fairly mean spirited. Soon after that, I lost Noam Dplume as a follower, and felt really bad about it. Ironically, it wasn't the face sitting or booger stories that finally ran a follower away, it was a middle manager rant.

It surprised me so much, that I went looking for Noam Dplume. All the profile description said was that she/he lived in the midwest and was born in 1942. So, now, in my head, I was sure that this was an older guy in his sixties who had spent his life being a middle manager, and I felt horrible about it. It became my personal mission to reach out in reconciliation to this poor guy.

The only thing else on her/his profile was that they were writing their own blog. It was called some Latin mumbo jumbo that I didn't know what it meant, and it had a picture of a flower. Once again, I read absolutely nothing into what the Latin might mean...details, details. The story was about this guys first love, of which I read the first two paragraphs, and, having the attention span of an eight year old on crack cocaine, moved on to my next thought.

(I'd like to state that having attention deficit doesn't mean I'm the one with the disability, it just means that everyone who doesn't have it is really fucking slow and I can fit entirely new topics into a conversation while I'm waiting for you to form your first sentence, kinda like I just did.)

My next thought was that the poor middle manager who was writing what could almost be described as a love letter to a woman he once loved, and she never showed up to read it. This made me even sadder, and I felt an even stronger connection to my once ago follower. To make it up to him, I became his first follower, thinking that this silent gesture would let him know that I, for one, had noticed his presence and his absence, even if no one else did.

That was about a month ago, and Noam Dplume never came back. I never read any more of the blog because of that attention span issue I have. Plus, I generally do not give much thought time to things after my initial impression. I like to go through life with no real facts, just vague impressions, things are so much more pleasant that way.

I had recently, by chance, ran into my old friend Zen, who has always loved talking to me in riddles, perhaps because he knows how shallow I really am. He's always driven me crazy, always talking in riddles, when I prefer that he'd just get to the point. I had noticed that for the last few weeks, Zen, whom I almost never heard from, or for that matter, really even thought of, was becoming more cryptic in his conversations with me than ever. I could tell he was becoming annoyed with me and my inability to understand him.

Finally, one day, Zen says to me "How about that Noam Dplume?"

"What do you know about Noam Dplume?" I asked him, "What does Noam Dplume mean anyway"

To which Zen replied "That's what online dictionaries are for"

So typical, make me go Google it for myself instead of just telling me the answer. It turns out, and perhaps you already knew this, that "Noam Dplume" means "no pen name", the writer is anonymous.

So, I say to Zen "Well, maybe I didn't know that fancy name, but I still knew it was anonymous",

"But what do you make of the Latin around the flower" he asks me.

Now I'm starting to freak out, the out of body experience has begun, and Zen knows it. How does he know about the Latin?

"I have not idea what the Latin means, and it's too much work to type it into Google, so I'm going to live without ever knowing" I tell him.

He laughs at me like I'm his student and says "Did you always love the story of the Scarlett Pimpernel?" I always did, it was true.

After much ado, Zen explains that the picture is of a scarlet pimpernel, which is what the Latin means. A Scarlett Pimpernel is a flower that closes up when bad weather is approaching. The Scarlett Pimpernel is the name of a romantic story, where this average aristocrat is meek and effeminate by day, but at night becomes the Scarlett Pimpernel, rescuer of damsels in distress, who love him by night but do not recognize him by day.

Ok, fine, so somehow Zen is following the same blog, maybe he saw the follower on my blog, of which Zen has been known to read from time to time. Then he asks me my opinion of the story, and isn't it strangely familiar, which, of course, I haven't actually read. So I mutter something about how it's about some guys first love, named Cola (hated the name, may be why I stopped reading), who was once the guys babysitter."

"Babysitter? What the fuck are you reading?" Zen says, and I realize that he really has read it and knows that I'm making this up. Apparently, there was no babysitter, and I have to confess that I never actually read anything that's not summed up in the first two paragraphs.

I put Zen on hold, and run to read the "The Story of Cola, My First Love" which by now is up to several chapters.

I couldn't believe what I was reading. Though thinly veiled, it was our story and I was Cola! Zen was telling the story of our love affair and it was so beautiful it made me cry. I'd forgotten all the things we shared, and had just moved on when it was over because it was too painful for me to reflect on.

Since reading it, I have realized so many things that I just never knew. It was almost as if Zen dragged me kicking and screaming to reflect on what was a really important part of my life. That Zen, he made me go through it instead of around it, without me even knowing where I was going! Damn that Zen and his riddles, he got me again.

Someday, when he is ready to share our story, Zen will leave the address to his blog for you. Until then, it belongs to he and me, and it was amazing.

David

I met David when we were both in the 10th grade, at a high school that seemed to draw the broken hearted. Most of the students were brilliant, but each had their own story about what had brought them to our high school. They came from all over the city, and represented the city in their diversity.

The first time I saw David was in the middle of the school year, he was new after transferring from another high school. He was sitting in an empty class room, by a window, with the sun shining on him, and I knew from that moment that we would be life long friends.

David was slight in stature, with huge green eyes and light brown hair down to his shoulders. I tend to befriend handsome men, I blame it on being a Libra. Anysuperficial, David, who never at anytime was called "Dave", was one of the sweetest looking boys, aura and all, that I had ever laid eyes on.

He was not what you would call out going, but most of his friends at school were women. Woman loved David and he was never without a date. But under all that window dressing was one of the most complicated souls I had ever encountered and it absolutely intrigued me.

It was different between me and David, and we both knew it, and we both valued it. That's where I learned how to be good friends with men and is the basis of most of the relationships I've had since. He once told me, when referring to my reluctance to allow men to get too close to me, that the Rolling Stones song "Ruby Tuesday", was really written about me, and that it would always make him think of me. Now, when I hear that song, it makes me think of him.

We spent a huge amount of time together over the next decade. David was an intellectual, which made him great company for me. I would go over to his place, or he would come over to my mothers, and we would bake, and pick at eachothers brains, and listen to music. We made fudge, cakes, cookies, and he introduced me to all the music that would guide my taste thereafter. He was very cultured, loved art, and loved to analyze things. My kind of guy.

I realized after knowing him for a while that he was really kinda sad. So beautiful, yet so sad, and I always wanted to protect him. I used to tell him that I was going to make him a t-shirt that said "still waters run deep" and make him wear it. On a cerebral level, boyfriend had it going on.

When I was 17, I moved out of my mothers place and into one of Davids places. He bought beautiful old buildings and rehabbed them. He was just finishing one in Clifton, at 333 Fosdick, (teehee, I only put that there so I could say "dick"), and charged me barely any rent.

He was still doing work on the upper floors, but I didn't mind, until this one day. I was in the kitchen, with my two cats watching as I tried to get the garbage bag out of the can to empty it. Suddenly, POOOFFF, right out of the middle of the garbage this huge grey rat jumps out and runs down my leg into the wall, while the cats just sat there and looked at me. I can feel those little claws running down my leg to this day. The exterminator came the next day. Other than that, it was one of my favorite apartments ever.

That summer, David's parents paid for him to go to India. He was gone a really long time and I missed him very much. When he finally got home, he told me it was a very strange trip. He had loved Nepal, but had gotten very sick in India. He never told me the exact story of that summer, but I know he was never the same after it.

While he was in India, he had gotten addicted to a certain substance, and pretty much got lost and stranded in India for three months. His parents didn't even know where he was. Something happened, and he got arrested, and his parents had to ask the American Consulate to step in and get David out. After that, I always thought of him as being spiritually fragile, and more tortured than before.

After a few years, I moved out to live with my boyfriend. David had began dating a friend we both knew from high school. Her name was Angie and she looked like an angel, small in stature, sky blue eyes, blonde shiny hair. Angie had had heart surgery when she was a little girl, and her skin was very pale and beautiful like porcelain. She was physically fragile, but spiritually very strong.

We must have been around 20ish when they fell in love, and after several years they got married. They were living on a farm in Kentucky, with their animals that both of them loved, basically living out the romantic dream we all chase and sometimes never catch. I was happy for both of them, but also relieved because he was in great hands and I wouldn't worry about him as much.

One morning, Angie and David are sitting in the kitchen. David told me later that he looked over at her and she was kneeling down petting and talking to their new puppy. She looked up and looked him straight in the eyes, and died. Just like that. Her heart gave out and she was gone.

David, needless to say, was absolutely heart broken. At that time, I was absorbed with my own life, having children and being sick, so we didn't speak often. I just figured we would pick up where we left off like we always did. Shortly after that, I heard from another friend of his that he was dating another woman and seemed to be doing OK.

A couple of years ago, I was at a technical trade show at Convention Center. I ran into an old friend of David's, whom I remembered but never knew very well. The first thing I asked him was "where the hell is David" because I had been looking for him for a few years but couldn't find him.

His friend, Carl, says to me "Oh, you must not have heard, David died last year." When they found him, he had bled to death sitting in his chair from a self inflicted wound. That broke my heart. His friends said they had worried about it happening because he had been in so much pain and grief after Angie died. I wish I would have been there for him because I know it would have made a difference. Not a day has gone by since that I haven't thought of him.

Tim aka Chicago Boy

In my very early twenties, my cronies and I hung out at two very specific bars. One was in Cincinnati, and the other was in Newport, KY. The one in Newport was The Jockey Club, which was, let's say, an alternative venue for the mostly punk bands in the region. It was on York Street, and will come up in many of my stories, it was such an interesting time.

One night, we showed up at the JC around 2a.m. The lights in the music hall were coming up, the employee's were cleaning up, and, as was so often the case, we were just showing up.

We're sitting at the bar, chatting with Shorty, who owned the place, having one last drink, when I notice that this guy was staring at me. Not just staring at me, staring me down. So, after ignoring him for awhile, it suddenly occurred to me that it was the end of the night, and I couldn't procrastinate the way I usually liked to. For the first time ever, and since, I walked over to his table, sat down, started chatting and that's how I met Tim from Chicago.

Turns out, Tim is a guitar player and his band played that night. He had dark soulful eyes, and curly dark hair. Man, this guy was all kinds of smart and sexy. He used to tell me that his parents would love me, and that just endeared me to him.

Unfortunately, it was their only night in town, and they had to leave for another show. So, after chatting for just fifteen minutes, I gave him my phone number, area code included, and said goodbye. As I left, I cursed the universe for it's lack of timing, and then forgot about it.

Three days later, my phone rang. It was Tim and he was in some town somewhere, and he wanted to call and tell me he was still thinking of me. From that day, for the next several months, we talked constantly. Our relationship taught me that intellect was important to me, and that there is nothing sexier than beautiful bodies and beautiful minds.

Through the years we managed to see quite a bit of eachother. We would either meet in Chicago, or he would come to Cincinnati.

My best memories of Tim are when we were in Chicago. A lot of the times, when he came to Cincinnati, it was for shows with his band. That meant I had to share him, spend time in bars, and cope with groupies, which always made me feel like I needed to be hosed down afterwards. It wasn't that I worried about him finding someone else, it was just so much work playing the whole scene, I hate that kind of shit.

When we were in Chicago, it was all about us. We would spend tons of time downtown, on Rush Street, listening to music, visiting the art museum, and eating at great restaurants.

The sex was really great too. But what I remember most about it is something that still cracks me up today. We were in his bed, in the throws of passion, and he asks me to sit on his face (I'm laughing while I write this.). Now, I am by no means a prude when it comes to the sexual arts, but for some reason, this just shocked me.

All I could think about was this old joke:
Q: How do you know when a woman is overwieght?
A: When she sits on your face, you can't hear the stereo.

And, then I started laughing hysterically. To this day, I will not do face sitting.

Tim and I enjoyed our time together and never had an actual falling out that ended the relationship. It just fizzled through the years, mostly because of my unwillingness to move away from Cincinnati. That's an ongoing theme with me and my romantic adventures. Although, I would not be surprised if Tim turned up again on day.

Carlos aka New York Boy Part 2

As you may have noticed in my previous post, I used Carlos's first and last name. Normally, I'll use first names only, but used both for Carlos for the following reasons:
1) I have only nice things to say about him.
2) Carlos Garcia is Hispanic for Joe Smith, and there's a lot of those.

Now, back to our story. Last we spoke, Carlos rode back to Brooklyn with me, and we said goodnight. Just a few hours later, Laura and I were on a plane back to Cincinnati. We had been in NYC for a week, and I met Carlos on our last full day there. Welcome to my world, that's how it works.

Carlos and I talked on the phone everyday for three months, and that was before cell phones. Our phone bills were ginormous. Carlos also wrote letters, old school. I've been looking for them for two days, and know they're here somewhere. What I did find was a picture of Carlos and me. I will post the picture as well, I just need to scan it in.

After about three months of phone calls and letters, Carlos flew to Cincinnati. Carlos had never been out of NYC in his entire life. Odd as it may seem, I know of another New Yorker who also hasn't. When I picked him up from CVG, he had a teddy bear named Mr. Pennington, who wore black rimmed eye glasses and a white collar with tie. Mr. Pennington, now 20ish years old, sits to this very day on the mantle in my bedroom.

At the time, I was living in Clifton near the corner of Vine and McMillian. My apartment consisted of one large room, a small kitchen, and two bathrooms. Yes, two bathrooms. I always think of it as my Mary Tyler Moore apartment It had natural wood floors, a fireplace with Rookwood tiles, and the toilet in one room, and a huge lion claw bathtub in the other.

So, one day while I'm at work, Carlos decides to take a walk to check out the city and see if he would ever want to live here. He had never driven or owned a car, which is the case with a lot of native New Yorkers. When I came home, he informed me that it only took an hour before he ran out of city. He also didn't understand where all the Hispanics were, and why was 300 Chinese restaurants Cincinnati's idea of ethnic food. It was after that walk that Carlos knew he could never be happy living in Cincinnati.

After that visit, the ball was in my court. Carlos tried to get me to move to New York for a really long time. He promised to love me and take care of me, and I totally believe he meant it. Something I should mention about Carlos was that he was very macho. This could be incredibly sexy, like how he always called me "baby", but it could also be annoying, like for instance, how he refused to sit anywhere with his back to the door. I think I was afraid that I couldn't function the way he expected his woman to be. Putting my destiny into someone else's hands was too hard for me.

We visited back and forth but ultimately knew that neither one of us were going to relocate for the other. After a few years we lost touch. If I could find him today, I know we would still be the greatest of friends. He's out there, on that island, somewhere.