From Guggenheim heights to the underground in one night

Story continued from this post. Read that one first.

The Surprise
Sipping my ice water, I looked around his apartment. He actually decorated the place in a tasteful yet manly way. I waited for him to get dressed for the party because he had on jeans, a t-shirt and sneakers. I asked him if he had to get ready. He said he was ready when I was. Oh. So he was going to wear that.

People are more formal in the south when it comes to social events. Especially with dress. In Atlanta, one does not go out at night wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Having become an adult in that city, I learned its customs. Now I always feel a little put out when my dates don't dress up at all. It says that they aren't interested enough to put away their NoFear t-shirt and maybe wear clothes that require some color co-ordination.

Wearing his jeans, HT lead me to his car. As we headed downtown he told me we were going to pick up his friend Violet instead of going to the park. Excuse me? Huh? Another woman is coming with us? So that's when I started thinking maybe this wasn't a date. He was just trying to be nice by bringing me to a party so I could meet more people.

"Violet has a really cool penthouse", HT explained the situation with her. She is an eccentric older French woman who used to hang with Andy Warhol back in the day. She was also in the movie Midnight Cowboy. She joined the church in the 80s but never married, so she goes to the over-30s singles ward. HT met her there and does odd jobs for her, he said he likes to help her out. She's an artist too so she helps him with his work.

He didn't lie. Violet lives on the roof of the tallest building behind the Guggenheim. She owns the roof terrace. HT gave me the tour. Her place was cluttered, simple and not very big but two original Warhols hung on her living room wall. I gaped in awe like a tourist. Then he showed me around the terrace overlooking Central Park and the west side. NY had never looked so beautiful. From this height, there was no dirt or trash. The light was brighter, I could see clouds. I couldn't speak.

Violet needed help sorting out her papers before she went to France for the summer. So HT and I were going to help her before we went to the party. We all sat on the floor listening to old records and going through her lawsuit files. Violet over-directed us in a silly way and constantly scolded HT for not putting things in the right pile. He and I laughed at her fastidiousness. Then HT went to make us dinner. I was having fun.

"Do you want to eat on the terrace? If we go out there now, we could catch the sunset." "Absolutely." HT and I went outside and pulled chairs up to the western edge of the roof. Violet stayed in the kitchen. We talked as we ate and saw the most glorious breath-taking sunset I've seen in years. The sun dipped behing the gothic sky-line as the lights from the buildings faded on, the trees of the park shadowed over. HT seemed a little nervous. He told me more about himself, what he did before he came to NY and why he was here. He pointed out the little ant joggers running around the reservoir. I leaned over the railing, arms spread-eagle pretending to be Leonardo diCaprio in Titanic. He chuckled. But I really did feel like a queen surveying manhattan from the towers.

That's the way to live in the city. Above the noise and grime. It was paradise. And I was with an interesting man telling me about his life. Did he bring me here to impress me? I was impressed. This felt like a date and it was going well. I wondered if I was charming him at all.

The sky quickly darkened so we went back in to get Violet. She had to put some pants on for the party. During the summer she just wears her g's around the house, with a loose top that's long enough to barely cover what needs covering. She told HT that she couldn't stay long at the party, he said he had to go to Williamsburg afterwards. I was glad to hear this because I usually hate parties.

The Party
In the car on the way, HT told me about his friend who worked for some law firm making big bucks. She has an apartment in the 50s near 9th Ave. When we arrived there were only a few other people. HT introduced me to the hostess. Then he wanted to show me her balcony. We went out and watched the boats drifting down the Hudson. After a few minutes HT went back in. So I followed.

The girl's apartment looked like a page out of a Pottery Barn catalogue. The beige page. Even the black and white prints on the wall looked like they came with the entertainment cabinet. She matched with her furniture too, as a non-descript blond wearing a white shirt and jeans. (I was over-dressed.) She came over to us on the beige couch and started talking to him, obviously ignoring me. She so wanted him. She told him about the CD that was playing and how that concert was coming up and they should go... Two new girls arrived, the hostess left to greet them. She immediately took them into the kitchen whispering.

Shortly after, HT went to go talk to someone else. Then two guys burst in. They made a big entrance laughing loudly. Both wore very trendy clothes and a lot of hair product. They were attractive except for their self-satisfied airs. Gross. These guys are in every singles ward. The hip hot boys who know all the girls want them, so they play it up as much as they can. They're God's hippest gift to women and don't they know it. But these two were worse than the usual. For some reason everything in this city is exaggerated. These guys acted more flamboyant and obnoxious and, of course, hipper.

I had one real conversation with a guy from California. We work in similar fields so we talked about that. I wanted to talk more but he went away and kept busy with several other girls for the rest of the night. Was he avoiding me? I didn't want to date him, just talk. Sheesh. Single mormon guys think you want to marry them if you say hello.

Time for a drink refill. Three girls stopped me before I made it to the kitchen, the close friends of our host. The perky-affectationed one said, "Hi. You're J, right?" "Yes. Hi." "Bet you're wondering how I know your name, aren't ya?" "No. Not at all" I thought: I'm not stupid, you were gossiping about me in the kitchen because your friend wants HT and he brought me here. I didn't say that but I'm sure my face did. Not that she noticed. She laughed and kept talking, something about herself acting and moving from Utah. Whatever. "Excuse me, I need more sprite."

Then I got cornered by a real oddball, a shaved bald short man wearing preppy clothes. He had a whiny voice and wanted to know if I went to church with these people. Then he told me all about his art. How the critics don't appreciate his work because he paints in the classical style of the Renaissance masters. He isn't avant garde enough for them. He hates critics who don't understand him... This part of the conversation was at least tolerable. Until he found out what I study--then he did what I dread most at parties. He wanted to talk about the pop version of my field. He does it as a hobby! He asked me if I knew about so and so. No. "He has a great blah blah, real life stuff, blah blah holistic, not like that useless stuff, blah blah. There is this meditation blah. You should read that book. It changed my life..." Oh?-- Kill me now.

Where was HT? Was it time to leave yet? I spotted Violet on the couch. I finally freed myself and sat next to her. I had enough. I was utterly drained. HT had abandoned me for the two hours or so we were there. This couldn't be a date then. Definitely not. No way do you leave a date for the whole night to talk to other girls. So I was not his date, I felt sure about that.

HT eventually came over to see if we were ready to go. Yes. We left. Going down the hallway we could hear another party. Their door was open. Violet said she wanted to go in. So she did, said hello to the hosts and made the rounds of everyone in their apartment. We waited for her outside. When she came back out she told us we weren't real New Yorkers because we didn't know how to crash a party. She used to go to parties with Jackie O and ... Can we go now?

The Drop-off
We went two blocks. HT asked if it was ok for him to drop me at the subway station. Did I have a metro-card? He didn't have time to go uptown and then out to Brooklyn for his other party. Violet said she could take the bus if he dropped her off at Park. What about me, "Is this ok, here?" The station was back at Columbus Circle. I didn't understand. I was too tired to comprehend what was happening. I just agreed. Fine, I'll take the subway. Nice. It was two blocks north and an avenue behind us. HT pulled over to the side of the road. He said, "Goodbye, see you tomorrow." I was confused. Violet said goodbye to me too. HT unlocked the door. It seemed that I was supposed to get out of the car now, here, on the side of the road. So I got out of the car and HT drove away.

Midnight on Saturday, completely confused, I walked alone to the subway station. I had the whole ride home to get angry. I know I'm not in the south anymore and many of those customs don't apply. But, I'm pretty sure dropping a person off alone in the middle of the city, in the middle of the night, is rude no matter what the circumstances.

By the time I got home, I was so mad I yelled when my roommate asked how it went. The only way this night made sense was if HT meant for it to be a pre-date and decided at the party he wasn't into me. So he dropped me off like that so I'd know that too. Or, he was a selfish jerk who couldn't take an extra five minutes to at least drop me off at the subway station because he needed to be somewhere else. He didn't call to make sure I got home safely either. It didn't matter what his intentions were, he was off my list! Unless he apologized at church, and could give me a very good explanation. Grrrr.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetic hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.


These shoes weren't made for walking!

Summers stink. I can't stand the heat and the humidity of this city, it's unbearable when combined with the smog. When you get home you have to wash the grey slime off your skin: it's soot mixed with sweat and ocean humidity. We don't get to sit in nice cool cars to drive to our destinations. No, we have to walk in the heat to the subway and go underground where it smells like urine and the air is stifling and even hotter. Then we get to cram into the train which may or may not have working air conditioning, squeezing ourselves between lots of other sweaty people. Not everyone in this city conforms to American standards of personal hygiene. Enough said. Then, when you get out of the subway and want to take a good deep breath, you gag instead. The city breeze smells like sewage and garbage. I heart NY.

I've always hated the summer, not just in the city. I don't like being out of school and most summers I worked full-time in whatever crappy, mind-numbing, cubicle hell job I could find. I even hate summer clothes. I refuse to buy them. I think pastel and khaki should be illegal colors and people wearing spandex should be arrested for indecent exposure. My repulsion for the season probably developed because I grew up in Miami where it's summer year round. Either that or I'm a closet Goth-girl who shrivels up in the sunlight because I want to be a vampire so badly I've made myself allergic to the sun.

Last year, my first summer here, I didn't have to take a cubicle hell job. My fellowship paid year round. That was so wonderful, I planned to get all my reading and work done and would be so productive. But then I found myself suddenly friendless because my buddies all left town. I had no one to go out with or to go see and talk to. I got cabin fever. And I couldn't even stand to go outside so I stayed in my air conditioned bedroom all day, every day. Predictably, my mood and emotional well-being plummeted, so this summer slump was particularly bad.

Enter my home teacher(HT). When we first met I decided I wasn't interested in him. He seemed boring and stiff and didn't catch my attention at all. The disinterest was mutual and we never talked other than polite greetings. Until HT started visiting me in April. The visits didn't change my opinion of him. But he listened to me, so I talked about how miserably my summer was going. He thought I was some kind of hermit because I never went out. He told me about the singles activities he went to and said he'd let me know when something was happening. I asked him to call me because I wanted to go. He never did.

In May we started working in the church garden. Only three people showed up on planting day: me, home teacher(HT) and an older woman. She could only stay until noon so she planted her box then left. HT and I went to the nursery to buy supplies then we spent several hours filling all the unclaimed boxes with seeds and growing things. I enjoyed it and didn't even mind the heat. HT got more intriguing. I actually saw him and realized he was good-looking, he has aquamarine eyes and a lovely body. I considered re-considering him. When we finished, he told me about a party for some people in the singles ward. Did I want to go? Yes. He said he'd pick me up at 6 so we could go to the park and maybe eat dinner before the party.

I had a date!--Central Park and then a party. Not too bad. This was my first real date in NY after living here 10 months. I was excited to have someone take me out, I needed something new. I got dressed in nice pants and a blouse and pretty sandals. I put on make-up and fixed my hair which meant taking down my permanent summer ponytail. I rarely wear make-up in the summer because it just melts off anyway. So this would be a special occasion.

He called me half an hour before 6 and asked if I could walk to his place instead, it was only 11 blocks. Um, ok. Weird. What kind of man renigs an offer to pick up his date? He was southern and that's not how southern men are raised to treat women! They're old fashioned when it comes to manners and I got used to that in Georgia. Maybe there was something wrong with his car? Whatever it was, I walked 11 blocks to his apartment in the heat with my pretty shoes that aren't good for walking. My clean feet and painted toes got dirty, after I washed them just for this date. I also got sweaty and my hair frizzed. All of this annoyed me. He had better have a good reason for making me walk after he said he'd drive.

Nope. He had no explanation. Nor did he apologize or act apologetic. But he let me sit for a minute before we left so I could cool off. After I cooled down in front of his air conditioner I decided I might be over-reacting. He gave me a glass of ice water. So, I let it go. I wanted to enjoy the evening.

The car tease was the first rude thing HT did that night. It all went downhill from there, deep into a trench of total disregard.

Stayed tuned for more...

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.


Groping in the Garden

Gardens need fertilizer. Especially when plants grow from a plywood box in an empty lot in the city. Now the winter has passed it's time to garden again. Our lovely garden and lawn is in the lot next to the church. It belongs to the whole congregation but only a few of us have done anything with it. Because I live very close by and don't work a 9-5 job I took on much of the gardening duties last summer, so did my home teacher(HT). Sometimes we worked together and we shared one of the larger plots. The garden did beautifully, I actually got sick of home-grown cherry tomatoes! A few weeks ago, HT told me he was going to buy seeds and asked if I wanted to share a plot with him again. Yes, I did.

My home teacher is good, you may remember him from this post. We're both single and we have too much in common for us to have a viable romantic relationship. And I'm not quite ready to get over last summer. We may or may not have dated. I still don't know but I hope we weren't dating because if so, he treated me in an appalling way. That's another story I am going to write. (This is not an empty tease unlike the last one.)

Regardless of the confusion last summer, we really became friends in January and weren't awkward anymore. He was dating Cruella and I had an internet boyfriend. We could hang out as buddies who compared our promising new relationships. We had some bonding moments. Then in March both of us got the big ugly rejection boot. This sent me into a period of seclusion (I started this blog) so I hadn't seen or talked to him in awhile. He left me a few messages about wanting to get together to plant the garden. I ignored him and everyone else.

Last Saturday, however, we had to do a primary party. HT asked me if I could help him in the garden afterwards. Yes. So when the kiddies went home and the sun shone way too brightly, we planted seedlings and seeds and fertilized and labeled and covered and watered. It's beautiful to get soil under my fingernails and to go home smelling like dirt and green things in Harlem. The garden is plenty big. The vegetable boxes are in the back end of the lot away from the street. Even so, the rows between planting boxes do not have enough room for two people. The boxes are small enough that one could go around the other side if someone blocked the path. HT didn't go around. Several times HT squeezed past me, taking the opportunity to put his hand on my waist or back. I noticed this because it felt so good to have human contact for the first time in 2 months, how long did his hand linger?--And I noticed because he never touches me. We don't touch. Not when we were maybe dating and not when we were definitely friends. So why now?

As I planted the strawberries, he looked over at me from the tomato box, and asked if I had heard from that Utah guy. I groaned and said "No," then continued to berate that boy's character for a few minutes. HT said something like, "yeah, Cruella too." Was that a smile on his face? The possible significance of his question completely went over my head as my mind spun with angry thoughts about Utah boy.

We spent 2 or 3 hours planting everything. We work well together because he doesn't do idle chit chat and neither do I. Instead we listened to the screaming children, honking horns, shouting adults, sirens and airplanes. Afterwards, when we finished locking everything up he asked if I wanted to go get something to eat. Since I had only 3 hours of sleep and needed a shower, I said "No I need to take a nap." His question was innocent enough, so I thought nothing of it. But I didn't have the energy to be with him, he tires me. He's so serious all the time, maybe that's why. I wasn't in the mood for serious and brooding that day, nor any other day.

I went home puzzled by the way he touched in the garden and asked my roommate what she thought. Did it mean anything? She said it probably did since we have been friends for awhile and he never touched me before. Guys who want to date their friends sometimes do that. Then I remembered that he asked me about utah boy. Barbara confirmed HT was likely checking my availability and also informing me of his. Ah, that probably explains why he asked me if I was going out later. It was a stupid question because I said no and then he told me he wasn't either because he had to work. So, what difference did my plans make to him? Ok, maybe he wanted to know if I had a date?

Ugh. I can't deal with this now, if he is interested. He had his chance last summer and he said no. I don't want Cruella's left-overs. Sure, she's materialistic so now the broke student who doesn't wear designer clothing suddenly looks more attractive? No thanks. He told me that when we met last year he thought I was cute but too quiet. I didn't tell him I thought he was so wooden and boring that I didn't even notice he's good looking.
He's no one to run from, but he's not a man to run towards either. He has a lot of problems, but so do I.

What am I going to do if he was trying to start something? Well, Saturday I chose to ignore his subtle overtures and took a nap. If he's trying to plant anything in my rocky soil, he needs to add some Miracle-Gro and wait. I need something more obvious to believe he's interested. Until he forces me to deal with it, these seeds ain't growing anywhere. For now, my happy oats are off to dreamland, where I'll pretend not to notice.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.


Celibacy is hip again? *Updated*

Welcome Morrissey fans and googlers. This post does not have the information you are seeking. But, having done the same search you have I can say that I found nothing useful on-line. Some rumors about a current love were discussed on the fan forum at Morrissey-solo.com sorry I can't find the link to the exact thread, though it was based on specious assumptions made by a dutch journalist.
However, according to the book by Mark Simpson,Saint Morrissey (which every fan should read), Morrissey is probably no longer celibate. He argues that Moz is no mystery, one need only listen to his lyrics to know what is happening in his life. This seems likely. Simpson writes that Moz probably had an affair with his driver and a former boxer during the Vauxhall & I album-writing period. Check the lyrics and liner notes. But according to the lyrics of his following album, released the next year, it was not a long relationship. The new album certainly sounds like Mozzer is in love (at least in like) with someone who actually returns his affections! And it's been many years since he has come out and said he was celibate.

You may be interested in reading my posts about the Apollo shows here and here.

**************** Original Post*************
Just a quick note. I've been getting quite a few hits from google and yahoo searches for "Morrissey + celibate", so I checked out the search results myself. I found this old Observer article on a growing celibacy movement. The article is from 2000 so maybe it was ahead of it's time, or maybe the prediction hasn't come into fruition. I don't know. What do you think?

Is Celibacy the Best Sex?

Here is a book review about a book on one woman's guide & stories of her celibate dating. It appears there is a celibacy movement among African American women. The review is every interesting.

The story mentioned that NY and LA haven't caught on to the growing phenomenon of "born again virgins", in my experience that is true, at least for the east coast side of things. But, I know a lot of people who aren't promiscuous because they don't think it's worth the risk of disease, and some aren't into casual sex because they say it's not worth the complications without the rewards of a relationship. I remember the way movies depicted sex in the 80s when I was a kid. When I compare that to the way single people I know actually live their lives, with few sexual encounters, there's a big disparity. I assume this is because our cultural attitudes towards sex have changed in the last 20 years or the movies lied. Do my readers have opinions on this? Please comment below.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.


The Bishop who cared too much

(My Homeless story is in the works. But I wanted to break the Mozotiny with this little tale. )

Many years ago, in a land far, far, away I had a very loving bishop. He was wonderful. When I went through a very rough time, he met with me once a week for a personal check-up or bishop therapy. He helped me put myself back together and then helped me through the "to be a missionary or not to be a missionary" quest.

The answer was not to be a missionary at that time. So what is the next thing a young lady recently graduated from college should do? Get married! My bishop didn't like to encourage his singles to migrate to the singles ward. He liked to load us down with 3+ callings to keep us out of trouble. So he took some extra duties on himself.

My dear bishop wanted to help me along towards the next life goal. He began with subtlety. Have I met Tom, the nice single guy in our ward? (The only single guy in our ward under 30.) Yes, I had met him. Bishop told me things about him. Things he thought we had in common, such as coming from a broken family. Tom was shy too. He also had a degree in something intellectual and smarty sounding. Blah blah blah.

I stopped listening and really didn't care to hear more. The bishop suggested I might like to talk to Tom. I told him no, not really. I found Tom disturbing. It was not just that he was unattractive (I've dated some of those) but he was creepy. Something in his eyes made me uncomfortable. He had an icky-ness and didn't seem like anyone I would want to be alone with, especially not on purpose. You know the type, one of those guys who would surprise everyone if he did manage to get married.

My bishop did not get discouraged, but he dropped the subtlety. The next Sunday he asked me what I thought of Tom. I told him honestly that Tom gave me the creeps and I had no interest in him. The bishop told me again about all of Tom's wonderful qualities. What a nice guy he is, he's smart, we've had some of the same problems....snooze. Then he asked me if I wanted to go out with Tom for dinner. What? Excuse me, what did you just say? I thought so, um, no I don't want to go out with Tom for dinner. But thanks for asking. (I wondered if this was Tom's idea or the bishop's.)

He didn't stop there, my persistent spiritual shepherd. He wanted me to get married and he wanted Tom to get married. We should marry each other! Tom might have expressed interest in me, or the bishop might have similarly assaulted him with a flattering description of me and unlike myself he acquiesced. Either way, the bishop stepped way beyond the bounds of his duties.

Since I didn't want to go out with Tom alone, he asked me another question. What if he and his wife invited both of us to go out to dinner with them? It could be a double date. Um, is this a dream or did you really ask me to go on a double date with you, your wife and a guy I don't like? Oh, but it was real and he was serious. Definitely, no.

And still, he persisted. Since I didn't want to go out out with them, what if they invited me and Tom over for dinner with the whole family? Well that's better, not only would the bish and wife be there but their four children and live-in nanny as well. Oh yes. How could I resist such a tempting offer? I'm sure Tom and I would fall in love while sitting at the dinner table: passing the potatoes, picking the flung bits of salad out of each other's hair, ignoring the honking toddler noises, staying out of the adolescents' fights, and praying that the oldest remembered to take her Ritalin. Despite such a sweet offer, I declined while trying to hide my shuddering fear.
Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match? Not. And no thank you.

Eventually, Tom got the guts to ask me out himself, but that's another story.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.


Hey! I lost my new moz boyfriend

Again. This is why I'm single. Only I could have 3 men hitting on me in one night, one whom I really liked and still go home alone. I did make it to the last Morrissey concert. I got in to see the second half after I blew all my cash on a fake ticket, then waited around for one of the scalpers to cave and sell their tickets cheap. No such luck. They all sold out. It was a game of chicken, the scalpers vs. the broke and scammed fans. They won. The last pair of tickets went to a couple who paid $100 each after Morrissey had already started. So how did I get in ...

When I tried to use my expensive fake ticket, I was politely escorted out the door with a few other dazed and taken fans. I decided to hang around outside just in case. Another girl and I chatted with an older scalper who had real tickets. Then this little blond mozboy wandered over looking bereft. We compared our phony tickets and discussed what losers we were. Only Morrissey fans could bond over their own foolishness. The nice gentleman scalper said he'd sell us whatever he had leftover for cheap. So he and I waited together.

Mozboy was a shy one, wearing glasses, a blue plaid coat, t-shirt, jeans and black shoes. He also had the Moz pompadour going on. Despite his look, or because of it, he was cute. When I decided to go to the ATM I asked him to tell our dealer, if he came over, that I'd be right back. The boy asked me if I had to go far because he could lay out the cash for me if it was too far. WHAT? Was he for real? I think my jaw hit the sidewalk and I said, "It's just over there. I'll be right back. Thank you."

When I returned, we were officially a ticket couple. People kept trying to sell us pairs. Our dealer disappeared around 9 pm. So we wandered over to the rest of the pitiful ticketless group. A drunk Englishman was shouting that he couldn't believe Americans steal from each other like this! He got a bad ticket too so he asked me for a sympathy hug.

While we were milling abuot, the FDNY came to inspect the theater for over-crowding. After they left, the manager pointed to me and boy (instead of the 10 other people) and said, "You two can buy standing room tickets. You've been out here a long time." What? No way! The others got angry and said they had waited a long time too. The man said "I've seen these two out here." We probably stood out as a bespectacled helpless looking couple. They said they'd sell us two bogus tickets for $47 each. No way--I only had 40 and they needed ID for plastic. I asked the boy if he could spot me some cash. He said, "Sure, how much do you need?" What a sweetheart. So I waited for him while his card went through.

Then we rushed inside. The usher said "What? Standing room, we don't have that." The manager told him to let us in. Mozboy found us a good place in the orchestra about 15 rows back. We stood together behind some big drunk frat-boy wall street types. They kept going to the bar so I took one guy's place. When he came back I asked him if he wanted his spot back. He said no, put his arm around me and told me "I think you're beautiful. Are you here with someone?" Then he kissed the side of my head and added, "We'll kiss after the show." Like the true gentleman he was, he offered me some of his drink. Ewwww. He kept touching me throughout the concert, taking my hand and kissing it or squeezing my arm. I never know what to do in those situations, my southern comes out and I just try to be polite. I guess if my new boyfriend wasn't a sissy mozboy he would've stood up for me. I really didn't care too much because Morrissey was awesome again. He's a drug. The more you get, the more you want.

After the show we walked out together. I asked him if he was meeting people. He said yes. I wanted to get his number when we got outside but his two friends were already there. Damn it. I got flustered. I thanked him for the money. He said it was nice to meet you and we shook hands and exchanged names. After an awkward moment with his friends staring, I said, "I guess I'll go home now." He said Ok. He was supposed to say something else. Whatever, so I started walking away cursing, then he said, "Will you be ok getting home?" This question always peeves me, I find it insulting--I automatically just said "Yes" and kept going.

Damn it. That was his play, it was weak and sorry, but I blew it. All I had to say was, "Let me pay you back sometime, what's your number?" I wanted to, I just didn't. Or, I could have said "I'm walking home, why?" Why is it so hard to say the right thing at the right time? Why does my mind go completely blank? I've been dating for 12 years!! I knew what to say. But no. I'm retarded and I'm going to die alone.

What a fitting end to my Morrissey week. I was conned, fell in love, shown charity by the Apollo, molested, and lost my love all in one night. The only thing left to say:
"Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. No hope, no harm, just another false alarm."

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.


Santa Morrissey? Wow.

After my second installment of Morrissey this evening, I decided to run behind the theater before the encore finished. Last time, I got there way too late to catch him. (Another fab show, by the way, they mixed the set list up a lot. A bit less energetic than Monday's but word is he has a cold.)

While the crowd clapped and stomped for more, I quickly exited the Apollo. I could still hear the last song playing as I walked up 126th. Morrissey's driver had parked his car right in front of the door, the engine running, and the lights on. The door to the back seat was open. Guards held the theater door open. There were barricades and security guards on the sidewalk and me, the only person there.

One of the guards said, "Any second now." Then the song ended and out came two men, one obviously a body guard, the other one...? Well, it could only be Morrissey. The man hunched over wearing a Santa Claus beard and wrapped in a tan, hooded raincoat. The guard held him around the shoulders and they rushed into the black caddy. One of the guards said, "He's a real shy one." That wins understatement of the year award. I watched in shock. I could see the shadows of Moz removing his disguise. Before the car pulled away I waved at the tinted window. Wow. It makes me sad for him and a little ashamed of myself. (I've met a lot of bands this way. I forgot he isn't like any other.)

I've realized why I loved the shows so much. Because while Morrissey was on stage singing, I truly forgot everything else. Like how I haven't had a good night's sleep in 4 years and I've lost 30 pounds from stress. And how everything I love sucks because I can't escape the exhaustion. Tonight I had a reprieve. That's what Morrissey does. He mesmerizes until all the badness from life goes away. I smiled, laughed, sang and was delighted for the whole hour. That's a rare and precious gift these days. Thanks, Santa? I'll try to go one more time. It's 4 blocks from my house, how can I not? Don't worry, I won't write about him again. Unless he announces that he wants to talk to the girl who waited for him outside on Thursday because he is madly in love with me and can't go on living without me anymore. If that happens, I'll let you know. ;-)

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.


Yet another reason I'm a dork

Welcome to Morrissey week, his self-proclaimed celibacy makes him relevant. This is another post about the show on Monday and I'm seeing him again tomorrow.

I am so ashamed. As my friend and I were going through security at the Apollo we could hear the opening band. My friend said, "That sounds like the New York Dolls." I agreed. When we found our seats, I looked onto the stage and saw a bedraggled, thin, old worn out guy in shades singing. Steff leaned over and said, "That REALLY sounds like the New York Dolls." I agreed then looked at the raggedy man on stage. He had to be in his late 40s-50s. He looked like David Johansen. What kind of 50-something yr old man makes it a career to impersonate him? I wondered if perhaps that was the real guy . . . Nah, no way!

Steff called me today with the news: The opening act for Morrissey on Monday was David Johansen (aka Buster Poindexter) of the New York Dolls. Duh! Morrissey was president of the New York Dolls fan club in Manchester for a time. He has also scheduled a New York Dolls reunion for a festival he is curating. My friend and I both knew this. But we didn't put it together. Even though we were in New York. Even though Johansen certainly does not have a busy tour schedule. (Sadly, he might have a day job.) I'm going early tomorrow so I can see his whole set. He doesn't look like he has too many years left in him.

Steff said that now she can die and go to punk heaven. I feel conflicted. I never saw the Ramones, so I'm not ready to go to punk heaven; but Joey is already there. If I died and went to punk heaven, would I get to see Joey Ramone perform? If so, then it makes sense for me to go punk heaven. But I wonder if he can he sing without the whole band? Probably not. What's a punk rock girl to do?

If I was getting some kind of action, would any of this matter? If a tree falls in the woods. . . . sigh

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.

A Love Letter to Morrissey, my fellow celibate

Dear Morrissey,
Now I understand. I spent years mocking your psycho-fans who like to call you 'the Moz' and dress like you and fix their hair like you. While I still think they are obsessive freaks, I can now empathize with them. I've never had anything against them (one of my best friends is one), but I didn't understand. I had never seen you play live.

I saw your show at the Apollo last night and it all makes sense. You are even better live: you sing better, you look better, and the dancing is most entertaining. Unlike the way you appear on video and in photographs, which can look rather silly, your performance was fabulous. Even the pink flowers hanging from your fly made sense, as did the way you caressed your own chest and swung the mic cord around like a whip in a suggestive manner.

Thank you for playing three Smiths songs. I especially enjoyed "There is a light that never goes out". The line, "if a double-decker bus kills the both us, to die by your side, the pleasure the privilege is mine' is one of the most romantic lyrics ever written. That's true love.
My best friend who flew up from Atlanta said she'd die if you sang "How Soon is now" but I'm relieved you didn't. No one but Johnny Marr can play that song. Can't be done. I'm glad you recognize that.

We had perfect seats on the first row of the first mezzanine. We didn't want orchestra seats with the weirdos rushing the stage, throwing flowers and crying (we couldn't afford them really). The crowd generally was very cool, and full of good-looking, stylish men with good taste in music. Except for the loser sitting next to my friend who stole her $30 T-shirt. He was not a real fan and did not deserve to see your show. He came late and sat there drinking beer the whole time while everyone else sang and danced and screamed. You should consider screening people before they're allowed in. Instead of getting a pat-down from security, they should give a Morrissey exam.

Thanks for adding the new guys to your band. They all looked so cute in their little mod-boy 80s suits with the skinny ties, especially the drummer with the little mohawk. The keyboardist and extra guitar added much to the sound that can no longer be called sissy.

We're sorry we missed meeting you. We understand you probably fear your fans and try to sneak away from the venue quickly. I would too if I were you. Your drummer was very sweet to us when we waited outside in the rain to talk to your band. We were the only people still out there when he poked his head out the door. I said, "you're the dummer!" because I am just so astute and erudite in such situations. He smiled and said "Yes, I am" then went back in. Later, when the band left the drummer thanked us for coming out.

Please don't cancel your tour before I get to see you play again Thursday night! That habit is the reason I haven't seen you before now. Although, now that I have seen you, I fear I may have crossed the line into freaky fanaticism. But I only have tickets to two of your shows, not all five. And I will never style my hair into a pompadour.

Love, JL the celibate

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.