It’s Monday, and you can probably figure out the date. It’s been a good weekend with Mike while Bill is somewhere in the Midwest? The south? I can see him online but cannot describe or name the part of the country where he is located. What part of the country is Nashville? I’m sure you know, but it escapes me at the moment.
The weekend was Mike and me, chillin’. A few episodes of Golden Girls were watched and I rented Pillion, which was, for me, a disappointment. Not as funny, not as romantic as I had heard. Mike is inching his way into the leather world and would like for me to accompany him. I just find the leather world too one dimensional and lacking in warmth and or humor.
There was a time, I’m guess about twenty years ago. I had a playdate with a man in the east of Midtown on the river. I prepared for it all day. Juan knew about it, Bill did not of course. I took a train to Midtown and walked east. I knocked on the guy’s door and was let in.
No warmth, or humor or anything resembling hospitality. I knew within minutes that this was not where I wanted to be and was back on the street soon after. I’m sure the inhospitable host was surprised. I remember calling Juan afterward and explaining what had happened. And a few months later, at Folsom East with Juan, I think I saw the geezer. I was immune to his glare and moved on with Juan.
I suppose the timing must be right for me to enjoy being in a scene like that. I had been around the scene but never so much as being in the scene. And when I attempted to do so, it never quite worked out. Mike prods and suggests and I am hesitant, since I am a sociable and humorous guy, and they are not.
46 years ago, I attended the Beatlefest with Perry Dedovitch. It was only a few months since John Lennon was murdered, and there was definitely a weird vibe to it, at least for me.
I thought Perry was so cool, and since he was known to smoke weed, I wanted to do the same. That Sunday night in the parking lot at the Meadowlands Hilton, I smoked my first joint and nothing happened. Nothing happened the second time either, but the third time was the charm.
I forgot where I was; it may have been in Perry’s van, and the universe revealed itself to me. Everything was funny, and all food tasted amazing. Driving around, me laughing hysterically and getting burgers with everything on them at the Dairy Queen on River Road in Garfield.
It was a simpler life back then. I was getting high all the time after that. A few years before my mother made me swear on the grave of her mother that I would never smoke pot. I swore, and then a year or so after, I proselytized for the weed.
I did not smoke in high school, though many other guys did. I was a bad enough student and did not need external stimulation to sink my grades even further.
At my desk I once again played the B-52’s playlist, followed by the Brian Eno remix of protection by massive attack and I also played the massive attack Tom Waits collaboration which came out last week. Then I started playing the XTC playlist and now at lunch wear Blue Danube is playing in my head as well as Kate Bush which could be the playlist I play when I go back to my desk
Does anyone have an idea what season will be tomorrow?
The witty Google Gemini rewrite
## The Geography of Apathy and the Geometry of Highs
It is Monday, a day whose date is easily deduced by anyone with a calendar and a functioning will to live. While Bill is currently drifting through a geographical witness protection program—somewhere in the South? The Midwest?—I find myself unable to name his coordinates. He’s online, visible yet untetherable, like a glitch in the Matrix. Someone tell me: where exactly does Nashville sit on the map? I’m sure I knew once, but the information has been evicted to make room for more pressing trivia.
The weekend was a curated study in domesticity with Mike. We paid our respects to the **Golden Girls**, though my attempt at cinema was less successful. I rented *Pillion*, a film that promised romance and wit but delivered the emotional equivalent of a lukewarm cup of tea. It was, in a word, a disappointment.
Speaking of disappointments, Mike is currently “inching” his way into the leather scene. He wants me to tag along, but I find the whole subculture a bit… structurally sound. It’s a world that strikes me as distressingly one-dimensional, a place where warmth and humor go to die under the weight of heavy-duty cowhide.
My skepticism isn’t unearned; it’s rooted in history.
—
### The Midtown Incident
Approximately twenty years ago, I embarked on a “playdate” in a high-rise on the East River. I spent the entire day in a state of ritualistic preparation. Juan was in the loop; Bill, naturally, was blissfully unaware. I took the train, walked East, and knocked on the door with the optimism of the uninitiated.
I was met with a void. No warmth, no humor, not even a perfunctory gesture toward hospitality. Within minutes, I realized I’d rather be almost anywhere else—including a stalled elevator. I was back on the pavement before the guy could even process his own rudeness. Months later, at **Folsom East**, I spotted the “geezer” again. He shot me a glare that was meant to be intimidating, but I was vaccinated against his nonsense. I simply moved on with Juan, leaving the leather-clad ghost in the rearview.
I suppose “the scene” requires a specific alignment of the stars that I simply don’t possess. Mike prods, I hesitate. I am a creature of sociability and sarcasm; the leather world, by contrast, seems to have a strict “no giggling” policy.
—
### The Meadowlands Revelation
My history with “scenes” has always been a bit skewed. Take, for instance, **Beatlefest** forty-six years ago. I attended with Perry Dedovitch just months after John Lennon was murdered. The vibe was, to put it mildly, deeply weird.
Perry was the pinnacle of cool, mostly because he smoked weed. Naturally, I wanted in. That Sunday night, in the parking lot of the Meadowlands Hilton, I attempted to ascend. The first joint did nothing. The second was equally silent. But the third? The third was the charm.
Suddenly, the universe didn’t just reveal itself; it did a stand-up routine. I lost track of where I was—possibly Perry’s van, possibly the astral plane—but everything was riotously funny. We ended up at a **Dairy Queen** on River Road in Garfield, where I ordered burgers with “everything” and experienced a culinary epiphany that only a nineteen-year-old with zero GPA-related stress could enjoy.
I had spent my youth promising my mother, over her own mother’s grave, that I would never touch the stuff. A year later, I wasn’t just touching it; I was its primary spokesperson. I avoided it in high school mostly because my grades were already doing a fine job of sinking into the abyss without any pharmacological help.
—
### The Desk Side Symphony
Today, my desk is a sonic battlefield. I began with the **B-52’s**, pivoted to the **Brian Eno** remix of *Protection* by Massive Attack, and moved into the brand-new Massive Attack/Tom Waits collaboration. Now, as I sit at lunch, the *Blue Danube* is waltzing through my head, competing with **Kate Bush** for dominance.
It’s a chaotic playlist for a chaotic world. I’ll likely return to Kate when I get back to my desk, searching for some sensible rhythm in a Monday that feels like a Tuesday.
Which brings me to the ultimate question: does anyone actually know what season it’s supposed to be tomorrow? At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s Autumn in the morning and a nuclear winter by tea time.
Does the “leather world” at least have better snacks than that Dairy Queen?