Well it’s now Tuesday. A cipher wanders around the fruit stand. They misplaced their laptop and immediately came to me and Brian who were having a nice chat. The cipher wanted us to contact the housekeeper, who is on vacation and Brian is filling in for.
The cipher was on a different floor and was understandably anxious, though Brian and I had nothing to do with it. The cipher looks like my cousin Madelyn’s son Carl. It’s remotely unnerving.
Once again, the day started with a fine mist of a drizzle to walk through on the way to the Path train. Last night Bill and I watched John Oliver once again, then followed it with bits of Rachel Maddow and Auntie Mame.
The news from Rachel Maddow was a bit uncomfortable, and since I wielded the remote, I settled on Auntie Mame. That reminded me of an unfortunate thing that happened 36 or 37 years ago. I was going out with the ignoble Gus Mackenzie.
Gus was my first boyfriend. I may have been his entry into gay life, and I was an imperfect entry since I did not have much to do with gay life. I preferred to hang out at Maxwell’s with my gay and straight friends, and Gus was a closeted Jamaican fellow.
The memory is a but hazy but involved being at the bar in the Village called Uncle Charlie’s. It may have been Thanksgiving eve or even worse, Christmas Eve. In any event I was with Gus instead of my family and watched Auntie Mame projected on a large screen.
Everyone was laughing and I wasn’t. It’s not much of a classic and Gus was doing his best to get into it. I really should have been with my family though I did not know then that my mother was not going to be around much longer. I’d like to think it was 1989 but it was more than likely 1990.
Gus and I broke up a few months after that and I never had much contact with him after. We met up once. He was vehemently anti weed when we were dating, and a year or so after breaking up he was somewhat into weed.
I did take him to see Morrissey at Madison Square Garden and that was a good show. I went to a party afterwards on the Lower Easy Side and I don’t think Gus joined me. I did make out with someone on the roof but cannot for the life of me, remember who it was. Gus was very much into Morrissey which made sense then.
This morning while showering Moz’ Interesting Drug played in my head leading me to play the Bona Drag collection when I got to the fruit stand. I did contact Ignatious Mackenzie online in a social media situation. It was awkward and I regretted it soon after, I had forgotten what an asshole he was.
I was just looking Ignatius MacKenzie up on social media and could not find him so I guess it’s all for the best. But like a dog with a bone, I could not let it go and found him once again. And once again I regret it.
A Google Gemini rewrite as a Fran Leibowitz essay
It is Tuesday, a day which possesses all the inherent charm of a wet wool sweater and none of its practical utility.
I was standing near a fruit stand, engaging in a civilized conversation with Brian, when we were accosted by a cipher. I use the word “cipher” because the person was entirely lacking in substance, yet somehow managed to occupy an exorbitant amount of physical and mental space. This individual had misplaced a laptop—an invention I have managed to avoid for several decades precisely because it invites this sort of frantic, self-inflicted drama—and immediately demanded that Brian and I resolve the crisis.
The cipher insisted we contact the housekeeper, who is currently on vacation, leaving poor Brian to fill in. Why a person on another floor believes two strangers having a pleasant chat hold the key to their lost microchip is a mystery of modern urban life I have no desire to solve. To make matters distinctly worse, the cipher bore a striking, unnerving resemblance to my cousin Madelyn’s son, Carl. It is bad enough having to tolerate one’s actual relatives; encountering their unsolicited dopplegängers on a Tuesday morning is a cruelty.
Naturally, the day had begun with that particular brand of tri-state misery: a fine, dismal drizzle through which one must slog just to reach the PATH train.
By evening, the cultural menu was equally fraught. Bill and I sat down to watch John Oliver, followed by a brief, uncomfortable dose of Rachel Maddow. As the person holding the remote—a position of moral authority I do not relinquish lightly—I exercised my right to censor the impending apocalypse and switched to *Auntie Mame*.
This, of course, triggered a deeply unwelcome memory from thirty-six or thirty-seven years ago involving the ignoble Gus Mackenzie.
Gus was my first boyfriend. I suspect I was his formal initiation into gay life, though I was a remarkably poor tour guide, given that I had almost no interest in the scene myself. I preferred to sit at Maxwell’s with a proper mix of friends, whereas Gus was a deeply closeted Jamaican fellow who insisted on navigating the proper channels.
The memory is murky, but it places us at Uncle Charlie’s in the Village. It was either Thanksgiving Eve or, far worse, Christmas Eve. Instead of being with my family—a decision I regret deeply, as I did not know then that my mother had very little time left—I was sitting in a bar, staring up at *Auntie Mame* projected onto a giant screen. Everyone around me was laughing. I was not. *Auntie Mame* is not a classic, no matter how desperately the patrons of Uncle Charlie’s tried to convince themselves otherwise, and Gus was trying far too hard to enjoy it. I suspect it was 1990, though I prefer to blame 1989.
We broke up a few months later, which was a mercy. When I saw him a year or so after the split, I discovered that a man who had been vehemently, insufferably anti-weed during our relationship had suddenly transformed into an enthusiast. People who adopt late-in-life vices are always insufferable about them.
I did, however, take him to see Morrissey at Madison Square Garden. It was a good show. Afterward, I went to a party on the Lower East Side—I don’t think Gus came along, which was likely for the best—and made out with someone on the roof. I have no idea who it was. Gus, meanwhile, was entirely obsessed with Morrissey, a fact that made a depressing sort of sense at the time.
This morning, while taking a shower, Morrissey’s “Interesting Drug” began looping through my head, which led me to play *Bona Drag* the moment I reached the fruit stand. This nostalgic lapse proved fatal. I made the grave mistake of looking up Ignatius Mackenzie on social media.
It was awkward, immediate, and I regretted it instantly. I had completely forgotten what a monumental asshole he was.
Just a few moments ago, I attempted to look him up again, couldn’t find him, and thought, *Good, the universe has spared me.* But like a dog that simply cannot leave a rotten bone alone, I kept digging until I found him once more.
And, once again, I regret it entirely. The internet’s primary function, it seems, is allowing us to confirm that the people we disliked thirty-five years ago have not improved with age.