Originally published on February 24, 1997
Thanks for the gracious input. Nothing too grim. Saw Tim this weekend, partied with him after chasing around northern VA all afternoon and early evening looking for a batting cage with Steve and Suzy. He's got a new place up in NW, a rather typical sparsely furnitured male group house with Tim in the basement stocked with his own kitchenette and private entrance, paying less money than he was doing here according to Steve. I was so drunk by the time we got there I don't even remember where it was, but it was near U Street, 11th, maybe. The boy's finally hit the big time without the safety net of parents or parental surrogates. It was good to see him. Below is an excerpt I wrote just last week in response to a query from Peter Burris, another early but now somewhat distanced while still supportive pal of Tim's...
I will express my opinions on this matter within the context of the Dollhouse Fevers serial. In fact, you are the primary cause of the serial. You were the first to write me for details, or perspective on what happened, and I wanted to give you a clear unambiguous assessment of the whole event, those details directly leading up to, and those details only peripherally inclined, that made the January 2 Dollhouse coup a necessity. Eight parts. I'll resend the first two tonight, and include my commentary on your EVIL piece. Hopefully I will write the third installment this weekend.
And may the force be with you to RECEIVE, and thus read ALL. Meanwhile, keep the faith, and toss out the baskets. I don't know how you think we saved Tim's life. He paid his own way, but then he paid for his own departure as well. A little hint at the future: I'm not angry at Tim in the traditional sense. I was just frustrated that my mark on him was as shallow as warm backwash in a cold beer can. His influence on me was greater than my influence on him. THAT was not a good thing ...
Namely, I've cut back drastically on my alcohol intake, although my eating habits have not diminished so I really haven't followed in your path enough to boast a substantial weight loss. Meanwhile just keeping busy, feeling better about life. Have not heard a peep from Julianna, but I didn't expect too much from her, even after I e-mailed a couple of times alerting her that I hadn't found a Johnny Cash CD she’d let me know she left without, and then again when I did find and subsequently send it back by post. But anywaze, while painful as the event might seem at first glance, it was a good riddance purge of all clutter and ingratitude that kept me in high spirits, and now that Tim and I have at least reconciled to a degree, I have nothing to gain by pressing anger in any direction.
As I said, I wanted to write this narrative because that's what writers do, they write. I write. I detect and analyze every detail of my life. This may not make me a healthy well-adjusted personality (recalling our recent exchange on that topic), but then I gave up on that flimflam years ago, and simply embrace the spirit that drives me. Some might see it as evil incarnate, or barely functional escapism. Others just don't give a shiver. Meanwhile it was good to discover only this past Saturday that Tim had indeed landed exactly where we would have wanted him, upon his own two feet accepting responsibility for himself.
GT
Showing posts with label Dollhouse fevers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dollhouse fevers. Show all posts
Thursday, September 20, 2007
WHERE ARE YOU SLEEPING?
Orginally published on February 22, 1997
I sent this to Steve earlier this morning. Just to tide you over until I can focus on DAY 2 of the Fevers...
In other words, what is your current address? All I've got is that Taft Street number sequence. This morning early, after waking up in a fit of harrumph from an intrusive dream starring the "bar none kidz" Tim & Julianna, yes, after listening to them prattle on about how much they didn't appreciate this and that about how badly I treated them last month...of course Julianna was doing most of the chat while bringing out the PERQUACKY gameboard she wanted to engage with Tim, while strong silent type Tim was in the kitchen elbowing Sue in helping himself to the coffeemaker...
...I got busy in the wee scratching out postcards, postcards I threw together a couple of years ago on heavy stock with various old and contemporary photos of me, and of me AND Suzy, all embossed with a typical GT crytic title. Thought I'd send you one since I'd already addressed and stamped a batch, knowing you'd probably appreciate the younger Mohican Gabriel you may have missed.
...back to the dream. The "bar none kidz" had arrived at the back door together wanting to make amends, which in their vernacular, was to point out my unprovoked rudeness. At one point Julianna blurted out that she wanted the money she had spent on me returned, uh, she bought me a hamburger at Ruby Tuesday's on Monday's field trip to the shopping Mall (oops, that part of the story hasn't been written in blood yet!), and she came bearing a bottle of champagne the Saturday she arrived, but that pretty much sums up to the penny (well, gasoline to drive down) the whole of Julianna's financial support in 12 years of Dollhouse maneuvers. I told her to forget it, no way, no mula. How about her share in the $500 bucks we plunked down for limo, booze, and food when she was here?
She backed off with the wince of an illegal immigrant. Uh, geez, and I thought she knew how to make an argument. At one point I grabbed her in a bear hug, and walked her upright to the backdoor, but as soon as she was free she rocketed off on how she didn't appreciate being manhandled that way, and besides she hadn't played her game yet. In my drippiest sarcasm I mock the easily offended sensibilities of a woman scouring the AOL gutters as a submissive painseeking thrill artist while shoving this big fat lie of forever love up the ass of somebody she has known way to long to shaft like this. Meanwhile Tim is grumbling in the kitchen in his best Rodney King, "Can't we just get along" reasoning. I had finally had enough. I go beserk, trumpeting all arms akimbo:
"Wait a damn minute. I tossed both of you out of here, and I haven't invited either of you back and from the general sniff of things nor do I intend to, and yet here you are, making yourselves quite at home. Tim, get OUT of my kitchen! Julianna, PUT that board down. It's not even mine. It's Steve's..."
That's about the gist of it. I grabbed her up again and was making my way to the backdoor since she had once again adopted the diningroom table as her podium, before I woke from the sofa. Sharing this whole cinematic reel du force with Sue just a few minutes ago, with the summation that as bizarre as the dream sequence was, unfortunately, there's not much distortion in that version from what we both imagine, knowing them as symptomatically as we do, in how Tim and Julianna could waltz in proud as peacocks to the beat of their own hummer humming...
I allow myself to feel a slight remorse that I pushed the envelope of no return by taking a stick to old friends, but like your own proverbial red-face, it flushes and soon passes. Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer league one plays to win.
Guess Day 2 of the Six Day fever is overdue, but to borrow a phrase, I'm playing it by ear, having too much fun tweaking the nipples on my Macintosh laptop, my dream dancer...
GT
I sent this to Steve earlier this morning. Just to tide you over until I can focus on DAY 2 of the Fevers...
In other words, what is your current address? All I've got is that Taft Street number sequence. This morning early, after waking up in a fit of harrumph from an intrusive dream starring the "bar none kidz" Tim & Julianna, yes, after listening to them prattle on about how much they didn't appreciate this and that about how badly I treated them last month...of course Julianna was doing most of the chat while bringing out the PERQUACKY gameboard she wanted to engage with Tim, while strong silent type Tim was in the kitchen elbowing Sue in helping himself to the coffeemaker...
...I got busy in the wee scratching out postcards, postcards I threw together a couple of years ago on heavy stock with various old and contemporary photos of me, and of me AND Suzy, all embossed with a typical GT crytic title. Thought I'd send you one since I'd already addressed and stamped a batch, knowing you'd probably appreciate the younger Mohican Gabriel you may have missed.
...back to the dream. The "bar none kidz" had arrived at the back door together wanting to make amends, which in their vernacular, was to point out my unprovoked rudeness. At one point Julianna blurted out that she wanted the money she had spent on me returned, uh, she bought me a hamburger at Ruby Tuesday's on Monday's field trip to the shopping Mall (oops, that part of the story hasn't been written in blood yet!), and she came bearing a bottle of champagne the Saturday she arrived, but that pretty much sums up to the penny (well, gasoline to drive down) the whole of Julianna's financial support in 12 years of Dollhouse maneuvers. I told her to forget it, no way, no mula. How about her share in the $500 bucks we plunked down for limo, booze, and food when she was here?
She backed off with the wince of an illegal immigrant. Uh, geez, and I thought she knew how to make an argument. At one point I grabbed her in a bear hug, and walked her upright to the backdoor, but as soon as she was free she rocketed off on how she didn't appreciate being manhandled that way, and besides she hadn't played her game yet. In my drippiest sarcasm I mock the easily offended sensibilities of a woman scouring the AOL gutters as a submissive painseeking thrill artist while shoving this big fat lie of forever love up the ass of somebody she has known way to long to shaft like this. Meanwhile Tim is grumbling in the kitchen in his best Rodney King, "Can't we just get along" reasoning. I had finally had enough. I go beserk, trumpeting all arms akimbo:
"Wait a damn minute. I tossed both of you out of here, and I haven't invited either of you back and from the general sniff of things nor do I intend to, and yet here you are, making yourselves quite at home. Tim, get OUT of my kitchen! Julianna, PUT that board down. It's not even mine. It's Steve's..."
That's about the gist of it. I grabbed her up again and was making my way to the backdoor since she had once again adopted the diningroom table as her podium, before I woke from the sofa. Sharing this whole cinematic reel du force with Sue just a few minutes ago, with the summation that as bizarre as the dream sequence was, unfortunately, there's not much distortion in that version from what we both imagine, knowing them as symptomatically as we do, in how Tim and Julianna could waltz in proud as peacocks to the beat of their own hummer humming...
I allow myself to feel a slight remorse that I pushed the envelope of no return by taking a stick to old friends, but like your own proverbial red-face, it flushes and soon passes. Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer league one plays to win.
Guess Day 2 of the Six Day fever is overdue, but to borrow a phrase, I'm playing it by ear, having too much fun tweaking the nipples on my Macintosh laptop, my dream dancer...
GT
PING PING PING
Orginally published on February 26, 1997
Yes, it's official! Actually sometime early last week I got my rejection notice from City Paper stating both the editing and design jobs had been filled but please try again in the future.
By the way, I really appreciated your comments the other day about the Dollhouse Fevers serial. That rather dry response I muscled out did not really indicate the true boost to my spirits your encouraging words sparked. To the point, I've noticed an ample loss in energy that obviously relates to your comments...
"boy, I am really enjoying this. I know it is the telling of a true trauma tale of friendship gained and lost, but as a piece of writing it is absolutely wonderful. I await Day 3."
...in that after writing on the topic I collapse, physically drained, numb in body and spirit. Surely a strong indication of the intensely personal nature of the writing, knowing that those persons being profiled no doubt will read the very words which could only drive the wedge between us even deeper than the events discussed.
Trust things are have gelled on the homefront. While visiting with Steve this weekend at his local watering hole in Philadelphia, he blurted out that he had been carrying on this secret E-mail campaign with you. I suspected as much. That was as far as the revelation went, but it followed on the heels of his patented rata-tat-tat speedwhiz monologue which on this occasion was employed to explain that he wasn't addicted to alcohol, oh no, but that he was addicted to irresponsibility.
Ping ping ping—the roll call of topics zing past faster than even a sober mind can retain—without rhyme or reason—ping ping ping—life has a way of explaining itself under the influences of irresponsibility. But enough of all that. While writing this I've been watching Ricki Lake gushing at the surprise baby shower thrown in her honor, hosted by Joan Lunden. John Waters was there, gifts and videoconferenced goo goo...
GT
Yes, it's official! Actually sometime early last week I got my rejection notice from City Paper stating both the editing and design jobs had been filled but please try again in the future.
By the way, I really appreciated your comments the other day about the Dollhouse Fevers serial. That rather dry response I muscled out did not really indicate the true boost to my spirits your encouraging words sparked. To the point, I've noticed an ample loss in energy that obviously relates to your comments...
"boy, I am really enjoying this. I know it is the telling of a true trauma tale of friendship gained and lost, but as a piece of writing it is absolutely wonderful. I await Day 3."
...in that after writing on the topic I collapse, physically drained, numb in body and spirit. Surely a strong indication of the intensely personal nature of the writing, knowing that those persons being profiled no doubt will read the very words which could only drive the wedge between us even deeper than the events discussed.
Trust things are have gelled on the homefront. While visiting with Steve this weekend at his local watering hole in Philadelphia, he blurted out that he had been carrying on this secret E-mail campaign with you. I suspected as much. That was as far as the revelation went, but it followed on the heels of his patented rata-tat-tat speedwhiz monologue which on this occasion was employed to explain that he wasn't addicted to alcohol, oh no, but that he was addicted to irresponsibility.
Ping ping ping—the roll call of topics zing past faster than even a sober mind can retain—without rhyme or reason—ping ping ping—life has a way of explaining itself under the influences of irresponsibility. But enough of all that. While writing this I've been watching Ricki Lake gushing at the surprise baby shower thrown in her honor, hosted by Joan Lunden. John Waters was there, gifts and videoconferenced goo goo...
GT
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