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 Julianna Nope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Julianna Nope. 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
BACK IN THE SADDLE
Originally published on January 31, 1997
I am forwarding these two recent notes I sent to Steve (who has been remarkably steady in recent days after months of little to say), only because since I've been so busy and completely absorbed by Bracken's project my own e-mail generation had dropped to almost nothing. I didn't want you to think I had blown you off or anything as vulgar or self-preserving like that.
Quite the contrary. I've been feeling guilty and depressed that you've written interestingly on several topics that I failed to engage because of my current workload, while simultaneously neglecting my own hefty writing project describing those sordid details of the changing of the guard here at the Dollhouse.
Steve meanwhile weighed in with his interest in hearing more about the book project. You did not, but hey, you certainly caused a stir at the Situationist camp a few weeks back that I thought you might still appreciate a few details while they were still warm in the oven.
After a month of working diligently for someone else I had a few general Mac housekeeping chores to manage, a major crash to weather, and I am now on my eighth day of flu sickness without antibiotic calvary persuading me that the end of this misery is yet in sight. So I face the hiss and boos of the faceless crowd as I admit that still the first line of the "Great Storm" ending 1996 has yet to find its way to page, although this Sunday, Groundhog's Day will mark the first month's anniversary of Tim and Julianna's exile from the Dollhouse fevers.
Speaking of anniversaries, what day exactly do you turn 31 in all your sass and bosomly anthem? Have you managed to seduce a frozen Swede onto your corporate tab? Would you tell me if you did? You wouldn't be pulling a Jack, now would you Landry, all bathed in secret lights and bold rationalizations while flogging community standards with one hand tied behind your back and the other on a stack of sci-fi novels, with nothing but your feet and your mouth to accomplish the dirty deeds, now would you Landry?
Of course I jest with you, but you know as well as I do that in the eye of the hurricane, few details are lost. It's out there on the swirl that conflict states its name and bends the rules to suit its own game. But have a swell Minnesota memory. Nothing lasts forever, not even a Green bay Packers grin....
I am forwarding these two recent notes I sent to Steve (who has been remarkably steady in recent days after months of little to say), only because since I've been so busy and completely absorbed by Bracken's project my own e-mail generation had dropped to almost nothing. I didn't want you to think I had blown you off or anything as vulgar or self-preserving like that.
Quite the contrary. I've been feeling guilty and depressed that you've written interestingly on several topics that I failed to engage because of my current workload, while simultaneously neglecting my own hefty writing project describing those sordid details of the changing of the guard here at the Dollhouse.
Steve meanwhile weighed in with his interest in hearing more about the book project. You did not, but hey, you certainly caused a stir at the Situationist camp a few weeks back that I thought you might still appreciate a few details while they were still warm in the oven.
After a month of working diligently for someone else I had a few general Mac housekeeping chores to manage, a major crash to weather, and I am now on my eighth day of flu sickness without antibiotic calvary persuading me that the end of this misery is yet in sight. So I face the hiss and boos of the faceless crowd as I admit that still the first line of the "Great Storm" ending 1996 has yet to find its way to page, although this Sunday, Groundhog's Day will mark the first month's anniversary of Tim and Julianna's exile from the Dollhouse fevers.
Speaking of anniversaries, what day exactly do you turn 31 in all your sass and bosomly anthem? Have you managed to seduce a frozen Swede onto your corporate tab? Would you tell me if you did? You wouldn't be pulling a Jack, now would you Landry, all bathed in secret lights and bold rationalizations while flogging community standards with one hand tied behind your back and the other on a stack of sci-fi novels, with nothing but your feet and your mouth to accomplish the dirty deeds, now would you Landry?
Of course I jest with you, but you know as well as I do that in the eye of the hurricane, few details are lost. It's out there on the swirl that conflict states its name and bends the rules to suit its own game. But have a swell Minnesota memory. Nothing lasts forever, not even a Green bay Packers grin....
THE APPLE, THE WORM, THE DRIP
Hey Landry,
Jack was the one we all suspected was going to fly high, but somehow it always broke down with him. I don't know why specifically, although a major contributing factor in my mind is that crack thing he's got. A consistant need to pound drugs is obviously bad news for most gonzos. And like most gonzos Jack feels immune to these special dangers, and always feels like he can rise above any problems just in the nick of time. But time is merciless, and all I'm saying is I hope Jack steers clear of most of that garbage out there in his new start.
Yes, we had a little run in about that shit. He hasn't done it very often and I blew up so bad the last time to the point where he was obviously ashamed. If it happens again, I doubt I will give him a second chance. I just think it is throwing your money away in addition to being a waste of time. I am at a stage in my life where I just don't want to deal with that crap no how any which way, zero tolerance, no more turning the cheek in allowing lurkers to run roughshod.
Suzy and I are hopping the Amtrak up New York City this weekend to make the rounds with an old friend, Julianna Nope. Jack knows her at a distance. Up close, who knows anyone? We are each mere fractals of our true self.
Working on her doctorate in social anthropology—Jules just got notice of acceptance to Cornell—so she will be moving to Ithaca in upper state within a few weeks. The past two years at the New School have left at the freezeline of parental support, but this Cornell package carries with it an $8K annual stipend, so she’s set for pocket flash, but observes the town of Ithaca as an eerie hovel, full of strange hippy looking people, no strip malls, no 7-11s, nothing but a few docile streets, a couple of schools, and hills to kill for if one happened to be a skate punk. She’s not, however, and without a car, is already sweating the cold icy strides up and down those inclines, fretting she'll hate it, if she survives it.
Julianna is still rather gothic in appearance and outlook, can’t squelch the hipsterific riot grrrl stirring inside her, although she’s embraced an academic mindset, is quite the scholar, dean’s list et al, and seething to escape the stranglehold of her past. This weekend should be fantastic now that the heat wave in which we suffered 95-100 degree weather for three days straight has pissed off and new highs in the low 70s are expected. Her lower Lex Ave walk-up of course is slack on AC, and I suppose you don't have one either. I understand there are few of them on the SF Bay. But here at the Dollhouse climate control is ALWAYS a cool calculation.
Well, gotta go start some dinner. I’m blackening some salmon steaks tonight, although Tim is chewing top sirloin because he avoids seafood. The lad pays us a flat rate per as a dinner guest, so if living here boosts Tim's self-esteem and his sense of responsibility a notch or two as he claims and keeps him off heroin as he says it is doing, then I suppose we can all feel grateful that this particular opportunity knocked. His extra money helps keep us on monthly budget and out of hock, so it seems to be working all around, although of course I've had to stand firm on a few principles Tim would conveniently fail to understand, but I should brag in his name that these moments have been few thus far. I guess he's been here eight weeks on Friday. Jack only lasted three days when he returned from Germany, frying my patience before he bolted up to Diane and Adrian’s to squander his small forture with them.
Such are the crass ironies of a well-circulated life, eh Landry? Hope all this psychodrip suits you. It's what I do when I write, and when I am alone wrestling with my thoughts, or wife. My style often takes the form of a complaint. But in all honesty, I am that I am...
GT
Jack was the one we all suspected was going to fly high, but somehow it always broke down with him. I don't know why specifically, although a major contributing factor in my mind is that crack thing he's got. A consistant need to pound drugs is obviously bad news for most gonzos. And like most gonzos Jack feels immune to these special dangers, and always feels like he can rise above any problems just in the nick of time. But time is merciless, and all I'm saying is I hope Jack steers clear of most of that garbage out there in his new start.
Yes, we had a little run in about that shit. He hasn't done it very often and I blew up so bad the last time to the point where he was obviously ashamed. If it happens again, I doubt I will give him a second chance. I just think it is throwing your money away in addition to being a waste of time. I am at a stage in my life where I just don't want to deal with that crap no how any which way, zero tolerance, no more turning the cheek in allowing lurkers to run roughshod.
Suzy and I are hopping the Amtrak up New York City this weekend to make the rounds with an old friend, Julianna Nope. Jack knows her at a distance. Up close, who knows anyone? We are each mere fractals of our true self.
Working on her doctorate in social anthropology—Jules just got notice of acceptance to Cornell—so she will be moving to Ithaca in upper state within a few weeks. The past two years at the New School have left at the freezeline of parental support, but this Cornell package carries with it an $8K annual stipend, so she’s set for pocket flash, but observes the town of Ithaca as an eerie hovel, full of strange hippy looking people, no strip malls, no 7-11s, nothing but a few docile streets, a couple of schools, and hills to kill for if one happened to be a skate punk. She’s not, however, and without a car, is already sweating the cold icy strides up and down those inclines, fretting she'll hate it, if she survives it.
Julianna is still rather gothic in appearance and outlook, can’t squelch the hipsterific riot grrrl stirring inside her, although she’s embraced an academic mindset, is quite the scholar, dean’s list et al, and seething to escape the stranglehold of her past. This weekend should be fantastic now that the heat wave in which we suffered 95-100 degree weather for three days straight has pissed off and new highs in the low 70s are expected. Her lower Lex Ave walk-up of course is slack on AC, and I suppose you don't have one either. I understand there are few of them on the SF Bay. But here at the Dollhouse climate control is ALWAYS a cool calculation.
Well, gotta go start some dinner. I’m blackening some salmon steaks tonight, although Tim is chewing top sirloin because he avoids seafood. The lad pays us a flat rate per as a dinner guest, so if living here boosts Tim's self-esteem and his sense of responsibility a notch or two as he claims and keeps him off heroin as he says it is doing, then I suppose we can all feel grateful that this particular opportunity knocked. His extra money helps keep us on monthly budget and out of hock, so it seems to be working all around, although of course I've had to stand firm on a few principles Tim would conveniently fail to understand, but I should brag in his name that these moments have been few thus far. I guess he's been here eight weeks on Friday. Jack only lasted three days when he returned from Germany, frying my patience before he bolted up to Diane and Adrian’s to squander his small forture with them.
Such are the crass ironies of a well-circulated life, eh Landry? Hope all this psychodrip suits you. It's what I do when I write, and when I am alone wrestling with my thoughts, or wife. My style often takes the form of a complaint. But in all honesty, I am that I am...
GT
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