Category: ultraphotographic

Tattoo U

The new tattoo. Another in my ongoing series of tattoos based on letterforms I think are beautiful. From a visual standpoint, I’ve been wanting something big, black, and smooth-edged that would peek outside of most clothing, but that I could cover up when I wanted to look respectable. As I was walking home from CBGB’s last night (this month’s Homo Corps, where I looked like an ass because I was wearing a suit and carrying a box of Jordan almonds since I’d been at a wedding earlier in the evening), I had this flash of inspiration that a letter with an umlaut on my back would be a nice touch, so that the dots would be visible above the neck of a t-shirt.

So I started looking at old-style serif typefaces, thinking that an “o”, with its off-axis center, would be very lovely. Just for kicks I started looking at some bolder sans serifs and other letters, and the Meta Bold “u” really looked outstanding. I decided to move the dots of the umlaut out to the sides a bit more than where they would sit if the letter were used in text, since it looks better that way on its own. Once I did, I noticed this lovely effect where the letter began to look like two simplified figures standing side-by-side, one reaching out to the other. A little precious perhaps, but that little bit of added conceptual value was the clincher. (see how a nerd like me can turn an otherwise kick-ass tattoo into a tedious exercise of over-analysis?)

This one hurt like a motherfucker. It was so much bigger and darker than either of my last two, and went right over the bony parts of my spine. The sensation of the needle in the soft parts of my neck was also extremely unsettling. It was so uncomfortable that this time I give myself at least two or three days before I start thinking about another.

Treats!

I worked my ass off this summer to try and stabilize the cash flow situation and earn enough to finally get a new computer and a treat or two. Now that some of the checks have started rolling in, I’m discovering just how much stress I let myself feel when I was slightly less dirt poor. A little cushioning can go a long way, it seems.

And I’ve also been having fun playing with the first of the new treats — my swank new digital camera. I’m still getting to know the camera and what it can do, but in the meantime click them thumbnail thingies to peek at some samples:

 

Me on the CouchMe on the CouchMe on the Couch
Me on the Couch
Holly in Motion
Jason and His Jaw
Joe and Jason
Mike in Motion
Mike from Above

 

I have HAD It!

One of the recurring themes of my sad, sorry life is my inability to find that ideal sidekick who’s just the right combination of brainiac, goofball, sidekick, hipster, nerd, sexual dynamo, little kid, and muse. Granted, I’m pretty fussy, but I can’t be the only fag in the world whose criteria are so inconveniently eclectic, can I?

Are you wondering if you’re the kind of fella I might like? Browsing around here in the RumpWeb will certainly give you some idea of the kinds of things that capture my interest. Of course, you probably wouldn’t even be considering all this nonsense if the things here didn’t strike a chord with you already. As far as the looks and style issue is concerned, see if you fit the bill by checking out the next page for some visual references.

NOTE TO THE OLD-FASHIONED: If you don’t want to think about this sort of thing, DON’T GO LOOKING AT IT! I’m not saying there’s anything smutty
ahead — there’s definitely not — but there is some pretty strong imagery best left to the eyes of those who care for it, and I don’t want to hear any clucks of
disapproval because you’ve got a hopelessly fifties attitude about my penchant
for other guys.

Continue reading “I have HAD It!”

Where All Men Are United in the Love of Chicken-N-Waffle

Eddie outside Roscoe'sRoscoe’s the name
and they call me the king,
grandmaster of the chicken
and the waffle thing.
I said read my lips and, friends,
don’t miss a word
‘Cause the grandmaster’s gonna
give you the bird!

Eddie and MattWhen I first saw Tapeheads, I nearly hemorrhaged from laughing during the commercial spot that the two main characters did for Roscoe’s House of Chicken-N-Waffles. I thought the idea was so crazy, so inane. It was a stroke of brilliance on the part of the screenwriter.

Boy howdy, was I amazed when I found out that Roscoe’s really exists. Actually,
there are three of them scattered throughout the greater L.A. area. When
I found out that I was going to be in L.A., I knew that if nothing else, I had to make a holy pilgrimage to this soaring tribute to entrepreneurial spirit.

Roscoe’s is mostly a soul food restaurant, with big hearty meals at good
prices. Despite a tantalizing assortment, I knew I had to have the #20 —
the “Carolina” chicken plate with a buttermilk waffle on the side. This was some good eatin’s — the creamiest butter, the thickest syrup, the tenderest chicken breast. If you have chicken and waffle, trust me: you really have to eat both at the same time. The combo sounds scary, but it’s truly delightful — hot, sweet, and rich.

This place is no secret, either. We showed up right before the rush, apparently.
When we left, totally satiated and deliriously happy, there was a huge line
down the street. Obviously, California cuisine can also mean biscuits, gravy,
grits, and — without a doubt — chicken-n-waffle.

An Entertainment Bonanza

Me and Mary and ElayneI don’t know if it’s possible to really explain Marty and Elayne. At least, I don’t think anyone could express exactly what it’s like to see them, to hear them.

Marty and Elayne are a husband-and-wife lounge act who perform nightly at a Los Angeles restaurant/lounge called the Dresden. This place is the toniest. It’s all brown velour walls and furniture and gold light fixtures. Circular booths and small tables surround a baby grand piano ringed with a counter and chairs.

Elayne sits at the piano with a pile of sheet music and a couple of extra Casiotone keyboards. Next to her is Marty and his stand-up bass, with a drum kit on the side just in case. Marty is the stone-faced protector of Elayne, the ethereal artist who lives through the music she plays. It sweeps her away, and Marty makes sure everyone respects that. Together, as they’ve done for the last twenty years, they wail out popular favorites and old standards. They don’t just perform simple smarmy covers, though. Every song is transformed into something unique, something unbelievable, something bordering on the incomprehensible.

Without fail, they start every song in a simple way, with either Marty singing in his pitch-for-pitch Sinatra voice, or Elayne in her own jazzy, high-frequency way. After a verse and a chorus, though, the fun begins. Elayne scats. She scats like a cat in heat. She scats in song and plays improvised, otherwordly riffs on the piano. Marty keeps the beat and keeps it strong, plucking or pounding away a steady rhythm that moves Elayne along like a runaway roller coaster. The overall effect seems pretty cheesy, but there’s something about it — something way beyond the humor and the impossible.

You see, these guys have passion for what they’re doing. They’re serious and it shows. If they were just going along in a happy state of shtick, I don’t think it would work. It would be too over the top. This is the real thing, and it makes all the difference. Their enthusiasm is infectious. Of course, I saw people in the room who were watching them with a superior, Lettermanesque shit-eating grin, but most everyone, the people who looked like they kept coming back, was having fun: they all really appreciated Marty and Elayne in a goofy way. Dresden is by no means a cheap gin joint. There’s no cover, but people wouldn’t pay those drink prices if the show wasn’t worth it.

Marty and Elayne perform a huge selection of tunes, mostly on request, like
“Girl from Ipanema,” “Staying Alive,” “Fever,” “Mack the Knife,” “Muskrat Love” and other crowd-pleasers. The most amazing number I heard of them all, by far, was “Light My Fire.” This transcended mere performance. I think it transcended mere music. With Elayne taking the vocal reins and the keyboards, and Marty on the drums, these two wailed away in a frenzy I couldn’t have ever expected. I haven’t seen musicians swept away like that in a looooong time. All hail Marty and Elayne, keeping the sanctity of the lounge alive!

Boogie Nights at the Moonlight Rollerway

When was the last time you went roller skating? I don’t mean sleek rollerblades, I mean four thick wheels, big orange stopper in the front, disco blaring all around you. that’s what happened to me and my friends at the Moonlight Rollerway in Glendale.

We were originally attracted by the novelty of going to the only rink in California that had a real organ player, but we found that it was the organist’s day off, and the rink was actually a time capsule from 1982.

Now in 1983, I was a regular patron of Skate Odyssey on Staten Island in New York. Moonlight had all the same elements that defined my early adolescent years — earth-toned rugs, slushees, disco balls, and “Jam On It.” They were even having a birthday party for some kid while we were there, and he got his own solo skate on the rink.

I would only sound gushy and totally retro if I spent too much time raving about the fun to be had here for four dollars, so I’ll keep it simple. We did a disco hokey-pokey on skates. We ate a big soft pretzel. We skated to “Double Dutch,” “YMCA,” and even Elvis. I learned I could still skate backwards, and my friend Monica, a Ph.D. candidate in religion and philosophy, was so moved that she stripped down to a catsuit to boogie on the rink. I’m sure all the twelve-year-olds will never be the same again.