Scenes from a weekend getaway:
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Category: ultraphotographic
We’ll Call Him Shawn
It’s amazing what a haircut can do to help morale. I think it’s because I cut my own hair (and have ever since I was fifteen — I’m solely responsible for all those asymmetric skater styles I wore in high school and college), and I usually end up doing on the spur of the moment when I feel the need for some kind of change that I can control. Or maybe it’s the feeling of letting go of excess weight. Or just the novelty of looking different after feeling a bit of a rut come on. Any way you look at it, I’m all easy-to-groom again and ready for the wash-and-go pace of my trip abroad.
Oh yeah, someone I chat with a lot pointed out to me that I haven’t even mentioned here that I’m leaving Thursday for a free week-long trip to Sorrento, Italy. [Insert warning of a week without updates here.] I’m helping a friend look after a group of her customers (among many other things, her company sells tour packages) in exchange for a week of free travel, food, and lodging in southern Italy. This is the same way I got to go to China and through the Panama Canal. It’s a sweet deal, and playing shepherd to a busload of tourists is a small price to pay for the change of pace.
But anyway, I shouldn’t suggest that I needed a haircut because I’ve been feeling rotten or anything. stressed yes, with sporadic mopiness, but not rotten. Amidst the frantic crush to get work and errands done before I leave for Italy, I had a fantastic weekend entertaining P.J. and Chris, who stopped by for a quick trip filled with record shopping, eating in bamboo-filled restaurants, and general carousing.
There were some moments of weird social dynamics to the whole situation. I mean, we all got along swimmingly, but P.J. and Chris are old friends who haven’t seen each other in a while, and who came to visit me after they had already spent a couple of days together in Philadelphia. 
To some extent, that left me a bit of an outsider to chunks of conversation they were having. Besides, they were in tune to the goings-on in all the record stores we visited in a way that I haven’t been in a few years, since moving from Boston back to New York threw off my connection to any flavor of musical scene. On top of that, I know them independently, through correspondence and phone calls and whatnot, so I also had to adjust to meeting each of them face-to-face for the first time. It’s an adjustment I’ve had to make many times when meeting on-line pals for the first time, but the extra layer of catching up they had to do threw me for a little while. I got over it, they got over it, we got used to knowing each other as meatspace pals instead of flirty online abstractions.
Them boys is fun, though, and we laughed a lot, looked at a lot of cute boys, bought a lot of records (well, all I got were a few zines and a Chicks on Speed EP of B-52’s covers), and goofed around.
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:
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Showing Skin
Earlier in the week, I posed for a photographer I met who wanted to shoot my tattoos. I haven’t seen all the shots, but here are the previews he sent me afterward:
Interior Decorating Triumphs
In happier news, I finally have pictures to show what the Rumpus Room looks like furnished. Loyal readers have probably seen the unfurnished version, but you can now see what I’ve done with the place during the last year. (Just so you know, I only made a very half-assed attempt to color-correct these photos. You’ll have to come visit to get the full effect.)
See Sparky Shoot
The result of too much time and film. All self-portraits, all taken in haste in order to finish rolls of film.
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.
Figures on a Beach
Venice Beach is a smorgasbord of friends and family. A few quick snaps…
Where All Men Are United in the Love of Chicken-N-Waffle
Roscoe’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!
When 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.