Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

stories

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Yesterday as i was coming home from working at the coffee shop, i saw what i thought was a 2 dimensional cut out of a man in a business suit. I wasn’t exactly sure why there’d be such a decoration in the middle of Suburban Station, but it struck me as whimsical and i continued to walk by when out of the corner of my eye i saw the 2d-man move. As it turned out, he was in the middle of his daily commute, just like myself or anyone else i walked past. But when i looked at him at first, he had no character to him… his edges weren’t rounded and his face was struck in a single expression held as long as my glance lasted.

I think it was just the light. Have you ever noticed that some teevee shows look more like sets with people on them than others? Two that come to mind are Roseanne and Home Improvement. Either because of the lighting or the film used, the actors on both of those television shows never seemed to be a part of their scenery to me … they stuck out just like an actor on stage does, and the burden of suspending disbelief fell upon you as the viewer. Other shows like Cheers and Friends make the environment as much as a character as the actors, and so it seems as though we’re actually watching people living their lives, even though we’re fully aware that it’s a sitcom. In this case, the sitcom has helped us suspend our disbelief.

Even though the man was wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase, he stood out against the surroundings just like a magnet on a refrigerator. Was it something about him? Or, was it something about me?

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/01/1846001/

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I was jogging at about three minutes to midnight.

You see, i started off the night at Amy’s house, where there was a live band but where i knew hardly anyone. At about 10 i left Amy’s, promising to make it back for the ball drop, and headed to a second party at Karen’s. However, when i reached Karen’s house i found that i really didn’t know what floor she lived on, and stood on the porch dumbfounded for a minute or two, thinking i’d have to go back to Amy’s. Luckily, my friend Carlos showed up with no less than ten people in tow and proceeded to ring all four of the doorbells repeatedly until Karen came to the door to let us in. I knew slightly more people at Karen’s, but i found out that Carlos had arrived from his house party where nearly all of the Drexel Players had been stowed, so i eventually wound up there.

The Players were a blast, as always, and the highlight of my night was definitely a rendition of “Silent Night” done with a “Yo MTV Raps!” keyboard patch. However, when i looked at a watch (not mine, cause i didn’t wear one) i saw it was five minutes to midnite, and i had exactly five blocks to travel to make it back to Amy’s. After losing a minute to wrestling my way past a drunken gorilla-shaped acquaintance who wanted me to stay, i hit the streets at a jog. I nearly gave up halfway there, but i didn’t hear any shouting or anything, so i figured i still had a chance to make it. I go to Amy’s (almost breaking poor Tim’s nose when i flung open the door) with 15 seconds to spare on the countdown clock. Winded, i plopped myself down on a couch and joined the countdown.

That’s a story about jogging, which gets your blood pumping.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/01/1829297/

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Obviously i returned to my apartment in a slightly soaked state of dress, so i wasted no time in stripping down to my so-called ‘gay pride’ unionbay tee and some undies. I was actually about to lose one of the two (i’ll leave it to your imagination) since they were both damp when i looked out my window and saw someone standing directly in the window of the apartment across the street from mine. He wasn’t turned totally in my direction, but the cross-bar of the window-frame blocked out his eyes exactly so i really couldn’t tell whether he was leering at me or not. After scratching myself to see if i could get a reaction out of him, i grabbed my multi-coloured afgan (stolen from home) and wrapped it around myself so that it looked like some sorta of crunchy hippy dress. I figure, if someone’s gonna be watching me the least i could do would be cross-dress a little…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2000/12/1814378/

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The majority of that prolonged absence was taken up by a lot of traipsing around with Amy & Liz that involved one snowed in basketball court, two trips to 7-11, three slip and fall accidents, and a host of other fun events like Amy kicking snow in my face after i fell on the ground. Afterwards we repaired to Amy’s to eat nachos and watch her Ben Folds Five video, which we do every time i’m over there. There’s so much liquor lying around in her kitchen waiting for tomorrow night i almost got drunk looking at it. She bought this enormous jug of SkyVodka just for us to do shots of, or something. Obviously i won’t be blogging much tomorrow night…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2000/12/1814294/

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So, my mother doesn’t share stories from her youth too often, but there are three very infamous tales from when she was my age about David Bowie. You see, my mother used to be obsessed with Mr. Bowie. If you were to take my fanatical worship of Peter Mulvey, combine it with the awe in which i regard Tori Amos, and then send that all through my nearly frightening dedication to the cast of Friends, you might get to somewhere near how my mother felt about David Bowie.

Her one claim to fame is that she met Bowie in the Sigma Sound studio while he was recording Young Americans here in Philadelphia. At first this story was simple… her friend knew the percussionist, so they got into the studio and then Bowie came out and motioned vaguely in their direction. Over the years i managed to eek some more details from her, like the fact that Bowie was discussion a saxophone passage with David Sanborn (who played on the record). Then i learned (from VH1, which never lies) that David Bowie was on so much cocaine when he recorded in Philly that some of it is actually a blur to him now. I made sure to rub this in my mom’s face at every opportunity, but she’s trumped my coked-up-Bowie with a brand new detail divulged this weekend. Apparently, she got into the studio not because her friend knew the percussionist, but because the percussionist stepped outside for a smoke and asked if anyone had any rolling papers. Of course, my mother’s friend did have them, and somehow they got them into the studio, where her paper-possessing friend proceeded to vainly attempt to make conversation with a surely glazed-over Bowie.

Isn’t she a fun gal? I’m starting to have suspicions about why she doesn’t recall the experience too well…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2000/12/1787405/