Realization

I used to be interesting.
I mean, I still think my daily life is rather thrilling and exhilarating, but it sure as shit ain't anything to write a book about! Which is why my blog up-dates are fewer and further between...
But the past twelve years! Now THAT was some crazy shit!
I kind of like the quiet stability and repition inherit in the constant interaction with my psychotic nieghbors and peaceful Over-the-Rhine / Cincy-arts-scene-saturated existance. And the sick, sick obsession with bicycles and their ability to save the world and absorb all of my free time.
The apartment beneath me, sadly, is no longer vacant. The new occupant of my building...is an Urban Sites maintenance man. And he is retarded. And he likes hookers.
The only one I've actually seen him with - and witnessed him pay - is a transvestite. A very young one.
The mac-daddy pimp who claims to be head of the Cincinnati Gang Prevention Task Force - and makes lots of $$$ doing it - lives beneath him.
I wonder if that works well for them?
Now, take a moment to guffaw and do your best retard impression. (C'mon - even the most PC of y'all has one!)
Now take that persona and moan erotically, with all the umph of a 50 year old man with down syndrome.
That is the noise that comes up through the vents in my apartment.
Well, when it's not drowned out by the pimp yelling at his women.
I lock my door more frequently now.
I really do have the best roof top in the city.

Red n Halloween

I cringed in horror, shrieking at the site before me
Red stood before me, poised daintily in a nude leotard with breasts. His obscenely hairy arms raised like a ballerina; the make-up so thickly caked upon his skin was on the verge of cracking as his smile widened with my reaction.
“What!? Didn’t you grow up with brothers and sisters, for Christ’s sake?”
“Yes, but I never actually saw them naked, let alone in drag.” Bad drag. Partial drag. The initial layers of undergarments meant to stuff and suck and perk in the right places is not a pleasant way to view anyone, let alone a hairy, lumpy man who makes for a hideous woman.
I’m trying to divert my eyes, but like a bad car accident, the intrigue is insatiable.
“Don’t go anywhere. I need you to zip me up.”
It’s really too bad that I’m incapable of writing the lilt in his voice. I mean, I think I can write dialects well enough to sufficiently paint a picture, but the flaming homosexual voice proves drastically more difficult to emulate in print, especially if said individual is not one who utilizes the exclamation “Girl!”
It’s quite a hoot, his constantly on-stage persona. Kind of…annoying. I was stunned to see the other side of him the week he was pissed off at me, moping and seemingly…real.
He was pissed that I couldn’t instantly drop everything to drive him to the grocery store when he was injured. (See "Red's Red" in previous posts) He was quiet, simmering. I expected explosive anger from him.
His voice dropped an octave. He avoided eye contact. His lilt vanished and a quick monotone utterance beget the mystery of his week-long anger: “I’m sorry. I suppose I over-estimated the quality of our friendship.”
“No. You just under-estimated how insanely stressed out and busy I was the day that you asked me.” After a pause and some thought: “And you under-estimated what a bitch I am. You are a very dear friend, but I’m selfish and my needs come first. It doesn’t mean I love you any less.”
That was a surreal moment. Is this a soap opera? Did I say that?
He struggled to restrain a quizzical glance in my direction. I’m not typically brutal.
I often wonder: when the day comes that I’m actually in a relationship, will I manage to be so honest? Or perhaps I’ll be less of a bitch if I ever love someone? Nah.
We didn’t speak for a few days.
But then Red needed to steal some tuna and beer and couldn’t bear to see my plants dying or the hole in my wall go un-patched and our love was rekindled. And now it’s Halloween.
Red was Glinda, the Good Witch. A large glowing orb of bright, white chiffon, topped off with a cascade of fire red spiral curls and an over-sized silvery crown.
I wore black pleather pants, a purple corset, a black and purple officer’s hat, and tended to light my balls on fire and twirl them as we glided down Main Street.
Most folks were lame and in street clothes.
We would’ve been a sight anyways.