Soundtrack of Our Lives: VA, Offbeat: A Red Hot Sound Trip
F was a painter and a poet, but more important, he was hot. Truth was, I didn't care much about his painting or his poetry, but let me tell you what: His body? Was art enough to make up for that, no doubt. He wasn't my type, really; I'd been more into WASP-y, preppy guys with a touch--just a touch--of is-he-or-isn't-he gayness. F was lean and lanky with tan skin, dark hair. Tallish, in good shape. His calling card, however, was his sleeves--he didn't have work down the whole of his arms, but was well on his way. It was a total turn-on. But because F was trying to get a job and wanted to look "respectable," he often wore long-sleeved shirts to cover the tattoos, so I didn't get to see as much as I would have liked.
The story on F was that he'd done some modeling on the side, but his "real passion" was writing. He'd gone to B______ G____ and gotten a degree in creative writing, had something published in a literary magazine. That encouraged him and he decided to try to get a job writing. So after he graduated, he headed for Columbus, and moved into Ross's place (he and Ross had gone to high school together and were good friends) to get his scene together and see if he could make something happen. Ross was bankrolling F's stay; he really believed in F's talent and didn't want F to have to worry about rent or bills so he could concentrate on painting and writing and looking for a job. I'd heard a lot about F over the years, and Ross kept telling me that he was sure F and I would be a good match. (Historical note: This was way before anything happened between Ross and me.)
Ross asked us to show F around, make him feel at home. On his first night in town, Skinny Marie, Rareman, Ross, and I took F out to shoot pool and have drinks. F was, in addition to the hotness, nice and funny and smart, and we talked a long time about books and bands, skateboarding, his writing, his tattoos. Particularly fixating to me was this solid-blue star on his forearm. It was perfectly formed, sharply drawn. I instantly had a huge crush on him. Ross, having observed my insipid, giggly "flirting," came over to me and whispered, "Go for it. He's a little shy around girls, so you're going to have to be kind of aggressive." Aggressive wasn't my style, but I told him I'd give it the ol' college try.
Later, we ended up at Larry's and Skinny Marie noticed a flyer that said:
Poets & Writers Wanted!
Larry's Weekly Open Mic.
Got something to say? Say it here, Monday nights. 8 'til whenever.
She tore it off the wall and handed it to F. "Hey!" he said. "If I read, do you guys promise to come?" "Sure, absolutely," we all said. I could have listened to him read the ingredients on a cereal box.
And so it came to pass that we spent a lot of Monday nights at Larry's, listening to a whole host of bad poetry, and drinking a whole host of bad liquor in the hopes that the bad poetry would get better, which, of course, never happened. F's stuff wasn't bad; it just wasn't interesting; I never paid much attention to the content—something about wind, or the sky, or the curve of someone's neck? After every reading, he wanted to talk about it, analyze it with me. I wanted to tell him, "Honey, you and I both know that your pretty, pretty ass is the only thing anyone's interested in analyzing." But he was so serious and so genuinely concerned about what I thought of his work, I ended up saying bullshit like, "Yeah, I really … uh … felt what you were saying about the, um, loneliness and the train whistle." That seemed to satisfy him.
I put in my time at Larry's, and after a few weeks, my dedication was rewarded. It happened, one Monday evening, that Skinny Marie, Rareman, and Ross all had other plans, and I was the only one who showed up to hear F read. He was first up, and when he was done, he slid into the booth next to me and I was waiting for the, "What did you think?" But instead, he said, "You want to get out of here? Go to my place?" Well, for someone who was allegedly "shy around girls," I was understandably encouraged! I ran to the ladies' room to touch up my lippy (Cherry ChapStick), check to see what underwear I had on (black, and in relatively decent shape), and see if the Offbeat CD was still in my bag (it was).
I'd gotten Offbeat from James Pancake at the radio station a few months before. He was peeing himself because there was a rare My Bloody Valentine track on it that he'd been waiting for and knowing I was also an MBV fan, he got me a copy. I was also interested because there were some tracks from Skylab and DJ Krush, and upon first listen (downtempo, lots of good beats) it sounded kind of sexy, kind of like nighttime in the summer when you have no AC and all you do have is a box fan in the window that isn't delivering much relief and you feel a drop of sweat roll down the middle of your back. Or something. I'd recently rediscovered the CD in my collection, hence, the reason it was in my bag.
When we got to his apartment, F started acting kind of nervous and squirrelly. Remembering what Ross had told me, I suggested that we have a drink and listen to some music. He went to get beers, and I headed toward the CD player, where I put New Order's Substance (disc 1) in slot 1, Offbeat in slot 2, and Depeche Mode's 101 in slot 3. He came back and sat on one end of the couch and I sat on the other. We talked about nothing in particular. And he just stayed put! About three beers and eight New Order songs in, however, I started to get tipsy and antsy and was like, "fuck this." I reached over and skipped to the Offbeat CD and scooted closer to F. He kind of squirmed. I thought, God, I have my work cut out for me, and gave him my best "take me now" face (left eyebrow raised, lips slightly parted). He looked a little scared. DJ Krush's "Ryu-Ki" started slithering from the speakers, and I went for it; I moved closer, took his beer out of his hand, and said, "Do you want to …?"
"You know," he looked down at the floor, "I like you a lot—"
"I like you, too." I purred.
"And…well…I," he sat on the edge of the couch, "I think you're gorgeous, and—"
"And?"
"And we have a lot in common, but—"
All this talking was getting bothersome. "But?"
"But inuttleracktovoo."
The volume was up kind of high and I couldn't understand him. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not attracted to you."
And I heard him loud and clear that time because—and I swear to Baby Jesus this is the truth—the CD stopped playing. Just like that. Just kept spinning around fruitlessly, with no chance of recovery, much like my ego.
I fucking hate those star tattoos.
Various Artists, Offbeat: A Red Hot Sound Trip
Gift of James Pancake, Fall 1996
The story on F was that he'd done some modeling on the side, but his "real passion" was writing. He'd gone to B______ G____ and gotten a degree in creative writing, had something published in a literary magazine. That encouraged him and he decided to try to get a job writing. So after he graduated, he headed for Columbus, and moved into Ross's place (he and Ross had gone to high school together and were good friends) to get his scene together and see if he could make something happen. Ross was bankrolling F's stay; he really believed in F's talent and didn't want F to have to worry about rent or bills so he could concentrate on painting and writing and looking for a job. I'd heard a lot about F over the years, and Ross kept telling me that he was sure F and I would be a good match. (Historical note: This was way before anything happened between Ross and me.)
Ross asked us to show F around, make him feel at home. On his first night in town, Skinny Marie, Rareman, Ross, and I took F out to shoot pool and have drinks. F was, in addition to the hotness, nice and funny and smart, and we talked a long time about books and bands, skateboarding, his writing, his tattoos. Particularly fixating to me was this solid-blue star on his forearm. It was perfectly formed, sharply drawn. I instantly had a huge crush on him. Ross, having observed my insipid, giggly "flirting," came over to me and whispered, "Go for it. He's a little shy around girls, so you're going to have to be kind of aggressive." Aggressive wasn't my style, but I told him I'd give it the ol' college try.
Later, we ended up at Larry's and Skinny Marie noticed a flyer that said:
Poets & Writers Wanted!
Larry's Weekly Open Mic.
Got something to say? Say it here, Monday nights. 8 'til whenever.
She tore it off the wall and handed it to F. "Hey!" he said. "If I read, do you guys promise to come?" "Sure, absolutely," we all said. I could have listened to him read the ingredients on a cereal box.
And so it came to pass that we spent a lot of Monday nights at Larry's, listening to a whole host of bad poetry, and drinking a whole host of bad liquor in the hopes that the bad poetry would get better, which, of course, never happened. F's stuff wasn't bad; it just wasn't interesting; I never paid much attention to the content—something about wind, or the sky, or the curve of someone's neck? After every reading, he wanted to talk about it, analyze it with me. I wanted to tell him, "Honey, you and I both know that your pretty, pretty ass is the only thing anyone's interested in analyzing." But he was so serious and so genuinely concerned about what I thought of his work, I ended up saying bullshit like, "Yeah, I really … uh … felt what you were saying about the, um, loneliness and the train whistle." That seemed to satisfy him.
I put in my time at Larry's, and after a few weeks, my dedication was rewarded. It happened, one Monday evening, that Skinny Marie, Rareman, and Ross all had other plans, and I was the only one who showed up to hear F read. He was first up, and when he was done, he slid into the booth next to me and I was waiting for the, "What did you think?" But instead, he said, "You want to get out of here? Go to my place?" Well, for someone who was allegedly "shy around girls," I was understandably encouraged! I ran to the ladies' room to touch up my lippy (Cherry ChapStick), check to see what underwear I had on (black, and in relatively decent shape), and see if the Offbeat CD was still in my bag (it was).
I'd gotten Offbeat from James Pancake at the radio station a few months before. He was peeing himself because there was a rare My Bloody Valentine track on it that he'd been waiting for and knowing I was also an MBV fan, he got me a copy. I was also interested because there were some tracks from Skylab and DJ Krush, and upon first listen (downtempo, lots of good beats) it sounded kind of sexy, kind of like nighttime in the summer when you have no AC and all you do have is a box fan in the window that isn't delivering much relief and you feel a drop of sweat roll down the middle of your back. Or something. I'd recently rediscovered the CD in my collection, hence, the reason it was in my bag.
When we got to his apartment, F started acting kind of nervous and squirrelly. Remembering what Ross had told me, I suggested that we have a drink and listen to some music. He went to get beers, and I headed toward the CD player, where I put New Order's Substance (disc 1) in slot 1, Offbeat in slot 2, and Depeche Mode's 101 in slot 3. He came back and sat on one end of the couch and I sat on the other. We talked about nothing in particular. And he just stayed put! About three beers and eight New Order songs in, however, I started to get tipsy and antsy and was like, "fuck this." I reached over and skipped to the Offbeat CD and scooted closer to F. He kind of squirmed. I thought, God, I have my work cut out for me, and gave him my best "take me now" face (left eyebrow raised, lips slightly parted). He looked a little scared. DJ Krush's "Ryu-Ki" started slithering from the speakers, and I went for it; I moved closer, took his beer out of his hand, and said, "Do you want to …?"
"You know," he looked down at the floor, "I like you a lot—"
"I like you, too." I purred.
"And…well…I," he sat on the edge of the couch, "I think you're gorgeous, and—"
"And?"
"And we have a lot in common, but—"
All this talking was getting bothersome. "But?"
"But inuttleracktovoo."
The volume was up kind of high and I couldn't understand him. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not attracted to you."
And I heard him loud and clear that time because—and I swear to Baby Jesus this is the truth—the CD stopped playing. Just like that. Just kept spinning around fruitlessly, with no chance of recovery, much like my ego.
I fucking hate those star tattoos.
Various Artists, Offbeat: A Red Hot Sound Trip
Gift of James Pancake, Fall 1996
posted by Iseult at 4:44 PM
2 Comments:
Good one today. Hahaha, honey, you'll never guess who writes poetry and has a star tattoo. But that's why you married Mr. Right and i married my little porn star. That and that the fact that we've never met.
GNA GNA GNA.
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