Tag Archives: Events

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I’m a bit of an organizational freak.

Some of you, especially those who have spent any amount of time on my blog, may find that hard to believe. I seem to flit from one location to the next, and the narrative of my travels soon becomes convoluted. I dart around like a homing pigeon with an ear infection. And also amnesia.

I’ve actually had people email me asking where the heck I was, because the posts on the blog had bounced around too many times for them to make sense of it.

Can you believe that? People asking me where I am! I mean, how the heck would I know?

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I’ve never been much of a sucker for flowers.

Ultimately they start to wilt, no matter how often you trim the ends. Inevitably they end up in the trash or the compost heap, a mixture of brittle petals and waterlogged stems. Flowers don’t do it for me.

But add a dark-eyed boy in the mix to hold those flowers? SOLD. I mean, come on – I’m not made of WOOD, people. A dark-eyed boy holding flowers is almost up there with a dark-eyed boy holding baked goods (which are the only two things I need to be happy).

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I don’t understand kids today. I’ve tried. But they are nothing like I was at their age. In my younger years, I did not swoon over effeminate beauties like Justin Bieber (we didn’t even have an equivalent in the mid-90s. We settled for a young Brad Pitt and we liked it). I did not have floppy hair. I watched black and white movies, was oddly obsessed with David Strathairn, and I really liked wearing sweater vests (it’s cool to be jealous, because I was awesome).

I was concerned about things, though. I remember that. Things like nuclear weapons and pollution and equality. Those memories of my youth, of a time when I got angry at things more substantial than some dude leaving his blind up on a plane, are what led me to Occupy Wall Street this past fall.

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I visited Occupy London on an unseasonably warm and sunny day in late October. In a paradox that is no doubt indicative of who I am, I stopped off at St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the Occupy protesters were gathered, before heading off to Spitalfields (the famed shopping district).
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I feel sorry for people who have normal friends.

I’m sure befriending normal people has its merits. It must be nice to go out to a restaurant without having to apologize to the family next to you for what transpires at your table. And having someone dependable who can pick you up from the airport because they are not, at the age of 40, stoned out of their gourd and watching The Transporter 3 (in this PURELY HYPOTHETICAL SITUATION), would probably save you a bit in cabfare.

But, damn, it must be boring. No giggling until you are doubled-over, breathlessly gasping, “I’m going to pee!” No late night invites to drag shows starring people who were invited to your wedding. No immature, tired innuendos when one of you is eating pie. How sad.

I prefer my company to be just slightly unhinged. Not terribly so, mind you (keep your moon-landing deniers – I’ve no interest in them). But if you tell me your new hobby, is, say, painting tiny little leather-clad gimps into beautiful landscapes, or force me to spend half an hour on the floor of my home while you gently perform sacral realignment on me (which involves barely touching my scalp), or decide that even though we’ve just eaten lunch, some Chick-fil-A  sounds like a really good idea, well, we are probably going to be friends.

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