this one's for stevie, wherever he might be

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spring 1991 (i think)

they lived on clark drive just south of wilshire, these three boys, in a pretty little salmon-colored stucco bungalow they paid too much for just so they could say they lived in beverly hills.

high-school chums, they'd all come out together from florida the year before--that's what steve told me as we stumbled drunk into his house that first night after having found each other at rage or somewhere.

he flipped on lights, showed me around, pointed out pictures of himself and his roommates accompanied by running commentary as to their personalities and characters that was as unsparing and offhandedly hilarious as it would later prove to be spot-on.

robert I was an ethereally pretty boy whose pictures mostly featured him on polo ponies--it was his family's money that allowed him and his friends to live on clark drive

and it was only later i'd find out his fragile, luminous beauty was the result of the way AIDS first shows itself in the very young.

robert II was this ralph lauren-model type with a sociopath's smile whom i immediately wanted

and i'd get my shot--the line that made it easy was, "don't worry, steve said it's ok," which turned out to be the lie he always used when he took one of steve's toys away from him.

steve, as appealing as he would've been anywhere else, was the ugly duckling of a very pretty house; try as i might over the next several months, i could never convince him of his beauty, his singular wit or his value to the world.

whatever--we fags all seem to hate ourselves for something or other. point of this post is,

on the very first morning i awoke in the house on clark drive, it was to bright sunlight and clean, white curtains flapping in the warm breeze above the bed, the smells of bacon and coffee, and the haunting strains of this song wafting through the air.

i lay there and listened, transfixed.

as its final notes faded into the ether, i got up, dragged on my clothes, wandered out to the kitchen to join steve, robert I, robert II and their respective tricks du jour, and asked

who the fuck was that?

the incredulous looks on their faces i'll never forget.

what can i say--i was new.

Madonna - Oh Father

100 things about mkf (part 1)

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back in the golden age of blogging [i.e, 2006], "100 things about me" was a standard topic on blogs everywhere, usually prompted by a request from some other blogger.

well, it's 2010, the golden age of blogging has long since passed and no other blogger has ever evinced even the slightest interest in my proclivities; nevertheless, this is a topic that has for some sudden and inexplicable reason [probably because i don't have fuck-all otherwise] captured my drunken attention this rainy night, so i'm going with it.

for what it's worth, here's the first installment:

1. while i'm considered masculine in LA, they'd laugh at that back in east texas.

2. if it doesn't have ice in it, i'm probably not interested in drinking it.

3. i'm the only person i've ever known who still lives like a bum after having made a shitload of money.

4. malign my honor and my expression of amused contempt will never change, but cut me off in traffic and i'll kill your kids.

5. unlike most people who see the mass of humanity as cattle, i count myself as part of the herd.

6. i consider imagine second only to blowin' in the wind in the contest for dumbest song ever written.

7. after having owned any number of high-end german cars, i'd stack the cheap toyota pickup i bought five years ago against the lot of 'em.

8. i am easily seduced by infomercials, which is why i try to leave my wallet down in the truck.

9. i bathe with irish spring soap because it drives my cat wild with desire.

10. whenever my next-door neighbor calls out, "hi, mike!," i can only smile and wave, because after ten years it seems impolite to ask him for his name again.

[stay tuned for 11-20, but don't hold your breath]