Live

"Are we moving in the right direction? What is fate if faith's emerged a shame...?"

So crooned Bitter:Sweet from my PC as I slowly rubbed Burberry's 'The Beat' into the hollow of my neck....


Under regular circumstances, I'd take you down a long paragraph, relating my insecurities and apprehensions about the evening to follow, but I really don't want to do that. Not tonight. Not when I feel as vivified as I do. So let's cut to a scene that I really like:

Let your ears drink in Red Hot Chili Pepper's infectious (to the point of being insidious!) opening guitar from their 'Can't Stop':

"Can't stop addicted to the shin dig Cop top he says I'm gonna win big Choose not a life of imitation Distant cousin to the reservation..."

It is this to these strains that Butters, Bebe and I emerged from Bebe's car into the mauve, evening sky at our concert venue. You see, it was All Hallow's Eve, the Witching Hour was upon us, and Anberlin and Taking Back Sunday were in town. I am known to have a fertile imagination, but, at that moment, I could not imagine anything better than this. Even now, I cannot...

As usual, I was overdressed: skinny jeans, a white dress shirt (with the sleeves rolled way, way up!) coupled with an obscene red vest. Butters, as becomes him, had dressed sensibly: jeans, and a rather becoming dichromatic, long sleeved T-shirt which, he insisted, made him look about 12 years old! But, Bebe, clad in a sleeveless peasant top with a white shirt underneath, a spider ring on her finger (how festive!) was the one to be seen, and to be seen with! The People-watching that we indulged in, as we waited in line, was delightfully bitchy. But don't blame us please! What would you say to a rather corpulent French maid? Or a lasciviously dressed Raggedy Ann? She wouldn't be called raggedy, if she dressed like that! Or how about one flouting a thousand tenets of political correctness as she tried, by the means of glistening bronze make-up, to pass for Pocahantas? So yeah, we had really good material to work with!

I knew I wasn't going to regret this- a telling sign was that I didn't feel as violated as I usually do after being frisk-searched. Ah, but the night was yet young, violations would happen, and I would emerge with a big,
dopey smile upon my face, slightly worse for wear...but I am getting ahead of myself!

Once inside, we were welcomed by a comforting darkness. As the hour of performance began to approach, this darkness was gently cleaved open with beams of green, blue, purple, red and yellow, and a spacious stage was revealed. A spacious stage with musical instruments and judiciously positioned microphones. My knees began to knock together, as a steady stream of adrenaline began to seep into my blood-stream : O God! I was here! My first rock concert! I was with fond, convivial people, and I looked fantastic!
"It would be great if 'Motion City Soundtrack' were playing too," Butters said.
"Jizz. In. My Pants." I responded in elation.
He laughed, "Not when I am standing so close to you!"
"Very well, then: Mind = blown!" I amended. "You will admit, cerebrospinal fluid is better than semen!"

It was around this time that I met The Red Queen and Alice in Wonderland. As Alice walked past me, despite myself, I couldn't help but be drawn to her somewhat campy appeal.
"You look bewitching..." I said rather lingeringly, and hating myself for it.
"What? Bewitching?" she pronounced.
She and her friend The Red Queen caught each others' eye, then mine, and we laughed.
"Thanks," said she, after having decided that 'bewitching' fell in the 'compliment' category. Way above 'hot', or below it; depending on how your lists are arranged!
While the Red Queen did nothing for me, I couldn't stray far from Alice's sickly,sweet kitsch. Bebe smiled knowingly, as I exchanged smiles tinged with nasty, with Alice. It all fell apart when Alice decided to have an extended conversation with me.
First, she wanted to know if I was faking an accent: that chafed. But I put her doubts to rest, assuring her that my accent was indeed mine own, and we couldn't all be 'Appu', try as we might.
"Oh-ma-God, he isn't BS-ing me or whatever, right?" she phrased, looking pointedly at Butters and Bebe.
"Naw, he's legit." said Bebe, smiling brightly.
Second, ever-curious Alice wanted to know if I was dressed as Michael Jackson from 'Thriller'. Oh that was a deal-breaker right there. You. Do. Not. Fuck. With. My. Sartorial. Choices.
Ah yes...the bands were starting up, and, by then, I had lavished enough of my attention on Alice. It was time for the night to begin in earnest...

The opening bands were...interesting: the very first band, with a ninja/zombie theme and just as strange a sound, made me sad. These were grown men, for the love of heaven! Now, 'Fun' were a much-needed change of pace with their gospel-esque sound, and innuendo laden lyrics! Their rather androgynous lead-singer was dressed as the equally androgynous (or, as he phrased it, 'sexually ambiguous') Jaime Lee Curtis. I swayed slightly as he sang of "All the Pretty Girls on a Saturday Night", and, for a fleeting instant, went back to the Eternal City...
My hand, at this point, brushed against this girl's derriere. Not my fault, really, we were all so closely packed. Mortified, I apologised.
"It's okay, and I enjoyed it anyway!" she responded coquettishly. I couldn't help but gallantly bow in response!

Anberlin's descent on the stage finally breathed life into the pulsating seed of dormant ardour that was trembling in my soul. As the first guitar string was strummed, it created an orb of kinetic energy that buried itself into the stage, made its way into the ground, crept up my person through my feet, and hit me with a force of such enlivening dynamism that, it was as if, I could see colours now...My God....
It was then that the shoving began! People wanted to get ahead, but I had a great vantage point (thanks to Bebe's astute placement), and I wasn't going to give it up. Rhett Butler was neatly packed away for the evening, as I shoved right back.
"GET THE FUCK BACK!" roared a voice near-by, I looked up to see Butters regaining his famed equanimity. If I could have, somehow, freed my arms from the thousands (it seemed) that were packed so closely to me, I would've given him an ovation.

Oh Anberlin! How well they primed the crowd with their well-chosen play-list! And they were so immaculately dressed too! Arms flailing, sweat dripping down my back, an inflamed larynx...I was existing in the Astral Plane of Extreme Rockitude! (Yes, you may hate me for that.). The music...it was a live, pulsating charge that just enlivened everything it touched. I could spin you a metaphor about the crowd being a thick, enmeshed unit so like cardiac muscle, and the music being the electricity that spreads through this network of cells, and the entire muscle fibre throbs itself to life. But tonight is not a night for reprehensibly nerdy, "work-related" things! I felt a sob catch in my throat, as I,veritably, blossomed under the aegis of unadulterated adrenaline. I wish Anberlin had played longer...

The lead singer of Taking Back Sunday is a rather astute gentleman: he made the observation that a lot of superheroes had peopled the audience that evening. This was true indeed. But with your generic Superman, Batman, Spiderman et al, there were also unsung others. The two that we experienced were: Perspireman and Clobbergirl. Perspireman is a rather corpulent and, as his name suggests, his one superpower would be perspire. Profusely. Both Bebe and I were victims of his grubby claws, as he shoved and grabbed and jumped and, well, perspired all over our respective persons. Perspireman stood behind me during the Anberlin set, and decided that it would be okay by me (and it most certainly wasn't!) if he grabbed onto my shoulder as he jumped to make his enthusiasm known. By the time the Anberlin sweat...erm...set was over, I knew him as intimately as one knows a lover. It was traumatising, to say the least. Perspireman was rather magnanimous with bedside manner too: he stubbed my toe very badly as he moved on to his next victim (poor Bebe!).
"Sir!" I cried, with my affectations returning. "Do you mind?!"
He smiled dimly. Obviously, he isn't the kind who believes in calling back...
With Bebe, a repeat performance of The Wet Adventures of Perspireman ensued, much to the consternation of Butters who made his displeasure known with a few well-timed barbs: oh, this is why I keep these people around, they give me hope!

Clobbergirl was my own cross to bear. True to her name, Clobbergirl pushed and shoved and elbowed, just to get in front. No, I had no intention to yield. So I leaned in and whispered, "Madam, I am going to have to taze you..."
Poor Clobbergirl! Her powers vanished right there, as she urgently searched for the perpetrator of this rather 'When a Stranger Calls' type of prank. But I was busy rocking away to Taking Back Sunday....

They played 'Make Damn Sure', if you must know! I love that song, and at that time, my veins were rather tangled close! Taking Back Sunday's verve knocked me right out of my being, and it was good. It felt right to levitate slightly, despite being surrounded my multitudes. My ears are still ringing, and I can say for a fact that they shall for some time to come.

I am so grateful for Butters and Bebe: the catalysts of my branching out. I could not have asked for better friends.

I finally feel caught up with my youth, and all I can say, in conclusion is:

"Burning down bridges now (scatter the ashes) Godspeed to all you're after Is this a life left just to remember Tell them who you are who you really were (hey hey) Kill yourself slowly over time fashion statement suicide She's still asleep in a Chelsea hotel Bad turns to worse and the worst turns into hell Fall asleep Don't fall asleep Don't fall asleep (God save the eyes that dim tonight) They lied when they said the good died young They lied when they said the good died young Stay with me stay with me tonight.
-'Godspeed' by Anberlin.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

The Intelligent Metrosexual's Guide to Friends and the General Crunkitude of Impromptu Evenings In.

A slow, expectant smile alighted upon Butters' usually composed features, as he revealed it to me. Oh, he took his time with it, but, as if out of the blue, it was staring at me right in the face.

"Go on.." he said.

"What? What?" I questioned in my usual befuddled manner.

"Go on...put your hand to it." he encouraged.

"What? NO!" I refused vehemently. "I wouldn't know the first thing to do with it!"

"Just, you know, slap it around a little bit..." he said huskily.

In the background, Wendy tittered brightly.
"Yeah," she chimed in. "Go on! It's all warm and sweaty..."

"What? You too pretty for this?" Scott Tenorman demanded of me. "Just slap it! Slap it good!"

I sighed deeply, and looked down in consternation, only to see that Butters was still holding it out.

Oh whatever would I do with a volleyball?! I was never sportive in school. I have always been The Kid with The Note!

Oh whatever could I do with a volleyball?! A lot, actually, as I soon discovered. Off came the cashmere and floated wide, the tie (skinny!) was thrown onto the side! I popped a button on my shirt, and got my game on.

Yes, I did just type that.

The volleyball flew across the room, and I propelled it forth. I slapped it, slapped it good. Laughter came thick and potent, but on the inside I was conflicted! My 'propah' self was losing it! This wasn't right! I didn't do this. Ever. My propah-self needed to chill, so I gave him the night off. I went down to my room, put on 'Sureshot' by Yellowcard and got ready. You see, in my world, there is a perfect outfit for everything, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with this one right here. In about 5 minutes, I returned to Tenorman's room, clad in a punk-rock-esque T-shirt, a pair of baggy Adidas sweat-pant thingies, that I had bought in case an 'in-case-of-emergency-slip-on-baggy-sweat-pant-thingies' situation ever arose, and my trusty Skechers. Butters, Wendy and Tenorman were delighted, and I was too. You will not believe how difficult it is to manoeuvre oneself in skinny jeans! My propah self was not on-call anymore, instead I was Lane. Lane, of the disheveled hair. Lane, who exclaimed, "Dude!" everytime the ball came awfully close to hitting him, and he deftly deflected it with a well-timed SLAP! I rather like Lane, he's not a snob. Or a prude. Or overly self-conscious, 'overly' being the operative word...

What we went on to play was 'Room Pepper'- a variant of true volleyball adapted to the constraints of limited space. As the ball flew from one avenue to another, something in me just...broke. And I dove headfirst into the game, laughing (rather than effetely gasping) whenever the ball struck me, laughing at the persiflage, the jokes, the many, many times that Butters and Tenorman yelled out, "Cha'mone!" and sweetly chastised me for "being ignorant"! As the game (where I, allegedly, dominated) began to die down, the volume of the Southpark episodes that played in the background, rose up. (Yes, Tenorman with his 'slight' OCD liked it when people changed their Room Pepper positions in the interval between episodes-he's a man after my own heart!). The cries of 'Cha'mone' and 'Get the beat down now!' and the zany anecdotes that punctuated every burst led into a dance-off. Yes, a dance-off involving a darkened room, four twentysomethings, a joyous speaker-set that made its pleasure known with a fluorescent paroxysm of lights everytime the right beat was hit on the song that played, and Rihanna. Choreographed beautifully by Tenorman, we rocked our socks off to 'Disturbia'. (HEE-HEE!). I felt that twitch in my pelvis, the very same that signals an unfettering of my pretensions. Oh yes, it was all very dum-dum-de-dum-dum-dum-de-dum-dum...At one point in the proceedings Tenorman became Aladin and Butters Princess Jasmine, and they sang to us of 'A Whole New World'- I gave them a standing ovation, for sheer testicular gumption.

There is something from that night that shall stay with me for a long time, perhaps forever: as we got our groove thang on to Rihanna, I piped up, "I feel silly."
A shimmying Butters said: "It's okay to be silly around friends."
It is strange how touching something like that can be, despite the fact that I never was unpopular or lacking for friends at any stage in life. Except for that one time in the 8th grade...but we never speak of that. No! I am grateful: grateful for mellow, unpretentious Butters AND unhinged Butters who can do a mean falsetto that would make Disney purists see a whole new world, for obsessive, fiery Tenorman who, like his name, can look at you with a fierce intensity and urge you not to 'dare close your eyes', for effervescent Wendy who will chalk you up on the Awkward Board as someone whose exploits would make the marker run dry, and for charming Bebe (Butters' significant other) who will listen as you weep over your self-pity sundae at Cold Stone. I had had a terrible evening before this: I was missing the festive season back home, and my paycheque hadn't arrived. I was basically a Joad in Dior, Dior bought by swiping the Daddy Card! But that was before I took a step down the rabbit hole...

Without further ado, then:

The Intelligent Metrosexual's Guide to Friends and the General Crunkitude of Impromptu Evenings In.

1) It is perfectly okay to have friends. You can get very annoying to yourself, though you may be too polite to mention this. To yourself.

2) So you had a good time...good for you! Stop trying to be all Kate Chopin about it, and writing the blog equivalent of 'The Awakening'...oh wait! Never mind.

3) Your pretensions are obsessively assiduous. They are basically Ted Baker clad Oompa-Loompas who strive very, very hard to get you through the day. Give them a weekend off, once in a while. They may need to be pushed out of the door, but you (and they) will be better for it.

4) Stepping outside yourself is as salubrious as a brisk, early morning walk. You will find yourself being relatively sportive, laughing with your mouth gaping, (as opposed to low chuckles that show 'good breeding'), and not questioning the political correctness of a 'Cha'mone!'.

5) Peppering your verbiage with a 'dude' or two is perfectly acceptable, as long as you do it organically and not gasp and cover your mouth as your brain rattles off a strange amalgam of a 'Hail, Mary' and 'The Lord's Prayer'. Please don't do that. Don't be THAT guy.

6) You will not blush if someone asks you, uh, "Blow [them]" in a different language. Instead, give them the finger.

7) Stop apologising. Ho!

8) It is okay to be silly around friends.


Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Perfume

It has been a fortnight clogged with work, deadlines, networking and so much more: but a very fragrant fortnight nonetheless. When I think back to all that has chanc'd this fortnight, no concrete images come to mind, but my olfactory receptors are overwhelmed: yes, it has been a rather fragrant fortnight...

Coffee.

That slightly charred, wholly comforting aroma that attacks my nostrils each morning, as a machine decrees that I simply must have a cuppa before I start the day...and I listen, because I am a good student, and a reasonable man who knows a salubrious habit when he sees one. Know that the scent of coffee in the air does not only signal my physically getting out of bed, but it almost always signals an awakening. I remember how with Charles Ryder, that familiar scent would have a hint of a dark chocolate to it: much like the dark places our conversations would sometimes take us, or how with Verlaine the scent would take on the nuances of dark red cherries softly crushed to let the juice run, and add a pungent sweetness to the whole affair, and I always enjoy it when the coffee soused air is charged with cinnamon whenever Punjaban, Masakalli and I get together and trash someone away to Kingdom Come! But I was a fool to think that I know the entire repetoire of my favourite beverage, for I met quite a few new flavours this fortnight: there were fumes of black cardamom in the air as I sang of betrayal: first of Hamlet's and then mine, the pinching awareness that only ginger can bring as Mary Wollstonecraft and I faced off each other in an elaborate comedy of manners, and finally the chicory that subtly infused itself around the battlefield in an attempt to vie against the toxicity of the days past. Thusly, here we are: clutching a fragile peace, as if it were the only thing that mattered.

Violet Leaf.

Last week, as I was rearranging a section of my wardrobe, I found a tiny bottle of Burberry Touch, and it was like being revisited by an old lover and, once I wore it on my skin, I realised that the spark was still there! The summery, slightly floral, but mostly spicy aroma of Burberry Touch, mingled with whatever it is that my skin offers it, makes the perfume even more intoxicating to me, mainly because it owns me so completely. That day, as I set out to do battle with the hours again, I wore my old favourite and it took me back to my days as a teenager in the Eternal City: it took me back to the drama, the fights, the quick, furtive crushes, the mini freak-outs, major episodes and a rollicking uncertainty of what the next day might bring. That night, I dreamt in art deco: it was black-and-white, with imposing, voluptuous structures and imposing, voluptuous women who cried black, tarry fury, and all of it bore the unmistakable signature of violet leaf, white pepper, and vetiver: the ingredients that make up the heady brew that still stubbornly clung to my skin even on the next day. The scent amalgamated itself into the maelstrom of memories that that gorgeous fever dream had stirred up, and out came a pantoum:

"As I begin to etch this quatrain,
I hum the oldest song of all,
A pretty young thing and her dashing swain,
Oh the drunken heroics of it all.

I hum the oldest song of all,
The garish dolor, infinitesimal pain,
Oh the drunken heroics of it all,
Of all that mattered, for life was plain.

The garish dolor, infinitesimal pain,
You who loved like an eternal fall
of all that mattered, for life was plain,
Such a cauchemar! But our own to call.

You who loved like an eternal fall,
Your eyes claret, your smirk vain,
Such a cauchemar! But our own to call.
I can think of things we can all feign.

Your eyes claret, your smirk vain,
A pretty young thing and her dashing swain,
I can think of things we can all feign,
As I begin to etch this quatrain."

Sodium Hypochlorite.

The antiseptic miasma of Sodium Hypochlorite is what haunted R.A. duty over the weekend. The very same Sodium Hypochlorite that is called out of bodily fluid clean-up kits when the need arises. You see where I am going with this? My co-RA Lawrence Selden and I slapped on pairs of latex gloves played at Forensics Lab when we found, well, puke smeared pillow and T-shirt unceremoniously dumped in a sink. They waited with a kind of expectancy that comes when has been filthy or odourous far too long, and knows that release is on its way. As the clear, clear streams of Sodium Hypochlorite made their way through the crusty crevices of decay, the soiled accoutrements knew that they were rescued. Carefully, I gathered up the nastiness and delicately placed it in an angrily diffident biohazard bag.

The antisepsis of Sodium Hypochlorite bears a harsh smell, but it is a smell of clean slates, a smell that tells you that it had to struggle to make its presence felt, that it had to get rid of all the others so as to make room for itself. I can only wish I had something like that when I lost it in immunology lab last week: when my house of cards came tumbling down and, crouched in a cubicle in a gent's bathroom, I choked back sobs and placated my brain as it yelled, "What the fuck am I doing here? I am not a scientist! I am an amateur! And I hate this pretentious accent!"
Oh if only hypochlorite happiness could seep in and make everything okay, if only just for a while.

Ash.

The acrid odour of a burning carcass viciously attacked my nose when I heard the following,
"Hey look guys! It's a fag fest!"

One of the R.A.'s in the hall has decided upon setting up a programme for the GLBTQIA community in the hall, and the response has been violent, to say the least. I get that these gentlemen are yet green, and have much of the world to see, but how can they, in their naivete, be so vicious? I am a straight ally, I have seen the struggle first hand, and I will always regret playing Edith Wharton when I knew exactly what was going on. Seeing this side of things, the side that does not entail inter-corridor high-fives and laughter, but the side that collectively forms the satanic hand that reached forth and blazed away good intentions, leaving only black smoke in its wake, was a disturbing,debilitating experience. My sensibilities are still careening in disbelief, trying so hard to shake out that smell of smoke from the curtains.




Oh constant reader, forgive me for how vague this post is! True to form, I am smiling with the knowledge of things that only I can know. And as much as I'd like to, I can't give you the details! The details would be damaging to all involved...

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.