Loisa Does It

That's a bad pun on Easy Duz It, but I do have to tell about what Loisa did on New Years.

Brookyln (who doesn't believe this journal exists) and I spilled significant ink over how we would spend New Years. I knew it would be for the best to avoid New York--too many out-of-towners, and I don't play the nightlife game as I once did, but still refuse absolutely to spend any money for the privilege of standing on line in the cold, the nightmare of traffic and taxis on New Years, the nightmare of millions of people in Times Square (why?)--no thanks. We determined through indifference that DC would be the best place to spend New Years, and settled on an open bar with nice food and a heated rooftop with twelve or so friends.

Loisa came, of course, as did a friend of Brooklyn's from Philly, Charlie. Loisa doesn't get out much, and when a few weeks ago Brooklyn mentioned she plans to move to Seattle to live with her boyfriend, Loisa burst into tears. Brooklyn and I were shocked, and agreed that this inappropriate behavior had much more to do with Loisa's own loneliness and despair than real concern over Brooklyn departing DC. When Brooklyn told me she planned to move to Seattle, I thought it was wonderful, and I far prefer a lengthy ride in a plane than a lengthy ride on a bus. It will be sad to see less of Brooklyn, of course, but it will also be nice to have an excuse to visit Seattle. I very much want to see Olympic National Park, and have wanted to do so for many years.

On New Year's Eve, Loisa and Charlie began to chat independent of the rest of the group, an occurrence which Brooklyn and I noted. Later, after midnight, Loisa approached us and explained that yes, she was interested in Charlie, that Charlie had asked her if he could kiss her, but that she wasn't sure what to do, was it a good idea, would Brooklyn assure her that Charlie was a good person, a responsible person, a safe person? Yes, Brooklyn could attest to Charlie's good character, and did, but Loisa remained uncertain. The bar closed around two, and Brooklyn, another friend, and I felt it was time to move on to a more crunk venue. We were twenty minutes away, on foot, and it was warm and dry. Brooklyn checked Uber, which had an 8x surge charge. "We should really walk," I said. Brooklyn reaches a stage of intoxication and becomes unreasonable and stubborn, and the more I suggested we walk the more determined she became to order an Uber, I'm sure. Eventually she insisted we take an Uber, and ordered it. This was convenient, because it enabled us to abandon Loisa and Charlie together, which we did. We felt good about it--as friends, we had done right by Loisa, this would be good for her.

The Uber, a ten minute ride at most, was $47. The reward of the stubborn!

The rest of the night was amusing if uneventful. We slept late New Years Day, and met for brunch around two. Loisa appeared, in high spirits, but looking rough. Loisa lives in a lovely home on Capitol Hill. Two floors of a beautiful old DC-style brownstone are hers, with a couple in the garden apartment below. Charlie and Loisa had returned to her apartment around two the night before. Loisa made Charlie promise he didn't have an STD: "Brooklyn is a very close friend of mine and if I catch anything she will do something terrible to you." Brooklyn, as you can imagine, reacted to this with a low shudder.

Loisa and Charlie hear a crash around 5:30 in the morning as well as the sound of rushing water; Loisa believes there is a storm and a tree has fallen on the house (this has occurred twice in the past). But when she looks out into the street, it's not raining. She runs downstairs, and in the living room an enormous piece of the plaster ceiling has fallen, narrowly missing Loisa's beloved guinea pigs, Tom and Jerry.

Sidenote: Loisa has flown with Tom and Jerry. The first time she did this, she had her veterinarian type up and sign a letter stating that these were Loisa's "anxiety animals," and that the guinea pigs must accompany her at all times. Loisa walked through airport security clutching Tom and Jerry. When she arrived at the gate, she walked up to the counter and alerted the flight attendant on duty she would be flying with Tom and Jerry, thinking this was the responsible thing to do. The flight attendant balked, and told Loisa there was no protocol for flying with such animals, and that she would have to speak with her supervisor. Loisa produced the veterinarian's letter, which according to the flight attendant, was useless--Loisa would need a letter from her therapist that stated she was mentally unstable. Loisa burst into tears, clutched Tom and Jerry, and cried, "I am mentally unstable!" Loisa was able to board the flight, and has't had issues flying with Tom and Jerry since.

In the still of the night, Charlie, running around naked, grabs some towels, and both Loisa and Charlie frantically attempt to mop up the mess and assess the damage. Loisa immediately calls a plumber, but it's the crack of dawn on New Years--no one is available. She calls her landlord, a management company--nothing. The downstairs neighbors are nowhere to be found--they're on vacation. Charlie manages to shut off the water, Loisa turns up the heat and turns on some fans, and the two of them spend the next few hours cleaning.

Loisa was in high spirits at brunch. Brooklyn and I made the right decision: Loisa seemed entirely unconcerned with the calamity of the night before. She was pleasant, fun, and alert. If Loisa and Charlie ever end up together, they'll have one hell of a "how we met" story.  

Look Homeward, Angel

I've been listening to the new d'angelo album Black Messiah, on youtube (I know, basic as fuck), and in between songs I keep having to endure these anti-smoking ads.

I don't smoke. Alright, I might have a smoke or two when I'm drinking. But I can count the number of times I've bought a pack on one hand. Three fingers. I am d.o.n.e. with muhfuckin' anti-smoking ad campaigns.

People smoke, people get sick; some of this is smoking-related, some of this is not. The amount of money, effort, and energy wasted on anti-smoking campaigns, hard-earned money stupidly spent, and the effort/energy that might be expended on causes which truly merit our resources, this irritates my sense of decency, my common sense and common reason. I am entirely in agreement with David Hockney, one of the great artists of our time to boot. If I ever amass a vast quantity of wealth, I'm putting some of it into a pro-legalization-of-cocaine advocacy group, because I believe this would vastly disrupt the cartels (power and influence of, violence and atrocities committed by) who are breaking my heart in Mexico, and make more life in the drug-consuming zones (Europe, the US) more entertaining.   

But back to d'angelo: the new album is dope as fuck. I haven't said that in a few years. This album is like voodoo: it's ethereal, funky (Sly, where you at?), soulful, cosmic, complex, symphonic. And d'spite the heroin, d's voice sounds as if it hasn't aged a day in fifteen years. With all the horror and pain and suffering and tragedy in this country and the world, we need d'angelo. We need him bad. And maybe we also need heroin?

I saw the new Chris Rock film, Top Five, with Brooklyn and Loisa in DC Sunday. The same day we went to an incredible Ethiopian place Loisa had meant to visit for some time, went down to Anacostia, and ultimately ended up at the MLK Jr. Memorial. Coincidence? I asked Louisa if there was a theme to the day and she laughed, "I know exactly how you'll tell this story, M, 'Loisa insisted on a tour of black DC.'" Speaking of, Rest in Peace to the Mayor for Life. It's hard to believe he's gone, really, but as the demographics continue to shift in the District, well, in a way it makes sense. The twentieth century is over. Some things have improved, some things have worsened. I hope, like Chris Rock said a few weeks ago, white people have become a little less crazy. DC remains, like most of Amerikkka, a hard place to be black.

Some have remarked this is Chris Rock's Annie Hall, and I'm not sure about that (it isn't because Top Five disappoints). No, I simply find the movies very different, though they do both illuminate different social worlds of New York. The best and most important scene in Top Five is the Top Five scene with Tracy Morgan, set in what I believe is a Harlem NYCHA apartment; Cedric the Entertainer delivers a best supporting actor worthy performance (though he'll never be nominated) as the quintessential Houston con-artist, Jerry Seinfeld and DMX have amusing appearances each, and Rosario Dawson gives us a brilliant, calculating, vulnerable, and journalistic representative of the paper of record, the NYT. I find it interesting that Jay and Kanye co-produced this film, especially in light of Kanye's recent marriage to Kim K.

Loisa is an amusing character. She's adopted academic utilitarianism to a problematic degree; she makes serious decisions based on the philosophy. I think it's crazy, but Loisa is a great person, who has dedicated herself to a cause through and through (she works for a major humane organization), and I consider her to be one of the kindest and most genuine people I've ever met.

There are slips, though.

Once, Loisa and Grace drank to excess, several years ago in $Skid Row$. Unexpected from Grace this was not; just a day before a few of us had brought take-out margaritas to McCarren Park, and, after the margarita was for the most part consumed, Grace in her shriek-cackle recounted her recent amorous adventures. "I don't know what it is, it must be my pheromones! Sven--do you remember the Swede? Sven texted me the other day, 'Grace, when can I come over and fuck you again?'" Grace relished the fuck. There were families and elderly folks nearby reading their newspapers, I was mortified, though the elderly men seemed entertained.

On the night Grace and Loisa drank to excess, Loisa I had never seen so intoxicated. She remained very much in control of herself, which is why this story shocked me so. Loisa is proper, Loisa is moral. Loisa, muttering about something or other, I interrupted--dental dams had come up earlier in the night, and I asked her, "Besides people with HIV and other serious STDs, who else uses dental dams?" Loisa: "People with Aspergers." Shocked. I turned, with wide-eyes, to look at Loisa, who upon catching my eyes burst out with a Grace-like demonic cackle.

Years prior, during a frightening prank, Loisa violently grabbed her "best friend" (who is a story unto herself), shook her, and yelled into her face, "Do you know what's going on?" As the "best friend" shook her head, she inadvertently let out a slight giggle, as she was in on the prank. Loisa noticed this, whilst continuing to shake the best friend: "Are you lying to me?" And then Loisa slapped her best friend, hard, across the face.

Loisa is capable of delightful surprises. To be fair, she denies both these stories.

Brooklyn and I had a long conversation about our hometown, our friends, and how we've not met anyone who had an adolescent experience at all similar to ours (sex, drugs, booze, euphoria, tragedy). The people we knew really were (and in most cases still are) unstable, were once beautiful and full of potential, and seized life with the kind of reckless abandon I've seen only in the movies.

I'm now back in our hometown. It's bizarre. I'm still processing how I feel here. The plan was to drive immediately to see relatives in another state, but this has been abandoned, so I've picked up a few radio shows and plan to see some friends I haven't caught up with in years. One of them, a former roommate who now has a fiancée and infant, has invited me to come over for drinks and dinner tomorrow, and I am concerned he's up to something, like he plans to drug me, with perverse intent. I also feel uncomfortable around babies, but how do you get around that with new parents? Sorry, I don't want to hold your child--it just makes me feel uncomfortable, I can't drop it like I can a cat.

I come from one of the flyover states; a few years ago I thought this was unusual and exotic, and I would admit this at nightclubs, parties, galas, whatever. I soon learned it was something to be embarrassed about, which was funny. "Are you kidding me?" I thought. But that's how it is in New York. Now, for the first time, on the ride home from the airport I saw with altered eyes the countryside, the sprawl, the people: empty, hideous, provincial. Today I had lunch with a Boricua friend at a local café that serves marginal New Orleans-inspired cuisine, which also happens to be a restaurant where many of my friends are employed, and we talked about these strange feelings I'm having. She wasn't surprised.      

I'll be here for two weeks, until just before New Years. I feel a bit like Quentin at the end of Absalom: "I don't hate it I don't hate it I don't hate it." And I don't! I'm not a pretentious asshole. But life and time and people are a curious and confounding mess which through we must muddle. Like Betteredge, I have my Robinson Crusoes, one of these being The Moonstone, which I read on the flight from DC to my state whilst eavesdropping on a wonderful couple bickering in small words full of years of disappointment and indignation.      

I can't wait to see the Pynchon adaptation, and have begun a foray into the films of Douglas Sirk, the Rossellini/Bergman triplets, a few Antonioni films I haven't yet had the chance to view, and favorite roles of Bacall, whom I miss dearly. I intend to attend the Mariinsky at BAM in January of 2015, and today bought an LP of the 1966 Bayreuth Karl Bohm-Birgit Nilsson Tristan and Isolde for exactly twenty-seven cents. Music that encapsulates the homelessness of the human condition, the isolation and bitterness and beauty of life.