Starfucker
Last night, I got a call from a guy whom I almost married in New Orleans. We were both there doing a gig for a conference of pharmaceutical reps (I still can't hear OutKast without remembering the wretched parody I had to do the pony to)and spent one afternoon together walking around Algeirs, LA, a free ferry ride across the Mississippi from the Harrah's casino. As we walked by the Town Hall in Algiers,a newly married couple came out, wearing matching white polos and khaki shorts. Somehow, we wound up on the second floor of the Town Hall, daring each other to go in to the marriage license room. I would have done it, too, if the jerk hadn't forgotten his wallet.
On the ferry ride back, we talked about weddings. Somewhere in the conversation, he mentioned that he had to go to a black tie wedding over the fourth of July weekend and, when pressed, admitted it was Tori Spelling's wedding. Justifiably delighted by the camp value and People Magazine-ish-ness of the situation, I responded, as I always do: "Shut UP!" Later, I got drunk, cut my foot, stepped in a dubious puddle on Bourbon Street and made out with him in my hotel room back at the Mariott.
So he called me last night, on the eve of his trip to LA to talk. He had been out to visit me in Chicago not too long ago and, despite the overwhealming romantic possibilities of our situation, it was less than earth shattering. He made provocative statements over the phone about any gentleman callers I might have and I could sense that he wanted me to say "There's only you, dear." I wish I had been able to indulge him, but I just couldn't.
We talked a little bit more about our lives and the wedding -- apparently guests are not allowed to bring cameras, camera phones OR guests to the nuptuals -- before I begged off to go to sleep. He called me at 6 this morning as he was boarding the plane because he said he wanted to hear my voice. Sometimes, I don't feel like I deserve that kind of sweetness.
On my refrigerator door, there's a picture of he and I, taken at the Spotted Cat jazz club minutes after I had finished reading his palm. On the floor of my living room is a present I bought for the Bad News Boy. In my heart, there's a big, horrible wondering if I'm ever going to give a damn about someone enough to keep them around for a while.
On the ferry ride back, we talked about weddings. Somewhere in the conversation, he mentioned that he had to go to a black tie wedding over the fourth of July weekend and, when pressed, admitted it was Tori Spelling's wedding. Justifiably delighted by the camp value and People Magazine-ish-ness of the situation, I responded, as I always do: "Shut UP!" Later, I got drunk, cut my foot, stepped in a dubious puddle on Bourbon Street and made out with him in my hotel room back at the Mariott.
So he called me last night, on the eve of his trip to LA to talk. He had been out to visit me in Chicago not too long ago and, despite the overwhealming romantic possibilities of our situation, it was less than earth shattering. He made provocative statements over the phone about any gentleman callers I might have and I could sense that he wanted me to say "There's only you, dear." I wish I had been able to indulge him, but I just couldn't.
We talked a little bit more about our lives and the wedding -- apparently guests are not allowed to bring cameras, camera phones OR guests to the nuptuals -- before I begged off to go to sleep. He called me at 6 this morning as he was boarding the plane because he said he wanted to hear my voice. Sometimes, I don't feel like I deserve that kind of sweetness.
On my refrigerator door, there's a picture of he and I, taken at the Spotted Cat jazz club minutes after I had finished reading his palm. On the floor of my living room is a present I bought for the Bad News Boy. In my heart, there's a big, horrible wondering if I'm ever going to give a damn about someone enough to keep them around for a while.
posted by Unknown at 1:01 PM
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