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Saturday, Jun. 08, 2002 / 12:43 p.m. ~Urban Beats~ An old cycle is drawing to a close, and a new cycle of adventure, excitement, and unusual experiences is coming into play for you, dear Aries. New and exciting people could be appearing in your life, and you yourself are looking forward to a period of expansion, challenging experiences, and lots and lots of change. You could find yourself more involved with groups than you have been in the past, perhaps those focusing on your own special interests. Boy, oh boy, how'd ya like to wake up to a horoscope like that? I just did. And I believe it. So far, it's true, and it feels strange, familiar, good, intimidating, crazy. I went to bed at 5:30 this morning. Yes. How old am I? Uh, 41. Does age matter? Not even when you're walking around Midtown in one of the largest cities in the country at 4:00 in the morning with someone who keeps telling you that you might be too old to be doing so. It still doesn't matter. That's when you turn to your 39 year old companion and you say, "When your time is your own you have to do what makes you happy, without question. Challenge yourself.", or something to that effect. And you go into the club and order water at the bar. You dance in the "chill" room because no one else is there. You leave when the lights come up and you wish you could follow the music, but the only open clubs now are gay or sleazy and he wouldn't like either. And they cost money, temporary membership fees, etc. I spent the greater part of the evening playing with Branford's laptop, trying to get used to not having a mouse, but a pad on which to move my finger. A DSL connection. I could hardly stop. I downloaded Moby songs for him to play, and I played "Another Woman" for us about 4 times. "Listen to this again!" And he made fun of my Moby "fetish", my fixation, but I listen to the music and I'm inside of him. It can't be helped. It sucks me in, pulls me under (oh, sorry, that's a Jeff Buckley quote - god, remember when I was sucked in by HIM?!). Drinking white wine, Chardonnay, then red, a Shiraz, and he likes Shiraz now. And eating Carr's water crackers spread with lemon mayonnaise, capers, halved boiled quail eggs and smoked trout. Yes, good flavors. Talking with the TV on, closed captioned for the hearing impaired. Subtitles on an American TV showing American shows. Music. Wine. Talk. It must be hard to be a 39 year old man and want children. 39 year old man wanting children. Must be fertile and young to apply. I've never focused so narrowly. It's never occurred to me to try, to audition men, to find the right one who can give me what I need. I've always thought I'd just keep going along, lost or not, and if things happen, they do, if not, that's fine. Never trying to make this or that occur. He knows what he wants and he looks, but he doesn't find it. If he stops looking, maybe he will. His neighborhood is gentrified, it's NYCified. It's all new, the old has long been torn down, demolished, and new is erected. Erected new everywhere. Wide sidewalks, brand new lampposts, brick inlays here and there, new facades, new plantings, young trees held in place. And at night, with the wind blowing, the humidity high, light raindrops, when you hold your arms out to your sides as you walk fast to keep up with him it feels like flying. Flying on the ground with feet propelling. Inside one club and he didn't have ID. I'd shoved my Driver's License into my back pocet, had nothing else but myself and my clothes, jeans and a tshirt, my Birkenstocks, so I went in to scope it out, without him, saying, "I'll just take a spin, be right back". Wall to wall meat. Just like a Coors commerical, or is it Bud? All the men with those short sleeved, collared, shiny club shirts, the hair short and spiky, moussed, all looking at the women with the straightened hair, parted in the middle, the halter tops and bellies showing, the tight tight pants, and we're all brushing against each other, we have to to move through the crowd, the men who stand up against the bar and those of us who move through and against them, tits up against arms, brushing, no "excuse me"s, what's the point?, it's supposed to be there. Just a spin. Up the stairs, everyone lounging, the music not even as loud as it needs to be, couples coupling, but no kissing, no sex in the corner, I walk back down the steps, and out, casually, slowly, me in tshirt and jeans, Birkenstocks, and no one even sees me, I'm not even there, and I stumble out the door, laughing, tell Branford in Beat Poetry, all "And we're brushing tits to arms and halters and shiny shirts looking and brushing and bellies and spandex and mousse" and he's laughing and I can't stop verbalizing everything I see as if I'm writing it in some giant book held out in front of me. Back to his pie in the sky, 10th floor, to smoke more, to drink more, to download just another song, no wait, just another, and I've put "So What'cha What'cha Want" by Beastie Boys on his laptop, because I want to hear it. Pick a song, you want to hear it? Download it, it's there, it's yours. It's not Napster, it's KaZaA or something, and I can't remember, but we are pausing and we go back out. How old are we? Do we care? Is it strange I walk in my door at 5:30? Is it strange to brush my teeth and crash in my bed? No, and yes of course. It was good to see you too, Branford, and no, let's not let it be two years again, and maybe we would make pretty babies, but you know I'm not the one either. And if you slow down, maybe it will all find you. You need your own diary, and we can write beats from the city together. Cost of the War in Iraq
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