B is for Baby Prostitute

I just read over my last post and sheezus, am I gay for new york. I can't get enough.

I'm baby stepping, right now. instead of pounding the bottle of champagne in the fridge, I'm relaxing in my room with a cup of sleepytime tea.

onward, to the letter b of the cell phone prodge. (I'm going to finish it, someday. someday when I'm using a walker and have purple hair instead of pink.)

BAP- (801)

BAP is short for Brittney Ava Presley, and also for a bad 90's comedy starring halle berry called black american princesses about opening the world's first soul food restaurant/hair salon. (netflix, anyone?) born brittney stronge, the BAP, as I came to call her for short, mysteriously went by the name she chose for herself, ava, to all but her family, and when she was stripping, she called herself presley in homage to the king. the BAP was born to an unwed mother in '86 who gave her up for adoption and she was welcomed into a strict mormon home by a family of 3. she grew up in a small town in utah with a solid network of family ties whose strong values were prevalent in her rearing, even having her choice not to practice their faith met with respect and understanding. by the time she was 15 she was stripping and doing a combination of drugs that would make keith richards cringe, at 16 came the neck tattoo, at 17 she was lying about her age to be a suicide girl, and when she was 18 I crossed paths with her in san francisco by way of her high school best friend, lindsay.

the day I met her at a pizza place in the 'loin she looked like sex on a stick, with her painted on jeans slung obscenely low and her cropped black hair haphazardly pulled out of her eyes with plastic baby barrettes of the drug store variety. she had just woken up one morning and thought to herself, "oh, what the hell. I'll move to san francisco today." and hopped a bus to california, stopped into a hostel to shower and then performed at amateur night at the century club down the block to make enough money to pay for the next day's lodging. hearing this from anyone else may have horrified me, but somehow I was ensnared by the sordid tale of the exotic dancing ex-mormon lolita who blew into town with the intent of bringing her particular brand of unconventional teenaged sorcery to the city it had taken me two decades to get to from a farm 45 miles away.

the bap had an air of mysticism about her that she seemed to manifest for herself, as if simply believing that extraordinary things would present themselves to her in the path of least resistance on a day to day basis would make it a reality. it's the first time I've ever seen such an attitude prove so effective, and it really did seem that she was genuinely happy, truly unafraid of foraging into the unknown armed only with red lipstick, sequined pasties and bus fare. she was intriguing and fun to be around, and I silently admired her tattoos and lip rings and the fact that fate seemed perpetually in her favor despite her flippant approach to consequences. she found worrying to be innocuous and unnecessary, and used the adjectives "magical" and "amazing" at least one hundred times in a day. and that was part of her spell- as long as you could keep up with her, things usually were.

after a 6 month stint of nonstop adventure, it's hard to say whether BAP fled san francisco or if she was indeed the one who deemed the jig to be up. she is kind but not built for being part of reciprocal relationships, she is a fabled drifter, a nomad, a unicorn stripper. nowadays she is based out of utah but works for american airlines, and finally found the perfect employment for her insatiable wanderlust. now, the BAP gets to fly for real, every day.

last we spoke I asked her if she was still dancing in her downtime and she confessed that yes, much to her boyfriend's chagrin, she did a weekly drive up to wyoming to shimmy on a pole. I asked her why she still continued despite the fact that her salary is more than comfortable, and she said that she wants the extra money for cheap plane tickets that are available to her as part of her benefits.

"it's like, two booty claps and bam, I'm in france. it's magical."

"it's amazing, actually." I replied.

***

the night I met the BAP: 9-11-04

from left, BAP, lindsay, the joelercoaster, me

a is for amiability

april - 510

when april and I ran around in the same crowd, she and I were constantly being mistaken for each other due to our only 2 shared traits: being tall with blonde hair. this may have been fine if it weren't for the fact that april had a hard time behaving herself. I couldn't help but feel slightly resentful, having to defend my own antics and then set several records straight about my doppleganger's never ending series of unfortunate events.

I dyed my hair red shortly after I was stopped on the street by a friend who had heard I'd been arrested in front of arrow bar the night before.

asian erin- 206

"asian erin" who programmed herself into my phone as such, insisted that everyone knew too many aarons and erins to begin with. I met her at a hoe-down themed bike race nestled in the recesses of golden gate park, and I noticed just behind her right ear she had a tattoo in swirling script that simply said, 'meh'. I asked her about it and she explained that it was her philosophy for life, a sort of self-designed MO.

"for instance," she said, gesturing to a bearded young man nearby, "I just up and moved here from portland for this guy that I've known for 3 weeks."

"wow..." I trailed, off, unsure of what to say next.

erin pointed to her neck and said, "meh."



aubrey - 310

aubrey and I met in 5th grade, and became immediately inseparable. we were both undeniably trouble makers, but she always seemed to be the seeker, fearlessly plowing ahead like the alexander the great of 10 year old girls. aubrey took no prisoners, abided by no rules, and seemed to get away with murder with her whipsmart intellect, persuasive reasoning, and strikingly beautiful looks. she saved me from no uncertain fate of social ridicule when I entered my awkward phase (which I'm not entirely sure I ever left) and no one dared say a disparaging word about my prized wet seal feathered glitter pencils. we remained friends after my move to sonoma in 8th grade, but the best friend hierarchy had shifted. nina b. took my place as her right hand woman, and by the end of sophomore year she and aubrey had gotten matching tribal BFF tattoos on the back of their hips with the number 96 worked into the design to commemorate the year they met. when I asked her how she was going to hide it from her parents she just shrugged and said that she was already planning her goldfish backpiece.

one afternoon aubrey, nina and rachel decided to ditch school and come pick me up from class in napa in a yellow land rover with the top down. I remember seeing them blocks off, screaming like lolita banshees in tube tops, blasting papa roaches' laughably bad hit song "last resort" as loud as the speakers would play. I jumped in the back, aware that everyone in the quad was slack jawed and staring, and rachel burned rubber that left marks on the asphalt that lasted for years. we got three blocks away and I realized I that in my excitement had forgotten my backpack on a bench. rumors circulated that I was friends with britney spears' backup dancers.

throughout high school we stayed close although had vastly different experiences. she had boyfriends and experimented with drugs and I rode the bus to catholic school in the back with the nerds, save for my one land rover joyride. around the time she spent the night in jail for her second DUI, I was having my third surgery for cancer treatment. she wasn't allowed to walk with her class at graduation, and I had gotten my GED. she and nina moved to san diego and had a falling out that was never really resolved over a mountain of petty grievances, and I moved to san francisco to embark on my excellent scene adventure. we share nothing in common anymore except for a decade and a half of history, and I will love that girl forever.



audcock - 415

chad (dj name audrock) and I used to spin records together at arrow bar, and he asked me out on a heavily referenced "coffee and caramels" date that never actually came to be.

a is for alexis bledel

andrew lux- 415

I met andrew when he came to my apartment to be interviewed for an available room. right before he arrived, my quirky german roommate gruffly disclosed through a mouthful of half masticated ramen noodles that his reputation may have preceded him.

"oh?" I asked, "how?"

"he is roof jumper guy." she replied. I waited for further explanation but she just continued shoveling the soup into her face.

"why is he the roof jumper guy?"

"last year, he was wasted at a party and he fell off the roof." she said matter of factly, and stared up at me from under her eyelids that were heavy with black warpaint. "four stories."

"jesus, jona, is he in a wheelchair?"

"nope. he walks."

the doorbell rang and we brought him up for the grand tour, all the while I was fruitlessly trying to discern any visible deformities or noticeable limps. I was asking him the usual standard roommate questions, and after he finished telling me about his employment at ameoba, he added, "oh, and you've probably heard of me before. I'm that guy who fell off the roof." jona clapped her hands and grinned like a maniac.

"I was there!" she pointed out. andrew shrugged. I ignored her.

"are you alright, now?" I said, placing my hand gingerly on his shoulder as if I was afraid he might break.

"yeah, I'm alright. I've got a lot of good pills." jona's eyes lit up and I shot her a look that could dry up oktoberfest. he continued, "I've also got 6 seasons of gilmore girls."

"sign me up, dude. it's marathon time."


I borrowed this from his myspace:

cell phone project revival

I know. I slack. I'm trying to get this re-started.

Andrew Astro (415)

andrew works at the cafe adjacent to my sushi slinging dungeon and I regularly visit him behind the counter next to the espresso machine, thus breaking a cardinal rule of the fascist regime at what the employees of DG have come to affectionately call, "the citadel". andrew is slight in stature with bright eyes that pop when he gets excited and as he behaves as the resident thespian of our employment operation, they're always wide and seeking to hold someone's gaze. he's 44 and hails from africa, "god's country", as he likes to call it, and will make no bones about tearing anyone to shreds that inquires as to what part of the UK he is from. he's also flamboyantly gay and obsessed with jimi hendrix as well as astrology, and remembers everyone's birthday that he has ever met. (seriously). on the computer at the counter every barista's name is listed off on the touch screen quite unremarkably; lillian, rollin, kan, nick, summer, and then andrew's button says "FLAMING HORSE" to reference his fire sign birth year, but the entendre ties in nicely with his charming theatrics.

andrew also has a tendency to innocently tread into topics that perhaps are best saved for a later date behind closed doors with one's most trusted confidante. from day trips to the std clinic to sexcapades with his roommate who is 24 years his junior, there just doesn't seem to be anywhere he will not direct a conversation. one day there was a considerable line of customers that were being helped by one barista while andrew made the drinks, and I stood idly by, sticking my fingers in the powdered chocolate. andrew loudly launched into an epic tale of his greatest and most true love affair, it was rife with passion and drama, controversy and romance, and how it just happened to be with his cousin, jeff.

I choked a little and looked up at the line of customers, all of whom were now staring.

"oh, what's the big deal, anyway? why is it such a taboo?! we were in love, and two men obviously can't produce a child together, so there's no chance of 6th toes or mongoloid children."

"andrew." I said, smiling uncontrollably.

"really, now, I just think it's ridiculous that our parents condemned us. what's wrong with a man loving a man in his own family? he was a gemini dog... awful moody that one, but gorgeous, and let me tell you, in the sack...."

"an-DREW."

"what is it, ox-ox?" he turned the milk steamer off and reached over to pet my head.

"there's a time and a place for familial incest, and this may not be it." I gestured to the uniformly horrified faces in the queue.

"fine, you big-breasted bigot." he sighed, pretending to be offended, even though he may have been the only person in the cafe that wasn't. "double mocha with whip!" he yelled, slamming a paper cup onto the counter that was snatched up by a blue haired older woman whose sneer went completely unnoticed by andrew.

he leaned in close to me and raised one of his eyebrows mischievously before whispering, "you know, he's married with kids, now."

A is for Asshole

aaron tsunami (313)

aaron and I had both simultaneously hit a snag in the great metaphorical pantyhose of love and romance as we found ourselves both in the throes of our respective break ups. on a sunny spring afternoon, it was still two hours before the restaurant would open, and my designated hostessing busywork for the day was to painstakingly fold an unholy amount of imitation cloth napkins. I sat at table one with my shoulders hunched, focusing on the zen quality that such menial tasks possess rather than my inherent misery. aaron sat down and offered a hand with my origami assignment and offered me a sympathetic look, having been privy to my plight.

"you know," I began, "this wouldn't be such a traumatizing ordeal if he didn't happen to be my roommate." followed by a sigh as I ran a manicured hand across a napkin to make a crease.

"oh, that's right," he replied, grimacing at the revelation, "how's that working out?"

"he dumped me and then took off for LA for a week, so our platonic dynamic has yet to be determined. I've just been sulking and watching his netflix."

"you really think that's it?"

"yeah, it feels pretty final." I paused to ponder a flashback of the last fight where he'd dramatically cast a handful of computer parts across his desk in a wild gesticulation that was accompanied by yelling with an abundance of words meaning or pertaining to 'finished'.

aaron continued, "nah. you guys live together. clean breaks don't exist in situations like that. sorry." he shrugged.

"we'll see."

"when does he get back?"

"... sunday."

"you're going to end up sleeping together. I give you until monday night."

"no!" I shrieked, "no, we're not."

"it's inevitable."

my gaze drifted out to fulton street and it's inhabitants, purposefully strolling to destinations that weren't likely to be as exotic as I imagined them before I replied.

"if only there was some way to be on my period every day for a month..."

"what if you took the morning after pill daily like an anti-sex multivitamin? I mean, you'd probably die--"

I cut him off, valiantly pointing my index finger skyward. "but I would die with dignity!"

"yeah," aaron said, "dignifiedly ODing on plan b to have successfully avoided sleeping with your ex but likely only ruining some perfectly good sheets."

I sighed. "well. have you got a plan c?"

adachi! (415)

the minutes of my hectic shift at the sushi joint were dragging by mercilessly and my stomach growled like a beast. I opted to go traipse back and forth in front of the sushi bar in hopes of being tossed a sardine as if I were a dancing bear at the circus. (sometimes, it works.) instead, upon arriving to the window display of rainbow colored slabs of raw fish, adachi looked up from his chopping and rolling and declared loudly, "I rove MONDAYS!"

I was puzzled, but intrigued. "adachi, it's saturday."

"I know, but I just rove mondays. especially in the winta-time when everything is all red and green around christmas."

"but, isn't everything decked out with a yuletide motif around christmas, every day?"

"yeah, but mondays are the best. I just rove them. anyway." and with that, he had returned to work.

adamn (949)

adam was a kid from orange county who frequented san francisco and had a penchant for trouble but a wildly charming boyishness that always got him off scot free. he once stayed on the couch at the fabled household called the crunk station for a week in october, spending his nights pounding the pavement for danger in the mission and his afternoons fashioning a mariachi costume of his own design for the impending halloween. he'd had a one night stand with my crazy german roommate that had turned into a fortuitous friendship as our living room became his regular bay area motel. after I moved on to slummier pastures to the "shotwell mansion" apartment, I saw him less and less, and eventually not at all. I've looked at his myspace page from time to time and inferred that he became a main player in the LA club scene and perhaps lost some of that peter pan-ish sensibility. when I saw that he'd done a photoshoot with cory kennedy and I felt a sharp pang of jealousy that I promised to myself I'd never admit to anyone.

AJ white heat (415)

aj is one of the more eccentric young lads I've crossed paths with. he played a show with his band at the knockout on his 22nd birthday dressed as an electric satanic space lobster complete with a giant, red beehive tranny wig. during one of the songs he ripped off his own claws, then his shirt and threw himself on the floor of the stage, writhing in rock bliss and smearing fake blood and glitter all over himself. almost every time I see him he drops to his knees and begs me to let him make love to me. I admit, had he asked that night, I might've said yes.