PLAYBOYBACON

The Apple and The Tree

My mother is a large breasted, blonde, Catholic-cum-Buddhist. Aside from perpetuating in earnest a great many Californian stereotypes, all this means to me is that on occasion I get to ogle her hot, Italian yoga instructor in compromising positions, and also that once a year I can’t call and complain to her for 9 solid days while she takes a vow of silence on a spiritual retreat at an ashram.

We’re about a week into her “Navratri” sanctuary and she’s taken this opportunity to dispense some SMS advice about my life and career that I usually dodge during our phone conversations by abruptly shouting, “Going into the subway now, byeeee!” or “But, I want a golden goose!”. Apparently, I have been waiting to be discovered for too long and I need to manifest my vision. Or, I could choose to work in a restaurant for the rest of my life, as long as I acknowledge and am at peace with the fact that she didn’t name me after a queen in anticipation of me turning out to be the [worst] career waitress in Cabo.

Last night I received several texts from her, but the following two were the best:

“Only three days left and I feel like I can’t take it anymore! I want to go home, eat a pepperoni pizza, drink a bottle of wine, and have sex!!!!!!!”

“Oh yeah, and say ‘fuck’ a lot!”

At least I know where I came from.

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Andrew Astro (415)

Andrew worked at the cafe adjacent to my sushi slinging gig, and I’d regularly visit him behind the counter to chat during our shifts, thus breaking just about every cardinal rule for both of our positions. He was slight in stature with bright eyes that bugged out when he got excited, forever harmlessly curious, and he behaved as the resident thespian of our employment operation. 44 years old and hailing from Africa, “God’s Country”, as he liked to call it, and would make no bones about tearing anyone to shreds who dared inquire as to what part of the UK he was from. He was also flamboyantly gay and obsessed with Jimi Hendrix as well as astrology, and remembered everyone’s birthday that he had ever met. (Seriously). On the computer Andrew’s button said “FLAMING HORSE” to reference his fire sign birth year, but the entendre tied in nicely with his charming theatrics.

Andrew also had 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 26 years his junior, there just didn’t seem to be anywhere he would 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 first 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 defending familial incest, and this may not be it.” I gestured to the uniformly horrified faces in the queue.

“Fine, you big-breasted bigot.” he declared, 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.”

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Adachi (415)

Adachi was the head chef and manager at a sushi restaurant that I worked at for two years. Despite having been in the states for a decade, the language barrier was decidedly still very firmly in place, and he was known for his, “rove” of Mondays, and childlike demeanor combined with complete lack of tact, along the lines of a unique brand of Asian Asperger’s. I heard he recently married to the punk rock girl of his dreams in a ceremony on a nude beach in San Francisco. Our mutual friend who dabbles in poetry wrote Adachi’s vows for him to properly express his love for his riotgrrl, and after laboring through roughly half of it to the congregation, he dropped his hands at his sides and said, “Russ forget, I don’t speak Engrish so good,” turned to his bride and exclaimed “I do!”

Amenee (503)

AKA  “Hippie Neighbor”, she is the upstairs tenant in my building and just moved to Brooklyn from Portland to be with her long distance computer programmer boyfriend. (I suspect humble E-Harmony beginnings.) Ever since she insisted that I take the leftovers of her roasted red pepper soup that she didn’t like so that it wouldn’t go to waste, I live in mortal fear of her petitioning for our neighborhood to start composting.

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Remembrance of Things Past

Today marks the 5 year anniversary of my first boyfriend’s death. 6 weeks prior to my 21^st birthday, Jorge was at a party and went to “sleep off” a three day bender, and never woke up. I’ve spent countless amounts of time mourning, and it seems much more appropriate to spend today celebrating his life, and all of the incredible love and support I received from my family and friends as I healed from the tragedy and grew into the woman I am now.

Jorge was an incredibly dynamic, soulful, and kind man. His intelligence was such that I personally feel that he used drugs to dumb his senses down so as to gain reprieve from a perpetual onslaught of emotion. His wit was unparalleled, his lightheartedness contagious, and he continuously poured out so much generosity and solace to those in need that there often wasn’t anything left for himself. He was my best friend, and a paramount influence on my coming of age on my own in the city. He encouraged my hunger for knowledge and my flair for creativity, and helped me recover from many of the psychic scars that surviving cancer as a teen had left me with. He pushed me to challenge myself and let go of my fear and insecurity, and all the while he kept me in stitches, laughing. I fell hopelessly, recklessly in love, the way one does for the first time, and was blinded to many glaring and incendiary imperfections in our relationship. I wanted so desperately to believe that there would be a happy ending, in which Jorge got better, and no one got hurt. It’s still baffling to me that one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met was lost to such senseless, selfish behavior, but, such is the nature of addiction’s demons.

Today, for him and his memory, I just want to be present and thankful. I am thankful that Jorge was in my life for the ephemeral time that I was blessed to know him. I am thankful that losing Jorge inspired others to get help and start on their road to recovery and sobriety. I am endlessly grateful, again, to my incredible support system that I found in my family and my friends that eased my suffering and reminded me that I was not alone. They helped me pick up the pieces and put them back together in a new formation that was stronger, so that I could continue to evolve, and work towards my dreams.

I miss Jorge every day. I know that he would be proud of me.

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CPP - Andrew From Craigslist

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’s that?”

“He is Roof Jumper Guy.” she replied. I waited for further explanation but she remained dedicated to methodically 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 Maybelline 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 Records, 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. I ignored her.

“A lot of people were.” He said, wistfully.

“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. 6 months into physical therapy and 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.”

“When can you move in?” I asked.

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