Saturday, June 30, 2007

feed your belly, feed your soul

feed your belly, feed your soul
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Original photos: one thing impossible and Ally.

feed the belly, feed the soul

Aquí muy dentro de mi corazón
hay un árbol floreciendo.
Aquí muy dentro, de este tonto corazón

So, goes one of my favorite songs, a Spanish song about love, about the pangs of passion that ring true deep down in the well of one’s soul, when you are with someone and they make you want to scream and shout with utter joy, to exclaim that overwhelming feeling of glee and truth and being. When you feel that deep down inside there is something growing, flourishing, floreciendo, much as the song says.

The last 24 hours, mas o menos, have been like that for me. We made love on the roof, against the wall, on a table, on the sofa and of course, in my bed. Amazing, fabulous, wonderful—all these words cannot describe the sweat, the rush of endorphins, the never-ending laughter, the exhaustion, the happiness, the joy.

For the last half-hour I’ve been sending-serenading Spanish songs of love and lust and loss to her through my bedroom window—the window by which the glorious morning sun enters each day, the window with the broken screen— to the wall across the courtyard and bouncing them back into and through the window of the other room she is in at the other end of my apartment; these songs are the songs of my life, the songs of my childhood and adolescence and adulthood that have and will always guide and inspire me to live life brimming with the best intentions, with optimism, with love—

despertaste tu, casi dormida,
tu me querías decir, no se cosa
pero callé tu boca con mis besos
y así pasaron muchas, muchas horas

you woke up, half-asleep
you wanted to tell me, I’m not sure what
but I, I kept you quiet with my kisses
and this, this is how many hours passed.

We ate a sumptuous meal this early afternoon at the taquería next door: quesadilla and tamale and a heavenly dish of camarones diablas, perfectly sautéed shrimp in garlic, onions and chipotle peppers; sending it all down with two smooth glasses of horchata. The food tasted really good, really-really good.

Then we took a slow-slow walk in Central Park, first lying half in the sun and half in the shade for a while when first arriving; there, from afar, we mutually admired a good-looking girl crossing the street with her friend, from a safe distance by which we might impart fantasies of what she was really like up-close and personal.

We climbed the hill up to the plateau, where after a sip of fountain water we found that our fantasy-friend was playing badminton with her real friend. We walked over to watch her, she noticed us watching from where we were, on the rock, only a bad-badminton swat away, and to our utter delight she put on a little show for us, bending over in suggestive positions, folding down the waistband of her already short-shorts, so that we could see the peak of cleavage parting her youthful buttocks. We both became a bit dizzy, we both laughed with utter joy in defense of our conspicuous demonstrations of desire, we both burned in the hot sun with a pressing need to continue ogling her and expressing our admiration if only from not-so-afar, like two young school girls giggling over Adrian, the resident junior-high hunk.

After the Brazilian badminton-menina left with her jealous girlfriend, we continued walking—over and down the other side of the hill in search of more water.

Half way down the hill we came upon a lady with her pet chicken of no-particular pet name. We asked her about how and why and when, and she essentially said that she loved her pet chicken, which made the most exquisite sibilant cooing-wooing sounds; she seemed genuinely happy with her whimsical choice to save a chicken from its fate at the butcher shop.

Eventually, we came to an ice cream man; he didn’t want to bargain with us though, so we had to buy a bottle of water for two dollars.

On the way home, we spontaneously stopped by the local market where I bought a lot of fruit: mango, peach, strawberries, watermelon, limes, avocados and pomegranate juice.

Albeit she wanted to be transported home, I dragged her to Christina’s place, where I not only hoped to say hi and goodbye, as Christina was moving out, but I also wanted to introduce her to the red-haired girl she fawned over so much in the photos of superman being surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women.

Eventually we arrived home, climbed five New York flights of stairs (64 steps) and I began writing another entry in my ode to Rose and Olive.

I love Rose and Olive, why not? Love a stranger, live life as if it is nothing less than wonderful—because it is.

Thank you for the inspiration,

Friday, June 29, 2007


Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

(original photo by Rose & Olive, manipulation by me)


I’ve been tethered to the sun once before.

I was in an orbit about her for ten long years;
eventually, my wax wings grew tired though.
Now, I am slowly soaring away, projected upon
the course of a new day, a curve far away
from her(e).

No tears will be shed though;
there are too many new stars ahead of me for regrets,
too many new suns to spin around,
none of which I intend to be tethered to—
this time.

Thus, now that my life has come full circle, I am inclined to taking the second loop out into the farthest reaches of an egress that does not return. Carelessly the energy for the voyage shall burn out before any thought to looking back, weariness, or a test of worthiness cross this certain path of an ellipse.

Along my trajectory I'll eclipse other suns like her, likewise in-motion projectiles circling about their own euphuistic fate . And for a lithe spin we might concentrically share or detour on a whirl to nowhere about each other whimsically into unknown space.

The trace of light as old as Eden will enable others to look up and back into time intuiting the divine course we have taken—the wanderlust of two heavenly and forsaken bodies cleaving a groove into new and radiant constellations.

Occasionally, our flirtations will fell us to earth, where as lovers we shall give birth to a swooning part of this celestial dream, which all but seems it is wound up into a vertigo that will last forever.

Alas, once woozy changes from ethereal to mortal ennui, you'll find me projecting outward bound again, wandering toward awe, on my own,



(R&O thank you for the inspiration)

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Her Golden Tress

Her Golden Tress
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

the original photo

The One With The Golden Tress

No less beguiling was her golden tress, dangling, catching sunlight in the untamed weave of curls—for a moment I did not hear her, as I was swept away by the dream of a thousand lashes lashing against my chest, as we undressed her inhibitions one-by-one—not that she had any, not that she cared, not that she even knew my name.

At least, she teased me by pretending to forget.

We had just met at the old coffee shop—thank God our town wasn’t big enough for Starbucks or Seattles or any other of those cookie-cutter places.

And now we were walking along the train tracks, the afternoon sweltering and glistening, rising in sultry waves from the jagged rocks that lie yonder.

A bead of summer sweat rolled down my back as I looked up at the giant fan that we eventually found ourselves under, inside the abandoned building of The Giant Sun—an old raisin factory where hundreds of women used to come to pick out the stems and moldy bits; their hair held back in a beautiful array of bandanas and makeshift scarves, some of them, held atop in buns pinned together with a hundred hairpins.

She, however, had let her hair down, so that when she spun 'round in the spotlight that was beaming down from the broken window, it whipped around in perfect unison with the hem of her cottony-white, see-through summer dress.

Before I could imagine slipping it off of her, suddenly, I felt my heart pounding; suddenly, I realized that I too had forgotten her name— not that it really mattered, not that anything mattered beyond that moment under the giant glistening sun, under the giant fan in the factory that once housed a thousand working women.

It really didn’t matter, for she was the one with the golden tress and I—I was blessed simply to be with her.


(R&O thank you for the inspiration)

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Sun Setting Over Manhattan

Sun Setting Over Manhattan 008
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Sun Setting Over Manhattan

I was getting out of work around 7:30 or so and the sun was just about to sink into the horizon over the Hudosn River.

Everyone noticed, and so, much like me, everyone was frantically trying to take pictures of the incredibly red round ball of fire that was slowly descending into the earth, right before our eyes.

Alas, even though I tried, I could not capture the magnificence of what I saw. For once, my point-and-shoot had failed me, lesson learned.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I was elated to later discover that my photos showed a magical sequence of the city in action. If you look closely at some of the photos you can see the lilluput-people across the street heading off in all directions.

Moreover, in some of the photos I was able to capture a red orb that hung over the fellow photogrpaher that had planted his tripod in the middle of the street.

There are some that, in earnest, say that these orbs are actually spirits from another planet and claim that they can communicate with them....

What do you think this one was trying to tell us?

The Accountant’s Daughter

We're Going to Coney Island! (with The Accountant's Daughter)
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

The Accountant’s Daughter

She was an accountant’s daughter.
Since then, they have been lawyers
bankers, criminals, insurance salesmen,
and a school principal.

Actually, I didn’t know for most of them;
I never got to know their fathers,
I never really cared to know.
I was interested in other things.

I was interested in those things
that fathers don’t want their daughters to know—
understandably so, understandably so.
Thus, apples and serpents and ignorance is bliss.

But it isn’t is it?

Knowing is bliss, knowing is everything;
it is omnipotence, as much as it is omniscience.
Knowing is this ineffable
state of being and becoming.

Becoming, that is bliss—
with the accountant’s daughter
who wanted to call her daddy
after our first time.

Bliss is not love though.
Because when we love we know,
and sometimes it is better not to know;
it is better to simply feel.

Ignorance is bliss:
Love strangers
Lust for those you do not know
Wonder more often
Suspend disbelief
Believe in magic and meant-to-be
Embrace serendipity


(R&O thank you for the inspiration)

Similar Thoughts
Rose, Olive & Me
I Remember

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

After all

After all
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

piebald version

After all

They say (they say, who are “they” after all)
There is a first time for everything,

I can’t remember the first time
I saw their pictures,
but I did, I saw them.

I not only saw them though, I felt them
and that is what moved me most,
motivated my return.

Thus, I am inclined, from time to time
from peak to pique,
to come back for more.

I admit: I’m a Rose & Olive whore,
a RO whore, insatiably so,
for I always leave wanting more.

The first time I made love
I wasn’t sure I wanted more;
She was so drunk she wanted to call her daddy.

She wanted more though, that was for sure,
much more than I did, but then I was a kid,
foolishly in love.

I got over it though, eventually.

So, I’m not sure I love Rose & Olive
as much as I lust for them—
they are merely a mirage

after all.


Rose, Olive & Me

1. (said with warm gusts of irony): it seems a gosh-darn shame, 2. a whole desert on the table, 3. three spirits came to me and drew me apart, 4. The Free Way., 5. a serious, tactile discussion of bedsheets,, 6. i fell asleep underwater last night, 7. and from your lips she drew the hallelujah, 8. On How to Make Choices; or,, 9. a girl who throws you off mountaintops, 10. The Way Things Work, 11. the concealed revealed, 12. if it looks as though rose has tiny little bruises on her bottom,

(fotos not by me, merely collage and manipulation)

Thursday, June 21, 2007

The Afterglow

The Afterglow
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

The Afterglow

How long?

How long will we be
merely spirits
in each others’ lives?

The afterglow
gets to me sometimes,
you know.

It gets in my eyes,
it pulls at my heart,
it yanks at the hot middle of me.

And as much as it makes me
radiate from within,
it gnaws at my gut as well.

You can always tell
when I’m with you,
can’t you?

When we’re apart
the distance can be so deceiving,
I know, I tend to retreat into my shell.

We’ve never seen the sea together
smelled the ocean salt,
felt the tide glide past our naked ankles.

I dream of many simple things with you,
I do.
I do.

How long will we be
merely spirits
in each others’ lives?

Merely spirits.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Auf Wiedersehen? flickr

Auf Wiedersehen? flickr
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Auf Wiedersehen? flickr

I’ve noticed that some of our brethren from der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (the Federal Republic of Germany) are beginning to say goodbye to flickr in protest to the “censorship” that has been imposed abroad in an attempt by parent company Yahoo! to abide by German governmental regulations.

Seemingly, according to Thomas Hawk’s Digital Connection blog, others outside of Germany are taking similar actions.

That’s a shame. One of the things I love about flickr is that it allows people to interact and share images and words with people from all over the world. I’d hate to think that suddenly we won’t be seeing as much participation from our brothers and sisters in Germany based on differences of opinion over this issue.

Let me back up for a moment, for those of you who may not be aware of the general issue at hand. The Register in the UK provides a good summary:

“While in most countries the photo sharing site's "SafeSearch" function can be turned off by users interested in seeing all the photos available on Flickr, that option has been axed in Germany due to "stricter legislation and penalties in that country", parent company Yahoo! said in a statement.

Yahoo! says it isn't about censorship and that it is trying to improve the use of filters while still complying with German law.

The limitations were introduced because German law requires websites to verify that visitors are old enough to see potentially sensitive content, such as erotic photos.”


That said, albeit I am all for freedom of speech, individual expression, and blogs, I am also aware that sometimes the necessities of business can take precedence over the desires of users, clients and customers, especially if they are a minute minority of a 8 million + base of constituents.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not condoning nor condemning flickr (Yahoo!) or its critics in any way; I’m simply not prepared or qualified to pass any judgments.

However, I am fairly experienced in the world of business. Thus, I am rather familiar with business law and how it is applied, negotiated and interpreted when it comes to contracts, many of which I’ve been involved with for a Fortune 100 company over the last 8 years. Moreover, I received a masters in international affairs with a concentration in international public law from Columbia University, so I am familiar with the intricate and sticky web that companies must traverse when dealing with the laws, regulations and politics that govern foreign sovereignties. It is far more complicated than it may seem.

Which is why it may seem that flickr has made an unnecessarily brash decision. However, sometimes the long-term viability, profitability and good standing of a company with nation-states must take precedence over individual participants (at least for a while, at least until a solution can be found to satisfy all the disaffected).

Personally, I’d like to hope that this controversial restriction is merely temporary and that flickr will now act a little faster to implement a solution that allows German users to verify their age and in turn have unlimited access to all content.

However-however, once again, in addition to my aforementioned business acumen and understanding, I also happen to work for the IT shop of the company, the information technology division that is responsible for implementing and maintaining systems, applications and computing devices. Hence, I well know that changes are far easier asked for than done.

In turn, my minor defense of flickr in this regard. For implementing a technical change within this very intricate, feature-rich and highly satisfying (i.e. ego-boosting, self-reaffirming) application can be a rather daunting feat, especially when the company is taking heat for implementing a regulatory change deemed requisite by the business and legal ends of the enterprise.

If you’ve never worked for a large corporation you just can’t imagine what you have to go through to make simple changes—form after form, approval upon approval, the list goes on, and on. Trust me, its not easy and often extremely frustrating—and that’s coming from the inside; trying to make changes from the outside is a whole different story.

So, once again, although I’m not necessarily rallying for either side of this dispute, I do think it is vital to understand the issue from both sides. And even though I have not been able to send flickrmail for almost two months and I’m paying for this service with Terms of Service that state that I should have access to this feature, I’d still like to dole out a little sympathy and understanding to the flickr staff and management nonetheless.

That said, I’m also sympathetic to German flickr users, as well as those in China and the United Arab Emirates who face similar restrictions. Personally, I hope that these constituents not only continue to act and express their dissatisfactions and opinions, but that they also employ a little more patience, for sometimes it takes a lot of time to move and change a behemoth like the Bundesländer or one-eyed giants like flickr.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

The Art of Restraint

A Threesome
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

June 17, 2007, Father’s Day, New York City:

The Art of Restraint

This last week had to be the longest week of the year for me thus far.

I had about 4-5, sometimes only 3, hours of sleep each night, as I brought closure on a number of endeavors, projects and aspirations at work, at home and at play. These included implementing two major events at work (while an incoherent and incapacitated boss showed signs of relapsing into clinical depression); finishing photo editing for the book (yay!); reading and writing reviews for two fellow authors’ forthcoming books; and some sordid experimentation and subsequent realizations: I need to go back to school (if only for the opportunity to explore more), I’m getting old, and the pursuit of eternal youth doesn’t make anyone any wiser—unless you consider the lessons of errant consequence—wisdom.

In the wake of spending a day with the boys—playing soccer, playing poker, picnicking in the park—albeit I fully appreciate my parental privileges (especially since it is Father’s Day after all), admittedly, I am looking forward to a long and easy run at the end of the day with a new friend.

For running has long been a means of cleansing and renewal for me, and it represents and it is often the catalyst for a concerted effort to live well and be well. And I need that more than ever right now—I need something (or someone) to anchor me within a circle of healthy living, much like a surly dog might be leashed to a post in the middle of the back yard. No more perilous adventure, no more disregard to the wherefores of reason, no more disregard of safety solely for the sake of experience.

At least for a while.

At least, until I get bored with restricting myself to the back yard.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Un Deux Trois

Un Deux Trois
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

First Verse in Tags

in 75 words or less
i confess
R n R
R & B
and me.

un deux trios
uno dos tres
1 2 3.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Hizoner Pride

Hizoner Pride
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

(Original Photo by Scott Wintrow/Getty Images; manipulation by me)

Brain-Picking, Mind-Blowing and Just Getting Drunk
(Hanging with Hizoner at Gracie Mansion or
“A Married Woman and A Thousand Gay Men”)

Last night I attended a little soiree with one married woman and a thousand gay men at Gracie Mansion. Mike, Mayor Bloomberg, was hosting the annual reception in honor of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Pride Month.

Albeit, I really didn’t qualify, I had been invited courtesy of my friend Josh Sparber, who was the star DJ for the event. Josh had also invited me to his regular party gig he spins for on Sunday nights called “Bootycall” at Cock, a well-known gay bar on the Lower East Side.

Alas, I couldn’t attend this last time because I had to be in the office at 7 AM on Monday. Besides, being straight-and-all, Josh thought I might be pushing my luck a little, despite my penchant for new and enlightening experiences.

On a whim, I invited “The Mrs” to join me at the Mansion. But this was not my estranged wife-Mrs. though. This was a different madame, señora, bella donna—a marital status that was unbeknownst to me until her confession sort of just slipped out after our second of the good dozen or so beers that were to ultimately be shared between us last night.

It should be no surprise that subsequently, over the evening, other secrets spilled forth as well. Alas, it was nothing too juicy though, nothing so salacious that I’d want to write about here…No, most of it was mere standard human indiscretionary stuff, petty trespasses, the kind of bad behavior that is easily exorcised by a trip to the confessional or readily excused after a couple of beers on the back lawn of the mayor’s mansion.

Anyway, the evening started off rather well with a little smoke on the promenade running between the JFK Drive and the East River.

We had met at the entrance where a good dozen men-in-black patrolled and greeted the party revelers. Thus, immediately, I knew I had to “get rid of something” first, rather than risk having my bag searched and then being taken in for possession. My instant-new friend knew exactly what I was talking about, especially since she had smoked a little right before coming down to meet me for the first time.

Oddly enough, it was only the day before that we had exchanged mutually complimentary comments via flickr and had decided to meet. She had written a note stating “I’d love to pick your brain—or just get you drunk.” How could I refuse such a wonderful invitation? It so happens that brain-picking and just getting drunk are two of my favorite pastimes.

Thus, we met, immediately realized that we had other vices in common, and after I slipped my little plastic bag into a flowerbed along the walkway outside the Mayor’s Mansion, we jovially passed the patrolmen and stood in the registration line.

Lo and behold they couldn’t find my name on the list though. I mumbled Josh’s name and struggled to remember, and then pronounce his last name. I was getting more paranoid by the second, especially since they had already written down my name and taken my driver’s license number as an ID. They called over someone with an earplug and one of those little tell-tale spiraling translucent wires coming out of her ear (“Uh, you’re not fooling anyone with that thing honey...”). She looked very serious, and almost concerned, which was beginning to make me feel like we should start running.

Regardless, we remained calm. And albeit my name wasn’t on the formal list after all, a call was made via a walkie-talkie and we were immediately given two blue security passes, and directed to get in line for the metal detector and x-ray machine. “Wheh,” I thought, “that was close.”

The event was being held outside on the lawn and there was a number of grills billowing blue smoke in the distance. Along with a couple of buffet tables with a smorgasbord of grilled vegetables, lightly dressed mesculin, jalepeño corn bread, smoked pork and beans, risotto and fresh cut watermelon, there were open bars everywhere. My guest and I immediately honed in and took our first swig together. “Here’s to spontaneity, mischief and our new found friendship.”

We stopped by to see Josh who was spinning Amy Winehouse, which happened to be my friend’s new favorite diva, and so it served as an instant-bond between the mix-master and the missus.

Slowly, we made our rounds to each bar for the free Brooklyn Lager and Ale that was being served. After my second, I began feeling extraordinarily high-and-mighty and began to push buttons and boundaries, if only in the name of fun.

In turn, a flirtatious flurry of innuendos and insinuations swooned forth, and soon thereafter a permanent smile was affixed to my friend’s face, at least for the remainder of the evening.

Albeit we had barely met all but an hour before, seemingly we were on the fast-track to genuine friendship and thoroughly enjoying each other’s company. It is always comforting to meet someone and just rely on your intuition in order to cut to the chase and abscond all the bullshit of getting to know each other.

At one point, she turned to me and asked “I’m not going to be featured on your ‘blog’ tomorrow am I?” Surprised, my knee-jerk reaction was to say “No, of course not.” But then after a moment, I realized what she was really saying was “You better mention me in your blog tomorrow...”

You see, I rarely understand women the first time around, because straight men, for the most part, speak as they think—we are simple creatures. There is no cloaking, no subtlety, no layers, or no attempt at finesse and consideration for the feelings of others.

After realizing this, I threatened, “Well, at least I won’t mention you as long as you behave yourself. Make it worth my wile, and then, maybe, you’ll get a mention…”

Anyway, apart from entertaining ourselves with whispered words about our own frailties as merely-humans and thus our own inclinations to err and go awry, we also had some fun discussing the happy crowd that mingled about us.

Most were seemingly in disguise, because although most did indeed befit the stereotype of the gay man (i.e. good looking, fit, well dressed and well groomed), hardly anyone was wearing anything “fun” —no flash, no flaming outfits, no bright and shiny. In fact, there were only a few who wore their colors on the outside (i.e. Mr. Bowie look-alike with the light purple two-piece and the fella with the pants with a print of various impressionists paintings.)

I suggested we walk around and find those whom we individually found to be the “best looking” of the bunch. I immediately confessed that I had a thing for, ala Richard Gere, the “jacket-sporting, no-tie, older man with perfectly wind-swept coif of silver hair.” I immediately spotted two of them. My enchantment though wasn’t one of attraction, so much as envy, for I’ve long fantasized that I might be fortunate enough to ease into old age as such—debonair, suave, and simply, still nice to look at. Not that I’m complaining or anything, but, alas, I’ll be forty in a few months, and I’ve got all but four or five grey hairs. So my glamorous sunsetting is seemingly somewhere far off upon the horizon.

An hour into the evening an announcement was made that Hizoner (New Yorker for “His Honor”, the traditional moniker for the honorable mayor at the helm) was going to make his welcoming remarks.

After Project Runway star Tim Gunn introduced him as the “best-dressed mayor”, Mike Bloomberg admitted that he was once told he was “More LGTB, which stands for ‘Lovely and Glamorous Term-Limited Billionaire,’ than LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender).”

Apart from the standard ice-breaking humor, Mayor Bloomberg announced that for the first time in city history, “domestic partner” coverage will be universally available to all businesses – including city vendors—large and small. This was met with a loud and thundering applause.

Immediately thereafter, Hizoner explained that we were going to have some fun now by holding a whimiscial version of Project Runway, except that it would be called "Project Bloomway."

Apparently, a handful of people had been hand-picked from the horde of well-dressed guests and they were to strut their stuff along the cat-walk that stretched out perpendicularly from the main stage and into the middle of the crowd, much like a big penis.

Mister Gunn, Mayor Bloomberg and Council Speaker Christine Quinn were then to jovially judge the acquiesing contestants, which happened to include First Deputy Mayor Patti Harris. Mike explained that they were competing for prizes that included:

— A calendar featuring New York City’s firefighters
— An offical WNBA basketball
— A glossy photo of Angelina Jolie
— As well as former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey’s book, Confession

Mike joked that Deputy Mayor Harris should defintely get the Angelina Jolie photo, if only so that he could steal it.

At this point my companion and I sat down on a bright picnic bench (they came in an array of different colors including yellow, orange and red) and I asked her “Apart from the fact that I am one of the few men here chumming up next to a pretty woman, do you think that they can tell that I am a bastard ‘hetero’?”

Ironically, at that very moment two rather fat guys passed directly in front of us. The Mrs. and I looked at each other, and agreed that they were likely detectives on security detail. For not only were they overweight, dressed rather slovenly and a bit gruff looking, but they walked lopping from side to side, much like five-hundred pound gorillas.

The contrast between these two bullies and the rest of the fellas—whose shirts were all perfectly tucked in and cut-to-fit, whose ties all had perfectly centered divots, and who, apart from the coupled senior citizens, all apparently went to the gym quite regularly—the dichotomy threw us off track a bit, and so we merely concluded that I seemingly fell somewhere in between.

At that point, it began raining, and so we went inside the tent and sat on the catwalk. Taking a sip of my fourth or fifth cup of ale, I leaned over and slurred, “This is when everyone takes off their clothes off and it becomes one big wet orgy.” She laughed, I smiled and took another sip before getting up to get us some more of the complimentary beverages.

Having hydrated ourselves for a good hour and half now, we agreed that it was time to drain the pipes and went off in search of the loo. To our surprise, if not shock and awe, we discovered that they had set up two rows of port-a-potties in the back, behind the bushes. As we parted, I sympathized with her horrified look on her face. After we met again back under the canopy I asked her if the experience had traumatized her; because I understood that at least I could stand—I could only imagine what she had to go through.

She admitted that she almost wanted to wait until she got back home. Alas, her bladder thought otherwise, and so she merely assiduously applied “layers upon layers.”

Now running on empty, we immediately strode across the grass to the first bar that came in sight. We were told, “Sorry, bar closed,” but convinced the server to serve us one more nonetheless, and allthemore. He also informed us that the bars were still open under the tent, where we eventually went and downed a couple of more, before we decided it was time to leave.

Being that we were getting along so well, neither of us wanted this inaugural rendezvous to end so quickly, so she asked me if I wanted to come over and try something that would “Blow your mind.” But first she had to call her man and get his ass off the couch, where he was likely sleeping.

Disclaimer: this is where I fatuously proclaim that this shameless soliloquy is merely a figment of my imagination, pure fiction. Believe it or not.

Thus, as life is often stranger than fiction, I happily accepted the invitation and we hurriedly walked west a few blocks to her apartment.

Once inside, we took off our shoes, and sunk into the sofa that was right in front of their brand new 60” flat-panel TV.

After interrupting our conversation to inhale, it continued as it had been—undulating to and fro, rolling along, our minds naked and lolling over hillsides that were redolent with fresh spring flowers and wind-swept blades of tall wet grass.

At one point she got up to check on Chuck or Bob or John or Bill, whatever his name was, who was slumbering in the other room.

Strangely enough, the last time, all but four days earlier, I had a slightly-inebriated and long-conversation with a married woman in the middle of a humid and almost late-afternoon, her husband also happened to be sleeping in the next room. What is it with these guys?

When she returned a moment later, she declared that we were running downstairs to the market to grab a Dr. Pepper. In addition, I got a soy chai Odawala, which apparently the missus had never heard of, and immediately thought that it was rather unbecoming and unmanly of me.

When we returned we sat down to watch a bit of redeeming World Fighting Federation, which I had never seen before, but which, apparently, she had been watching for years.

I found the show to be shockingly brutal, grotesquely primordial. But then again, I had watched Family Guy for the first time a few weeks ago at another friend’s home—another person who also happened to be a self-proclaimed pothead—and I had found the content of this popular primetime cartoon to be quite shocking as well.

The first fight lasted all but 40 seconds or so, before one of the fighters fell while the other hammered a fist directly into his windpipe, then planted another into his chin and swiped a third punch into his cheek before the referee pushed the victor away. Watching this “blew my mind” away far more than being under the influence of my host’s hospitality.

In response to my obvious traumatization, she kept telling me “He’s alright, he’s alright. I’ve been watching this for years now, and they’re always okay afterwards.”

Despite her reassurances I still found it difficult to suspend my disbelief. “He sure doesn’t look alright,” I told her, as they replayed those deadly punches at least half a dozen times more. In fact, quite honestly, he looked quite comatose.

At this moment, I was beginning to feel afraid of what slept in the other room... And suddenly, subsequent thoughts of what if "She brings 'em home, and he eats them for dinner," made me more sober than ever.

Thank goodness the phone soon rang thereafter. It was my host’s best friend, the sweet-sounding Olivia, who I chatted with briefly before bidding farewell and heading home.

Oddly enough, all but a few words into this spontaneous conversation with Olivia, I declared, “You’re a Pisces aren’t you?” She silently paused in shock and asked, “How did you know?”

“Oh, I know,” I told her, “I know your kind all too well.” Of all the signs that supposedly guide our destiny, there was one that resonated in me more than any other. Really, I’ve never been wrong about it before. It is an uncanny feeling that I get each time, similar, but far more stronger than the one I feel whenever I meet a fellow Scorpio-Sagittarius, ala my new friend, the missus, who was sitting, half-baked, on the couch next to me.


Ironically, my own ex-missus asked me over the phone the next morning, “So did you have a good time last night. How was your date?” I answered pleading complete innocence, as I had not at all mentioned any plans.

Apparently, the damned emergency “call-my boys-at home” only phone had switched on as it jostled in my bag and called her, right as I met my new friend outside of Gracie Mansion.

The old wifey-poo told me that apparently I only laughed hysterically at my own jokes, and merely chuckled whenever my friend said something. I told her in reply, “Well, I can’t help it, I guess I’m just pretty damned funny sometimes.”

Just as is life is pretty damned funny, sometimes.

Other Tales of Drinkin’, Depravity & Debauchery:

A Touch of Evil

In the Blink of An Eye

This Diurnal Yearning

Three, Things I Like

Brain-Picking, Mind-Blowing and Just Getting Drunk
(Hanging with Hizoner at Gracie Mansion or
“A Married Woman and A Thousand Gay Men”)

Half-Crazy Wild Women

Being The More Richly Endowed, More Varied Man

Love, Lust and Other Things

The Lush Life

Having A Drink

Living The Lush Life

Vanity Fare
(Series of drunk self portraits taken after a black tie dinner)

Tuesday, June 12, 2007


A Woman Man, No Time to Talk (Just Staying Alive)
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

(how they like it)

Iced soy latté, shaken, not stirred

Espresso with a sliver of almond milk

Double espresso, milk, a half teaspoon of sugar

“Strong” coffee, “Weak is simply not worth it.”

Black (She, was the evil one)

I, like them all.

Friday, June 1, 2007

The Perfect Woman

The Perfect Woman
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

The Perfect Woman

Funny how some things never change.

Funny how from time to time we rearrange the furniture, yet the house remains the same; home is still home, no matter where the chair sits or what color the walls are.

Much the same way circumstances change. Much the same way people move in and out of our lives—strangers, acquaintances, intimate bedfellows, good friends and great friends that you’d love to meet on moving trains and make strange bedfellows of…

Regardless, of where desire drives us though, we are driven in circles. Round and round and round. Some say life is circular, cyclical. It is difficult for me to disagree. Life has been one big circle for me in so many ways. Besides, I like riding bicycles. I like riding in infinite circles.

Much like I like pining for the perfect woman. My longing has long been an interminable desire that diurnally is drummed up from the core of me and compels me to lurk forward into the city—wanting, waiting, talking and taking chances with random strangers I see. I see them often.

Today, she passed me on the street where I live—“Just give me three guesses and I’d name that beguiling perfume of yours—Lauren, Escape, Chanel?”

I then caught a glimpse of her standing squashed at the rear of the train, shame I couldn’t scoot in a little closer, if only to smile “Hi,” belie my ephemeral infatuation with a simple “hello” and an ecumenical “Good morning.”

I liked the mellow mood the next one, with her little-baby, early-morning, spring-sky blue top-shirt-blouse put me in, when we stood next to each other on the 1 train downtown; I noticed that it matched the Hudson and East rivers that swirl about Manhattan on the subway map that was posted across from us. I had hoped that she was going as far as I was going; hoped that she’d get off at the same stop, so that I could continue admiring her, if only from afar, just a little longer. Alas, she stayed on. I got off.

But then I saw her again, and I pined for that dragon tattoo on her right ankle to be a sign of something good, or rather bad, for I wanted to follow her through to the end of the platform, there where I lost sight of her stride from afar, because I had decided to stop at my usual standing point instead, because I had it in my head that this pining was all a bit of a pipe dream anyway.

Once I got on the next train though, I noticed one whose earrings were really shiny, shaped like tear drops, but slightly, okay, much-much bigger then any tears I’ve dropped; silver is a nice color either way. Mexican silver most likely.

The woman sitting in front of me didn’t seem like she cared much for what she was reading, most of the time she simply looked away from the page, a solemn, somnolent, almost somber expression panned her face, she looked somewhat-sadly-pensive, thinking slowly about things quite unrelated to her book.

As I passed through the park, I admired and dreamed about the next one who passed me, telling her, “My, your bra supports your breasts quite well, I can’t tell if they’re real or not; they remind me of ice-cream bon-bons, like I used to get as a kid at the theater. Strawberry were my favorites. Maybe than, it’s really the sweet-pink hue of your sweater that made me think of them. Maybe.”

At the street corner of my office, a sleek paragon of what-I’ve-always-wanted came striding confidently toward me; I noticed her multi-tiered necklace, it reminded me of Morocco, I’ve never been to Morocco. I also thought “You really should stop smoking, the coughing is so unbecoming of your otherwise elegant demeanor.” The thought was not meant to demean her by any means. I still admired her necklace and elegant style.

Finally, once I was inside I pondered upon a certain long-legged stride, “Bet you I could walk a mile along with those fine legs of yours, side-hopping, side-stepping, sequaciously dashing others, stopping, if only to slow down and keep apace—hoping, magically, you do not misconstrue my sideways lurking glances—imagining that at some point we might face each other, even though chances were that you’d never even notice me anyway. And, by the way, I love the concave contour of your skirt that clings to your thighs as you walked on by me.”

Yes, I like the way women’s summer clothes seem to sink in into their every curve.

Alas, to my desk I go.

Tomorrow, though I will surely find her again, that perfect woman.

And once again I will take a little part of every cosmopolitan passing fancy with me, and I will pine, and divine mischievous ways to manifest my pining into something a little more somatic, a little more sensual.

Funny how some things never change.