Posts Tagged ‘photographs’

That Charming Liberal City By The Bay Just To Our North


10 Jun

bayfarer

Bayfarer

samplex

From: Susanne Viscarra
Date: Thursday, June 03, 1999

Sorry I didn't get back. You just sounded pretty upset about the plans being wrecked, such that you needed to cool down not converse. Since your plans changed with us, we've now booked ourselves to take my brother and his kids out Saturday morning until dinner. Of course, you guys are still welcome to come up tomorrow night for an evening cruise. Just let us know. We went to Parrot Island (which is now called Bohager's) last night for their Austin Powers party.

Pussy Willow's on the coast, and the blind monkey's farting around with the TV antennae again. No word from you Chesapeake bums since I reported that Simple & Jen's party has moved up to Cockeysville. I feel arid dung dust up my nostrils and especially crummy that my plans were jacked, but par for the course and all that, leaves me with the only thing I can do is to regroup. So a Cockeyville roadtrip Saturday afternoon is pacing us since our agenda is to fringe this Internet business we're building, or at least considering it once I feel I can pull it off, which I probably can't. I'm actually a prude when I'm not trying to upend the principles to which I naturally gravitate in my challenge to understand the human condition. Not a classic prude, as nudity's no problem, but I will not ever feel comfortable in trying to talk someone into doing something they are not absolutely eager to do. Susanne has certainly never given any indication that she's interested in any of this or anything about us as long as we've known her short of queening a social crew to flit about in her honor for that matter, so this break in the plans sort of leaves us to our own wits. Bitch bitch, kick and moan. I was soooo booked, absolutely flattered by how fitting this entire penny opera at Fell's Point this weekend was falling into place. But noooooo...

Meanwhile, it goes without saying. You two are welcome—of course, darlings—to come up, be our guests Friday night until day next, but I know you really don't want to leave your breezy bay perch, so it's fine with us if you beg off, given we won't be on the sail Saturday. Just let us know whacha decide, Cap'n....

From: Hank Schomburg
Date: Thu, 10 Jun 1999 08:32:14 -0400

I thought you might be able to use the new spam yourself as a part of your enterprise. I suspected it was not new to you, though.

Sparky & I have been talking about the trek to the nationskapitol ad nauseum. I have to fly to Rhode Island (is there anything there but portagee and designing?) this weekend. Following weekends seem replete with family gatherings. As some point a red pencil must emerge and put an end to the "we should" loop. June is the month of evil for me since it is the end of the fiscal year and all insurance policies must be renewed. Kind of like April for an accountant.

We will work it out.

Wonderful Hank, but they won't send me any garments in MY sizes. And I'm just getting bigger. That in itself disappoints me on several levels, lemme say. I could however just send their slippery SPAM to every victim on my mailing list, order the largest sizes they stock, then give the garments to the next likely juggernaut I meet. Apparrel bandits stealing my cereal. Dmmm. I freak way too easily for this kind of questionable work. I ask myself, is this a public relations task I should embrace in my role of site owner? As you have been known to observe, "Just because you're misunderstood doesn't mean you're a genius..."

bay-sailor

Chain Male Action

Sparky, how's it been? Well, we take the Pontiac to Cockeysville. I snapped five rolls of film some grocery store goober is probably handling right now or has just recently handled in a precarious process of handoffs from my hands BACK to my hands, for pickup in the morning. Cha cha chisle for Man Razor on the swing out screen pass.

Four naked girls with various extremes of bodacious allure wiggled and squiggled, charming all but Sue's old school vanity right out of the room of regulars and newcomers that night. Simple, Jen, and Dave's Emporium of Performing Nudity (The Booby Guarantee) was kept carefully wrapped in Maryland yokel for its own sake.

Jen's slightly better looking younger sister was there also. Within an hour or so another two or three more "professional" looking early Internet girls made their entrance. Remember, this was an amateur gig, no was money exchanged, none ever required for these monthly fanzingers Jen and Dave hosted to show their approachability and to honor their paying fans, people who paid a small fee to join their online fan club. They certainly had earned themselves a true measure of fame power because it was on record that Jen & Dave were among the very first to take their exhibitionism to the Internet, and soon enough made contact with the first and second waves of girls who undressed for money on the web that had swept the nation the past couple of years before the big money porn industry finally arrived to prove that money, big money could be made on the Internet, thus pushing the technology and attracting the interest of the so-called more legitimate business world with all its supporting players like government large and small, the arts, news, views, and service industries, et cetera.

All the young women this night were in their early twenties, wearing mostly routine wet smiles, camel toes, and unimpressive bras of various colors and texture, but none could be called irreducibly seductive or exotic. Boobie guarantee, yes, seductive or particularly exotic, no. Flanking the plain, even dingy walls in this one bedroom Cockeysville apartment where Jen & Dave lived without benefit of marriage, although there was periodic talk that the ritual knot was on its way, maybe a dozen flirty men became boys in stride and slope, including this reporter as the small talk transitioned to the quick snap phase of shooting the models, who in turn kept themselves in constant movement once the girls had shed what little they had left clinging to their conspicuous nipples, young, smooth, tight and soft, some freckled, some clean, but all of them as pale as the walls, untouched by the sun, except Simple, who in light of the others was a sun bunny II thought it might be fun watching naked girls behave as if wood nymphs from the lore of old, Sue&#151in her sophisticated Cleopatra wig—ripped an early fig-snot mad drunk, while I just legged it out, snapping experimental keepers of steamy rather unartistic nudes draping about men and selves. Minor disappointment in Sue Baby bombing, but one of us usually is.

Fortunately, she brought her usual nice demeanor earlier on when things were less naughty and more sober. People liked her, but soon enough she kept picking fights in battling her feelings of inferiority against naked youth—trotting out her usual posture of superiority based on the amount of money she makes when she feels threatened by others, especially women, and proud of the well-appointed home she has. Well, we didn't always, and nobody was holding her age or looks against her. Because she was beautiful, fascinating, desired, compelling—until she turned ugly. The guys were certainly talking to her, and while I understood and actually anticipated her mind warp, I didn't feel comfortable leaving the scene immediately, not until a pardonable hour. I picked up her cues, of course, realizing tonight I'd have to generate all the charm and cheddar to muffle any outrageous horses I might have been compelled to unleash. Just know she had gone on record that she wasn't playing any naked games tonight; she was drinking into a mad stupor, and that was that. So my behavior was constrained to normal levels as I had to keep stepping in to bail her out of her own boozed up defiant rudeness, by rolling out my own personable and smart self to the lads who tried to chat her up, as well as those occasional loud remarks directed at no one directly but were no doubt aimed at our host and hostess, Jen & Dave. In other words I had to blend in, try to excuse and explain her slack, and come off as a broken marriage commoner myself. So I took one for the team. A switch of the norm you usually see surface when we're in Baltimore, eh Hank? This is why we're hardly the overachieving power couple of our dreams. One of us is always in the tank. So together we may cut one good figure. We maintain a certain balance, but we don't overachieve. We get by...

Bottom line—this night of fully dressed comic book men and topless hick girls was boring, squandering IQ, hopefulness, bravado, charisma, raising nothing, taking nothing away but the stark realization of being too indifferent to be there. We could ride away from this boobie guarantee to the motel room we'd booked there in Timonium for the night without regrets or any deeper symptoms that we were on our way out of a marriage we thought otherwise worked so well...
Sue and I swap the sober, responsible role by rote often enough that it's one of the most important maneuvers that's kept us together all these fifteen years of poking holes in liberal presumptions, forcing limits, noting discrepancies, self-realizing what felt comfortable to us and what didn't. This marvel, which seems to occur instinctively when one of us falls victim to the mash, while the other remains strong and capable was again in gear. So I floated around the apartment like a long haired jungle king that night, soaking up feminine empathy and its affect on the less attractive male yearling, masking my own zeal for the body nude with a slow deliberate maturity born of mine and my wife's conventional prudishness, if any of this could be called mature.

So here we were, shooting fish in a barrel of witz o' mania, 12 or so forgettable clowns glazed in denial, teasing the limits of common need in some slightly rundown standard issue apartment complex gracing the foothills of urbania just north of the Luthersville-Timonium strip. In the sizzle of the night heat I would become a sweaty mess without even clearing the deck with visceral agitation like I often do in public confrontations with phony, flat, non-personal situations. But this was a private home, and I tend to keep my manners in someone's home. Well, there was that Iggy Pop chair crashing scene at your house, Hank, but I was sitting (or buttdancing) in the chair, and it was purely accidental that it collapsed and I fell to the floor. And that's right, Susanne, after watching me plead in embarrassment for five to ten minutes confessed that the chair had already pulled apart once before, so I was able to finally plead innocence on that one.

There was something missing even in the hands off lap dances that the girls began to give toward the end of the night. No electricity. No psychological integration. Perhaps this was because none of the girls&#151as nice-looking, shapely and cheerful as they were—fit my pulchritudinous type. These were kids. Lower middle class kids mostly from Cockeysville, Maryland. What can I say? Bottom line—this night of fully dressed comic book men and topless hick girls was boring, squandering IQ, hopefulness, bravado, charisma, raising nothing, taking nothing away but the stark realization of being too indifferent to be there. We could ride away from this boobie guarantee to the motel room we'd booked there in Timonium for the night without regrets or any deeper symptoms that we were on our way out of a marriage we thought otherwise worked so well...

We have another earth scorcher here today. Gotta go sailing soon. Both of us are eager to have you grab some DC gusto from the Dollhouse any weekend soon. Maybe some Friday night, you guys can breeze up on rail or by car. I still appreciate the natural splendor of that plan, don't you? If some Friday night you two want to plot your way here, then plan the night from there starting with the basic tour of course, which will take five minutes, take in something around Washington, and then we can all leave for Baltimore midmorning next for a daycruise with Capt'n Hank and his, hopefully finishing up on an early evening sober moment maybe pick up some Chesapeake blues at a Fell's bar with our friends Karen and her new man, just like it was supposed to happen LAST weekend.

Things to do in DC. Introduce you to our 'XusNET servers—geek to geek. Gaggle around those Inner Harbor Mardis Gras pix we took with y'all back in February. Show you the stash of pics from last week's Cockeyville light of fancy. Swap a few Susanne-styled snappers. And bend tales of our two cities into spicy tongues and funny clothes few in our mosaic can fail to appreciate...

Yeah, just say it, I'll do anything once just to test the water, get it over with, and move along to the next challenge that must be met, not by bothering to count the successes or stumbling over the failures, but by filing the experience, noting those feelings, and realizing for the record who I am, and what I am capable of being...

DC is a conservative city, regardless of who's in power at the national or district level, and no matter how liberal the local government pretends to be with its passage of laws to the left of Maryland's tax and spend smiling faces.

GT

Neither Stick Nor Stones (She Mumbled)


16 Aug

styx

Styx Haunts The Dollhouse

samplex

Originally published on August 16, 1996

Well folks, it's official. Styx has left the building. After spending four of five nights away from the Dollhouse in her search for fun & frenzy around the U Street corridor, spending nearly every dime of the $200 plus she bussed in with, Styx wandered up on Wednesday afternoon an hour past her declared work time of noon. I told her she was fired, having been very clear that if I was going to make work for her in order to help her make Dollhouse rent I wanted her to take it as serious as any outside job: honesty, dedication, and consistency the foundation of that relationship. And since she now had no visible means of support, I thought she should leave for those greener pastures she had taken up in recent days.

Tom Howell and his pals had as much adopted her, and I wanted her to go, so I worked up the stones to insist she leave. She was too quiet, acted like a prisoner, an ugly step-child, a peril to herself and to us, too antsy to get out of the house night after night. Obviously she was not comfortable here. And the feeling was mutual. Tim had wearied of her ghostlike emphemera, hardly a word spoken, and then only a whisper we invariably had to ask she repeat. We thrive on explicit boltwrenching chat around here. She thrived on escape. She just wasn't working out. All my speeches intended to enlighten and provoke exchange mattered nothing to her. She just wanted to flutter beyond like gutter garbage in the wind in some unspecific marking of time.

Despite yesterday’s hangover slump after crucifying an entire bottle of vodka the day before to ease the anxiety of having to turn my back on somebody, even somebody I probably loathed, I was notably relieved that she was gone. No deep & disturbing psychodrama, merely thirteen hours of photograph labels had passed between us. Other than $125 dropped on a twin mattress for her, which I am sure we can parlay into a proper use once we can afford to remodel the basement, I feel she owes us nothing, and I nothing to her. A closed chapter in all our lives.
When I awoke Tuesday morning and Tim said she had not come in again that night I figured she would stroll in late, and asked Sue to take the Metro leaving me the car to move her across town. And so I did. I fed her some Ethiopian along the way, and that was that. No anger, no final speeches. Just the shared feeling that this was the most natural thing to do considering the anxiety we both endured while she was here. Although she said she was prepared to complete her day's work that afternoon, she admitted she was happy to try her luck on the street.

She had spent last night at Ted's. An odd but warm fellow, a heavy-set bearded lost & found street saxophonist, Ted kept a place over on the notorious in one of the Paul Lutauf Belmont Street buildings—a barren dump as you can imagine, having lived over on that same stretch of Belmont-In-Squalor yourself a decade of woeful memories ago, eh Jennifer, but certainly more the Styx style than the ordered clichés of the mid-life middle class Dollhouse manor. We made no vows to keep in touch, for as I said, very little was directly exchanged, particularly on the topics of the immediate past and the oh so immediate future, and what little was said I drew out with a direct questioning, the sole standard form of communication we seemed fated to share until she would leave I presumed.

Despite yesterday's hangover slump after crucifying an entire bottle of vodka the day before to ease the anxiety of having to turn my back on somebody, even somebody I probably loathed, I was notably relieved that she was gone. No deep & disturbing psychodrama, merely thirteen hours of photograph labels had passed between us. Other than $125 dropped on a twin mattress for her, which I am sure we can parlay into a proper use once we can afford to remodel the basement, I feel she owes us nothing, and I nothing to her. A closed chapter in all our lives.

Strange how I once thought she & Tim might hit it off, when instead it was Howellnyms & his Braeniac crowd who took immediate advantage of this wandering waif.

She was quite efficient in those thirteen hours at the Mac. I used a microrecorder early in the mornings before she was stirring to identify the appropriate people, place, and dates of each photo. She then transcribed them, printed to label sheets, and then applied to pictures each label at an astonishing rate. I was quite pleased with her work, but I knew she wanted to maraud the cityscape instead despite her acquiescent nods when I plied her with questions concerning her comfort & intentions amongst the Dollhouse regulars. I might have let Rob Williams down, but it no longer mattered. He'd passed her along to me. I passed her along to Tom and Russell Braen—no doubt to their prudent chagrin—but at least she wanted to be over there with Russell's Myhouse crew, closer to the urban street action than she was with us. I heard somebody say Patrick Tracy, our looming Irish writer, won a Madam's Organ backroom blowjob out of it, her idea, his treat. Enough said.

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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