Let me have some of what you're smoking

DC is no New York. Where New York is the rebellious, hipster son of immigrant parents, experimenting with drugs, sex and anything taboo, DC is the son always destined for fortune--maybe not fame-- from a businessman's romp with a secretary, a tad pretentious but hard-working and a true leader, wearing argyle socks and ties even to work out.
But even the successful, normal son knows freaks, and in DC they stand out even more, without the jealousy of the other "weird" kids vying for attention.

I've met many strange characters in the city...
The bouncer at The House...
The House is a African American strip club down the street from my house in Petworth. I've been there several times because the inaugural event there with a friend from Missouri, Josh--equally intrigued by oddities--I met this man.

The bouncer was quite friendly and after standing outside smoking and talking to him decided to show us his woman, all of his woman. As he flipped through the nude photos of his girlfriend--a 20-something with this 50-something--Josh and I were laughing hysterically. But my insides were saying, "Awww, how sweet."

He loved her. At least the love that I know, that won't last forever but for the time being is, to take inspiration from "The Perks of Being a Wallflower," infinite.

And then you see his buddy, riding shotgun in the white police-looking car, wearing his seat belt and holding what looks like grape drink. We didn't find out exactly why the bouncer kept the dummy in his car, but again there was an  "awww" moment. I wonder if the bouncer wasn't a little mentally slow, and in that case this brings me back to childhood, when I used to drag stuffed animals around with me wherever I went. I used to teach them and mentor them, and in a family where my brother was 8 years older and my parents were always working, they were my only friends to confide in. I believed they had life, and it hurt me to love one more than the other.

Dr. Shine, the rapper on U Street...

Margaret and I had been dancing upstairs at the Black Cat, to sexy 80s industrial pop, when we went outside for a smoke. I'm not really sure why this man came up to us, but he started rapping the story of his wife cheating on him with a midget. Dr. Shine walked in on 4-foot man and his wife fucking, the midget jumped out the window, and then punched the doctor in the nuts.

Never once did the good doctor ask for money, although Kamal, an African American man we met and then proceeded to grind on downstairs at rap battle/gangster jams night, gave him $5.

Candyman...

Outside Callahan & Associates stands a well-spoken, well-dressed African American man. He was picked up before I got to DC and taken I suppose to jail or some kind of rehab facility. After several months the facility said something like this, 'Well, there ya go, a couple new polos and a pair of jeans. Back out on the street for you.'

And there he was again.

In the morning, Candyman is standing by the entrance of the 11-story building, where Callahan is busy on the 10th, and is quick to say hello and give you nice words.

"Hey cutie. How ya doing today?"

By the end of the day though, he is completely unaware of what's happening around him. Instead he's making a passionate speech, about rights, judgement, sex, presidents to no one. He's looking above everyone's heads, like you're told to if you get nervous while giving a speech. He's moving his hands and shifting from one foot to the other.

It's a dramatic switch, from the morning to the evening and it pulls me to figure out.

One afternoon he was talking to Mark, Michael, Melissa, and I--brought to you by the letter M--about applying for law school at Georgetown. He's extremely literate and when he's not drunk or high or mentally unstable could be a lawyer.

The M-group and I have decided to take him to see The Avengers soon. And soon I might start filming him. I'd like to get his real name, but the last time he was asked, Mark said he skirted around the question and finally changed the subject.

The Russian hit man at Metro Center...

As Arun and I sat at Metro Center smoking and digesting our food, we noticed a tall man in all black with the light blue eyes that could entrance you from miles away. He was squatting and rotating his arms like the characters from movies that have super powers--turning someone into ice there, calling upon the lightening here, karate-chopping there.

In between bouts of Dragon Ball-Z type rampages, the man would sit on the sidewalk and chat with people that passed by, not coherently I'm sure. When people weren't passing by he would look around with longing, or hold his head in his hands. I'm sure because his face orifices were about to pour brain blood from the amount of hallucinogens he had ingested. But to me it was as if he was hurting, depressed with his aloneness.

I watched him for about an hour sitting on Arun's lap.

"I love him," I said.

He looked up at me and said, "I'm not yours. I can't be, because you're in love with everyone."

"I hope you can understand," I said.

Before heading back to Petworth, we went to toss a bottle of Naked juice in the trash can beside the hit man. He had gotten up to speak with someone and was walking back to his stoop, so I was dragging my feet to time running into him. We made eye contact and he started rambling.

"I have my eye on you," he said to Arun. "Take care of Sophie and [some male name]."

And then, "Hold on a minute, I've got to fly," as he closed his eyes and tensed his muscles.

He was beautiful. And wasn't at all unhappy. Just in another world.

I wonder what they're thinking, what they're hearing, what they're seeing. I want to be in that world with them, to relate with them and tell them that's it's all going to be alright.



Wes Anderson makes another awkward beauty

Moonrise Kingdom, the new awkward love story by Wes Anderson, showed last Saturday at E-Street Cinema in downtown DC.
Anderson is always able to make his scenes heart-wrenching while clumsily smirk-inducing.

Here's an interview with the two child stars in the film, Kara Hayward as Suzi and Jared Gilman as Sam. Anderson has a knack for picking and then cultivating the actors to be the characters. These kids have such potential but they're undoubtedly awkward as the movie suggests.

Uncontrollable

I've never met someone that can make me feel so terrible that I'm effectually rendered useless, until now.

I like him, meaning that he makes me fucking crazy and I would give anything for him to be sent back to Chicago.
He's talked about suicide in recent days, and I doubt I'd even mind that, as long as I was there to watch.
I look past him when he's talking to me. I roll my eyes at him. I yell at him. But when he turns on that face, eyes welling, lips trying to smile but puckering so the corners creep down, pleading, shoulders hunched, hands not strong anymore but easily pulled away from, there's nothing I can do.

He's been talking dark lately. "Give me more pain." "Make me bleed." "Maybe I'll just kill myself." But he doesn't say those things with the face above. No, those things are said with a smirk. It's a smirk that hides whatever is really going on in that brain very well.
I'm scared of him. And I think I always knew I would be. From the very beginning I got this sense that he was lying to get what he wanted. Those kinds are frightening; you never know what they'll do and then be able to trick someone into thinking they didn't.
But am I only alarmed because for once I'm not the intimidating one... I'm not the one dominating. I'm not the one that makes or breaks. It's not my decision to take the life.

We were walking in Crystal City a couple days ago. It was 10:13, after I had seen him looking at himself in the art exhibit windows--he was clearly reflected in the silver--putting his finger perpendicular to his throat and sliding it across his neck. There was this creature, thoughtful, kind, in love with me, with his back to me, but the window showed something so different, an angry, uncontrollable, jealous beast. I wanted to console the one and run from the other.
We were walking through dimly lit parking lots with sparsely scattered trucks and vans, on our way back to my SUV--a haven with all my self-defense tools locked uselessly inside.
He touched my back as he whispered, "I'm falling in love with you all over again." The muscles in my butt tightened and made my back clench. It wasn't the kind of tensing because he is my love and his touch makes me melt; it was the kind of tensing that someone feels when their kidnapper puts a blade to their back and tells them it's going to be alright.

I'm scared though I love it. I can't get enough... It's like being addicted to skydiving, tattoos or performing onstage. The adrenaline rushes through your body, fight or flight are both vying for attention, and, like that, it's over and you're still alive, stronger. The adrenaline slowly subsides tingling under your skin, like an orgasm dissipating.

Even if he hit me, even if he raped me, even if he killed me, would I be able to despise him. I already do despise him, but like he says, "I'm addicted to the pain."
Would I forgive and forget? He'd show up outside my work a couple days after the attack with that look in his eyes. I would have no choice but to touch his face. My arm would lethargically rise as if I were in one of those fair rides--spinning so fast that the G-force makes your body heavy. The world right outside the metro would spin, colors blurring and noises softening and I would only see him in that moment.

Him with the dagger behind his back.