Originally posted to my MySpace Blog: the 16 March 2005 @ 7:52pm
(ORIGINAL: TO BE EDITED)
Have you figured it out yet? Determined where it is you are most likely to meet the best of your friends. Undoubtedly you've meet great friends at school, often life long friends. You've likely met good friends at work, sometimes you’ll even know these people for a year or two after you quit that damned-assed horrendous hell-hole of a job… Outside of these, unless of course you’re the church going type, or have another some such hobby; the best friends you meet will most probably be the peoples you meet at your local.
I have always had a number of “locals” on the go at anyone time. Matter of fact, I have always had at least four or five locals on the go at any given time… just the other day, I realized I had become a regular at this bar at 23rd and 1st, O’Connels. I'd become "a regular" simply for the fact it’s right across from the NYU Dental Center. I’m there once a week these days, So, I have a Local for my trips to the Dentist (one might begin to wonder if I have a problem as well as a long list of locals)… O’Connels offers me up a free shot of Jamison when I pop in post-op condition; my face swollen and stuffed with cotton... I digress, the story of all my locals is likely due; keep your eyes and ears posted… I promise a serious slew of twisted tales… (tales of horror no doubt)
This little ditty isnt about locals; it is about one of my most favorite Irish-Bostonian's, a truly wonderful friend we all call, Doc. My local in Manhattan is a place called the Swan, it’s been my Manhattan local for over six years now. The original New York-ex introduced me to the place mere moments after I had met her. I’ve been hanging off their German taps at the Swan since, since well, before I even moved here. Sadly, I frequent the Swan less and less these days, I mean, it’s not twice a week like it once was… I frequent the Swan now… primarily to see Doc.
Doc’s is an older gentleman. The term gentleman survives today specifically to describe gentlemen like Doc. He’s older, not that much older than the oldest fella I know, I believe he’s 69. AND… let’s get these facts and stats out of the way already... Doc is 69 he’s a Vietnam Vet, he has been awarded both a Purple Heart AND a Bronze Star [for my Canadian friends, the Bronze Star is the third highest decoration one can achieve in US military service]… He’s a Vet, he’s a retired New York City plastic Surgeon, he’s gay, oh and, keep this to yourself, he is the best damned Republican I have ever had the pleasure to meet.
Doc and I had struck up our ongoing conversation long before that "disastrous day in the City on the edge of tomorrow"… Doc and I became good friends on the basis of my some idiot might call it courageous, non-homophobic ability to kiss him directly on the lips each time I saw him before we'd say hello; and our ability to carry on a conversation that went way beyond the limits of Rush Limbaugh into the nether worlds where Doc and I would meet on the great plains of democratic [non-partisan democratic mind you] enlightenment. Doc is a true American argument…
I mean, c’mon, he’s not only gay, a decorated Vietnam Vet, a Republican, he’s also from the Land that cursed family that tried to hoodwink this country into the belief that a bunch of booze running flaming wackos were… ooops, sorry; my bad... Doc is from Boston Massacheustis [a state I cannot not pronounce, cannot spell nor truly figure out]. The brief history of Doc as I have managed to glean from those rare moments he’ll talk about himself… He was born to a working class Irish family up in Boston, in other words, he's from Boston. He has the accent to prove it. Haven’t heard all much of his childhood story, we'll just assume it was everything we'd seen in the movies about, being from… Boston. He got himself through med-school in a peculiar way. It was back in the sixties, he somehow knew, he’d have to serve; an old prof who was stationed at some camp down in South Carolina, got him assigned to the medical core, when that sheltered assignment was up… he could have been re-assigned to say infantry in Germany, or logistic in Korea, but he requested to go to Nam, specifically to continue is medical education… AND to serve a country he once loved more than he may do so now...
He honestly hasn’t told me much about being a warrior-medic come doctor. He’s mentioned that he saw action, a lot of action. He once told me a bizarre story about setting up camp near this beautiful cove, he’d often swim… he'd alluded to how he rescued a small child from the currents and the sharks in this cove, how he stitched up the little boy after the boy had been bitten (or cut on the rocks, I was never clear which); I noticed he'd swell up a but each time he told and never finished this story. He has still yet to finish THAT story, nor how he was awarded the Bronze Star… But we do have an agreement that he will one day get to that, perhaps the end of this and stories yet started one day.... this is a date, I am very much looking forward to.
Indeed, it's all a bit sketchy, but he returns from Nam… and skippity-skip-to-lou a whole whack of stories I have yet to any more than partially hear; he became a renowned plastic surgeon in the very one place outside of LA. where a plastic surgeons may be regarded as a being most close to god. Sketchy still, and I can report this to you on the proof of seeing his old apartment, he WAS living the 1960’s / 1970’s dream-Halston lifestyle…
For those unclear, Halston was in many circles the King of NYC in the late 60’s early 70’s, his fashions and scents put him leap frog years above that silly white haired boy who lived in a loft he called the factory down in the heroin ridden dirty town they called… the "Art World". No ladies, Halston was NYC in the 60’s and 70’s AND Doc’s old apartment stank every inch n' detail of old Mr. Halston… mirrored walls, zebra print bed sheets, red shag deepest of the deep pilke carpets and 100’s of thousand little glass figurines… every where. Doc even had the prerequisite two cute as doodles little poodle doggie dogs who survive to this day all yellowed and mottled at 16 and 18 years of age.
Doc told me stories of being pulled over by cops in Toronto while breaking red lights in his big old solid gold Roles Royce… He 'Fall's' with his pal Trudy [heir to the scientist who invented no more tears and sold it to Johnson and Johnson], he 'Falls' with Trudy at Villa Desta [along with Donettelo et al]… he’s a once a year Winter regular guest at the Bermuda Beach Club… He has introduced me these friends, good friends, others who own restaurant chains who get chauffeured around town in classic, 70’s era stretch Mercedes Benz limos. He has told me all these stories, introduced me to his friends all in a manner (a true gentlemanly manner) where I never once felt belittled, or subrogated to another class. Doc, my good dear friend, more than many, knows the value of a friendship… I will leave it at that.
Actually, no maybe I won’t… Here’s a story of good friendship. Last Christmas as I was, in a forgettable state, Doc gave me the greatest gifts a friend could give… and a compliment I've held dear, since. I had a whole big whakin’ pile of problems on my plate… I wandered into the Swan and went through them with Doc… Gordon, he said, you don’t need to be in such a state, or seek therapy… you don’t have a problem, he said, you just have to do what I do and take time off whenever you’re feeling out of control on…
Gordon, he said, go to the NYU Dental center [across from the VET] on first Ave, they’re cheap and they will fix those problems in your mouth… Gordon he said, you and my then now Original NYC ex will remain good friends… and, you’ll meet someone soon… that night we walked as we talked, up Park, him drinking, while me holding him upright as best I could, it was one of those true and utter beautiful moments in a friendship. His compliment came when he almost chided me (as gentlemen with manners sometimes do): Gordon, he said, my more Scottish name rolling and brolling through the now far more pronounced Boston Irish brogue... 'the nicest thing about you is that you do not present your problems as problems… things you'd like to be solved by your friends.. You do not have drama, you have small issues; issues are so much more easily attended to". I took this compliment, stuck it in my heart and promised myself I would stick with this "manner" of addressing my "issues" with my dear friends until the day... I die…
Doc has issues himself; he presents them to me as issues, I discuss them with him rationally, and while I am with him, I refuse to express the concern and dread that I may actually feel at the moment he describes them. I offer a fresh bit maybe even a full dollop of empathy, then I walk out of the Swan and onto the L train… nuff said about that.
I now have only a vague memory of the things I wanted to get up in this piece when I started to write this stuff about my good friend Doc. I think I may have wanted to write about our non-arguments over politics and the general state of the Union [over which Doc and I have buried hours!]. He’s a Republican, I’m a Canadian [and we’ll leave it at that]… We see eye to eye on about 90% all issues, and share both 2 of our 3 most favorite Presidents… we argue only at the point where he believes in a more Gomorrah-Interpretation of these United States of America where as I still see a country, an empire, an epoch not yet even truly beginning to take it’s shape in the beautiful history of mankind… Funny thing is Doc and I will argue intensely while holding almost exactly the same point of view… friendship.
I wanted to write about these conversations, but as I got into writing this instead. I believe I may have began to realize, that although the stuff one “talks” about with his friends may be important. It really is the beautiful opportunity to just sit and talk WITH your friends, share the shit, the luck irish. Having someone close, dear and on your wavelength is what makes it all have it's own particularly special and spectacular meaning…
So this is you craptastic Sap-Master, signing off from this story… I love all of you guys!
[PS, I take pride in giving my younger friend bits and pieces of dare I say wisdom yet, AND I revel in the advise and examples of their lives, their bits of living they give me… My older friends, the Docs, the Paul, the Charlies to name but a few, I am honored, truly honored, blessed to have their friendship, and to have axcess to their most definatly appropriate to call wisdom… I am beholden to passing the wise advise they give me onto these younger friend of mine…
Meanwhile, I continue to live as, or like an Irish… Potatoe.
Have you figured it out yet? Determined where it is you are most likely to meet the best of your friends. Undoubtedly you've meet great friends at school, often life long friends. You've likely met good friends at work, sometimes you’ll even know these people for a year or two after you quit that damned-assed horrendous hell-hole of a job… Outside of these, unless of course you’re the church going type, or have another some such hobby; the best friends you meet will most probably be the peoples you meet at your local.
I have always had a number of “locals” on the go at anyone time. Matter of fact, I have always had at least four or five locals on the go at any given time… just the other day, I realized I had become a regular at this bar at 23rd and 1st, O’Connels. I'd become "a regular" simply for the fact it’s right across from the NYU Dental Center. I’m there once a week these days, So, I have a Local for my trips to the Dentist (one might begin to wonder if I have a problem as well as a long list of locals)… O’Connels offers me up a free shot of Jamison when I pop in post-op condition; my face swollen and stuffed with cotton... I digress, the story of all my locals is likely due; keep your eyes and ears posted… I promise a serious slew of twisted tales… (tales of horror no doubt)
This little ditty isnt about locals; it is about one of my most favorite Irish-Bostonian's, a truly wonderful friend we all call, Doc. My local in Manhattan is a place called the Swan, it’s been my Manhattan local for over six years now. The original New York-ex introduced me to the place mere moments after I had met her. I’ve been hanging off their German taps at the Swan since, since well, before I even moved here. Sadly, I frequent the Swan less and less these days, I mean, it’s not twice a week like it once was… I frequent the Swan now… primarily to see Doc.
Doc’s is an older gentleman. The term gentleman survives today specifically to describe gentlemen like Doc. He’s older, not that much older than the oldest fella I know, I believe he’s 69. AND… let’s get these facts and stats out of the way already... Doc is 69 he’s a Vietnam Vet, he has been awarded both a Purple Heart AND a Bronze Star [for my Canadian friends, the Bronze Star is the third highest decoration one can achieve in US military service]… He’s a Vet, he’s a retired New York City plastic Surgeon, he’s gay, oh and, keep this to yourself, he is the best damned Republican I have ever had the pleasure to meet.
Doc and I had struck up our ongoing conversation long before that "disastrous day in the City on the edge of tomorrow"… Doc and I became good friends on the basis of my some idiot might call it courageous, non-homophobic ability to kiss him directly on the lips each time I saw him before we'd say hello; and our ability to carry on a conversation that went way beyond the limits of Rush Limbaugh into the nether worlds where Doc and I would meet on the great plains of democratic [non-partisan democratic mind you] enlightenment. Doc is a true American argument…
I mean, c’mon, he’s not only gay, a decorated Vietnam Vet, a Republican, he’s also from the Land that cursed family that tried to hoodwink this country into the belief that a bunch of booze running flaming wackos were… ooops, sorry; my bad... Doc is from Boston Massacheustis [a state I cannot not pronounce, cannot spell nor truly figure out]. The brief history of Doc as I have managed to glean from those rare moments he’ll talk about himself… He was born to a working class Irish family up in Boston, in other words, he's from Boston. He has the accent to prove it. Haven’t heard all much of his childhood story, we'll just assume it was everything we'd seen in the movies about, being from… Boston. He got himself through med-school in a peculiar way. It was back in the sixties, he somehow knew, he’d have to serve; an old prof who was stationed at some camp down in South Carolina, got him assigned to the medical core, when that sheltered assignment was up… he could have been re-assigned to say infantry in Germany, or logistic in Korea, but he requested to go to Nam, specifically to continue is medical education… AND to serve a country he once loved more than he may do so now...
He honestly hasn’t told me much about being a warrior-medic come doctor. He’s mentioned that he saw action, a lot of action. He once told me a bizarre story about setting up camp near this beautiful cove, he’d often swim… he'd alluded to how he rescued a small child from the currents and the sharks in this cove, how he stitched up the little boy after the boy had been bitten (or cut on the rocks, I was never clear which); I noticed he'd swell up a but each time he told and never finished this story. He has still yet to finish THAT story, nor how he was awarded the Bronze Star… But we do have an agreement that he will one day get to that, perhaps the end of this and stories yet started one day.... this is a date, I am very much looking forward to.
Indeed, it's all a bit sketchy, but he returns from Nam… and skippity-skip-to-lou a whole whack of stories I have yet to any more than partially hear; he became a renowned plastic surgeon in the very one place outside of LA. where a plastic surgeons may be regarded as a being most close to god. Sketchy still, and I can report this to you on the proof of seeing his old apartment, he WAS living the 1960’s / 1970’s dream-Halston lifestyle…
For those unclear, Halston was in many circles the King of NYC in the late 60’s early 70’s, his fashions and scents put him leap frog years above that silly white haired boy who lived in a loft he called the factory down in the heroin ridden dirty town they called… the "Art World". No ladies, Halston was NYC in the 60’s and 70’s AND Doc’s old apartment stank every inch n' detail of old Mr. Halston… mirrored walls, zebra print bed sheets, red shag deepest of the deep pilke carpets and 100’s of thousand little glass figurines… every where. Doc even had the prerequisite two cute as doodles little poodle doggie dogs who survive to this day all yellowed and mottled at 16 and 18 years of age.
Doc told me stories of being pulled over by cops in Toronto while breaking red lights in his big old solid gold Roles Royce… He 'Fall's' with his pal Trudy [heir to the scientist who invented no more tears and sold it to Johnson and Johnson], he 'Falls' with Trudy at Villa Desta [along with Donettelo et al]… he’s a once a year Winter regular guest at the Bermuda Beach Club… He has introduced me these friends, good friends, others who own restaurant chains who get chauffeured around town in classic, 70’s era stretch Mercedes Benz limos. He has told me all these stories, introduced me to his friends all in a manner (a true gentlemanly manner) where I never once felt belittled, or subrogated to another class. Doc, my good dear friend, more than many, knows the value of a friendship… I will leave it at that.
Actually, no maybe I won’t… Here’s a story of good friendship. Last Christmas as I was, in a forgettable state, Doc gave me the greatest gifts a friend could give… and a compliment I've held dear, since. I had a whole big whakin’ pile of problems on my plate… I wandered into the Swan and went through them with Doc… Gordon, he said, you don’t need to be in such a state, or seek therapy… you don’t have a problem, he said, you just have to do what I do and take time off whenever you’re feeling out of control on…
Gordon, he said, go to the NYU Dental center [across from the VET] on first Ave, they’re cheap and they will fix those problems in your mouth… Gordon he said, you and my then now Original NYC ex will remain good friends… and, you’ll meet someone soon… that night we walked as we talked, up Park, him drinking, while me holding him upright as best I could, it was one of those true and utter beautiful moments in a friendship. His compliment came when he almost chided me (as gentlemen with manners sometimes do): Gordon, he said, my more Scottish name rolling and brolling through the now far more pronounced Boston Irish brogue... 'the nicest thing about you is that you do not present your problems as problems… things you'd like to be solved by your friends.. You do not have drama, you have small issues; issues are so much more easily attended to". I took this compliment, stuck it in my heart and promised myself I would stick with this "manner" of addressing my "issues" with my dear friends until the day... I die…
Doc has issues himself; he presents them to me as issues, I discuss them with him rationally, and while I am with him, I refuse to express the concern and dread that I may actually feel at the moment he describes them. I offer a fresh bit maybe even a full dollop of empathy, then I walk out of the Swan and onto the L train… nuff said about that.
I now have only a vague memory of the things I wanted to get up in this piece when I started to write this stuff about my good friend Doc. I think I may have wanted to write about our non-arguments over politics and the general state of the Union [over which Doc and I have buried hours!]. He’s a Republican, I’m a Canadian [and we’ll leave it at that]… We see eye to eye on about 90% all issues, and share both 2 of our 3 most favorite Presidents… we argue only at the point where he believes in a more Gomorrah-Interpretation of these United States of America where as I still see a country, an empire, an epoch not yet even truly beginning to take it’s shape in the beautiful history of mankind… Funny thing is Doc and I will argue intensely while holding almost exactly the same point of view… friendship.
I wanted to write about these conversations, but as I got into writing this instead. I believe I may have began to realize, that although the stuff one “talks” about with his friends may be important. It really is the beautiful opportunity to just sit and talk WITH your friends, share the shit, the luck irish. Having someone close, dear and on your wavelength is what makes it all have it's own particularly special and spectacular meaning…
So this is you craptastic Sap-Master, signing off from this story… I love all of you guys!
[PS, I take pride in giving my younger friend bits and pieces of dare I say wisdom yet, AND I revel in the advise and examples of their lives, their bits of living they give me… My older friends, the Docs, the Paul, the Charlies to name but a few, I am honored, truly honored, blessed to have their friendship, and to have axcess to their most definatly appropriate to call wisdom… I am beholden to passing the wise advise they give me onto these younger friend of mine…
Meanwhile, I continue to live as, or like an Irish… Potatoe.
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