R.B. Winters's Blog: Rent (minus) Control, page 4

The point is, what?

The point is, what?

[cs_element_section _id=”1″][cs_element_row _id=”2″][cs_element_column _id=”3″]Welcome to Hell: A Beginner's Guide to Soul Collection

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Pre Order Today available 12.31.17![/cs_element_column][cs_element_column _id=”5″][cs_element_image _id=”6″][/cs_element_column][/cs_element_row][/cs_element_section][cs_element_section _id=”11″][cs_element_row _id=”12″][cs_element_column _id=”13″]I would guess my twenties dating life is pretty typical. Go on a date, text back and forth, wonder what the other person really means. Always looking for the subtext, even if there was none to be found. Spending obscene amounts of time chasing people who aren’t chasing you, or only chase you until they find “the one.”

It has been a long time since I’ve actually dated. I’ve gone on a few dates, but each of those is a one-time deal, mainly resulting in friendships. This is not a complaint, some great friends have come from dates which fell flat.

As of now there is a gentleman who is expressing what I believe to be genuine interest. He is nice, handsome and thinks I’m hilarious. That last one is important, because I’m fairly certain I’m a riot.

None of those questions from twenty-year-old me are arising. I know what he wants, what he’s thinking and what his intentions are. The question I find myself asking is why?

People date for a number of reasons. Some people pair up to avoid being lonely. I cherish every moment of my alone time. If you give me the option of alone at home or out with people, home wins every time. There is no more FOMO here.

Then you have people who couple up for financial security. This is a good and vapid reason. I’m certainly not rich, but I have my checking account together and don’t need someone else’s income to survive. Fortunately.

Then there are the love people. The people who say they are so in love, they just can’t imagine life without the other person. I don’t even love wine to such an extent. I really love wine. If you or wine were being held hostage and I could only save one, you’re probably going to die.

My question is what is the point of dating if there’s nothing you want or need from another person. You must factor in I am about as emotion as a bee while it’s stinging you. I can work myself into a frenzy, do some good angry, but when it comes to cute or lovey stuff I haven’t a clue.

This is more of an open ended or TBD post, as this is the concept rattling around my brain. Why date? Seriously, tell me, why are you dating, what does it do for you?[/cs_element_column][/cs_element_row][/cs_element_section]

R.B. Winters
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The Californians

The Californians

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If you’ve been to New York, or know someone from New York, and California has ever come up in conversation, it is very likely your New Yorker has bitched about the state or the people of the state. We are one of those longstanding and wonderful opposites do not attract stories. Not the North versus South kind of opposites, as we can all agree the South is a disaster.

Now, I’ve met enough people from California to know not everyone is a Kardashian or a bleach-blonde embarrassment to humanity. Every now and again, like last night, I meet someone who is exactly the stereotype I have in mind of a California gay, only made more of a stereotype by hailing from San Francisco.

Let’s rewind just a tad for the sake of clarity. The gentleman who is renting my room via AirB&B invited me out for drinks with his new friends. I decided to not be myself and actually leave the apartment. We’re having drinks and I’m chatting with the couple, learning they have recently relocated to Puerto Rico.

Fast forward a few hours and one half of the couple, the half from California, is literally talking to me with “like, um” statements which better belong in the mouth of a teenager, while twirling his finger around a long strand of blonde hair. This would be easy enough to ignore, but then it was followed by one-up’ing. What he shared after learning a few details about my life:

They live on the “west side” of Old San Juan because it’s the “best side”
There’s no other livable area on the island
Old San Juan is the only real city
And so on…

If you’ve ever been to Old San Juan, which is beautiful and architecturally interesting, it is not big enough to be broken into West over East. You can walk five minutes and pretty much cross from one side to the other and not break a sweat. The only thing special about living there is you will pay New York rent prices for older apartments with limited space and resources. Not that this is the worst thing, I lived this way in New York for years, but isn’t the point of being down here to get some space?

We won’t dissect or get into the other comments. It mainly gets me worked up, though I shouldn’t care, because the thing I have enjoyed most about living here is being away from all the bullshit coming with these types of people. Who cares what neighborhood you or I live in, or where we get groceries, or if one of us doesn’t drive, and so on. All of that shit belongs on the mainland.

Hopefully this isn’t a trend. It’s sort of like when my neighborhood in Brooklyn gentrified. Yes, the graffiti was gone and things were visibility nicer, but the area lost its charm and those of us there at the time faded away with a lost reality. If the Californians must come, perhaps we sanction them off to an area where they can smugly compete with their own kind.

R.B. Winters

Off the Island

Off the Island

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During the three weeks I recently spent back in the States, it was a conversation with Business that helped me realize I’ve not been clear with my friends. When I came to Puerto Rico it was to be for the winter, six months max, then back to the city. Ideally, I was going to spend my winters here and my summers in New York, it was as though I was skipping to my golden years long before the arthritis.

As usual, life never goes to plan. I enjoy Puerto Rico. It’s warm, there are fewer people, no one pays me much mind, and I am generally left to my own devices. In New York, it’s the exact opposite…which was great in my twenties. New York made me want to write about everything I was doing, seeing, experiencing, and all the people around me and their craziness.

Puerto Rico doesn’t drive me to write about those things, but makes it seem as though there are other things to write about. Which is why I’ve been back on the fiction track lately. Obvious book plug above.

This tiny island is amazing. It’s warm and beautiful. Something right off of a postcard. But it was when Business asked me, “when are you coming home…” that I had to come to terms and share the new reality. I’m not going home to New York. At least, not any time this decade.

If you asked five years ago, there was no conceivable future I could imagine where I wasn’t central to New York. It was everything, not to say it’s suddenly not. NYC is, and will always be home. The loss of some friends, the moving of others, has dwindled the personal ties. Now the thing most tying me to New York is my love of the place itself. Big buildings towering overhead, the bustle, the sounds, the speed. It’s fucking magical.

Puerto Rico was culture shock in an unexpected way. I’m learning a new language, new customs, and this place has inspired me to change my five-year plan, which we are already one year into and counting. Puerto Rico is my forever second home, but I have my sights set on a third home: Spain! I’ll keep making my way around the globe until I’m a wrinkled old man, and then, then I shall make my return to New York!

Business didn’t seem pleased with my new life goals, but at least I’ll always have a room for him wherever I travel. As he always has for me when I want to run home for a weekend visit. Who knew there was more for a New Yorker beyond the confines of our lovely little island of Manhattan.

 

R.B. Winters
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Feel The Wind Blow

Feel The Wind Blow

I’ve lagged on writing about the hurricanes, not only because they were so heavily covered in the news, but because the overall experience was such a disruption to life that things are just barely returning to a normal state.

Irma, arriving in early September, gave me a false impression of what a hurricane was like. The wind howled, the building swayed and the windows leaked for hours. Not little drips and dribbles, but so much water forced its way through the window frames and windowsills, my living room looked as though a shallow pool were installed.

Water caused no damage as I mopped it up as quickly as I could, until the storm eventually tired and moved away from the island. Assuming Maria would be a similar storm, when she made landfall in late September, I prepped for more water. Lots and lots of water.

Then Maria arrived and she was dry in comparison to Irma. The wind was another story. The howl as wind wrapped around the building was so ferocious it sounded as though the windows were going to burst from their frames as the storm was still working into a frenzy.

Several hours into Maria the power went out. To be clear, we are more than sixty days beyond the storm and my building is still lacking power, as is a large portion of Puerto Rico. We do have a generator that is now running fairly well, but when the power went out that first night I assumed we would be back on the grid within a week. Never could I have imagined a city, especially one associated with the United State, would sit in darkness for so long.

As the windows rattled and the front door shook and hissed, I eventually gave in, settling myself and cat into the bathroom. Located in the center of the apartment, all walls are made of concrete and it seemed to be the safest place to wait out the storm. Inside we listened as you could hear glass shattering, trees snapping in half, boards ripping from buildings. It shook the nerves to hear all of this and sit in utter darkness.

You might think it would be better once daylight broke, but you’d be wrong. The wind continued until midday, with the sun up it made it possible to watch the destruction unfold. And with daylight came looting, blockading doorways, making a shiv and preparing for the worst. It was surreal to say the least.

The cleanup has come a long way, even without power we are moving forward and the city is slowly coming back to life.

 

R.B. Winters
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You Have Zero Friends

You Have Zero Friends

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In the mess of the last two months, you know, hurricane stuff, blogging has fallen to the bottom of the priority list. But as I sit with a head cold at my desk, it seems like the easier focus than real work. So, a tale we shall have!

My birthday managed to fall directly between Hurricane Irma and Hurricane Maria. For this birthday of no real notable age, a friend made the decision to keep her planned trip. You may recall Lacee (aka Roomie) from older blogs and a few tales within books.

Quick recap if you don’t know of Lacee: We were roomies in Brooklyn, then we weren’t, then we hated each other, then we were friends, then she had babies. There’s twelve years of life in one sentence. Impressed?

In our adult years [the thirties], we are lazy as all hell. In the best way. We sit on the sofa, eat and watch Netflix. It’s pretty fantastic. No adventures or obligations. Just sitting and chatting. Well, bitching more than chatting.

Now, I have been living in Puerto Rico for some time and this was to be Lacee’s second visit, so I wanted to utilize the opportunity for friend gain. I planned a little birthday party for myself and invited the few friends I’ve managed to collect. You see, several of my new friends are friends of a friend who left Puerto Rico to make it in Brooklyn. We pretty much have traded living situations at this point. A party is a good way to get drunk and bond.

To accommodate schedules things were planned for 4:00 PM. Now, I know enough to be aware no one in PR is ever on time. I assumed people would begin to appear around the hour late mark. When we arrived at the two hour late mark I was losing hope. Literally, I felt like the biggest loser and was pretty sure Lacee and I would have to venture out to a bar to lick my wounds.

I’m a lovable cactus, how could no one show up?

As we approached the three hour mark and were prepping to pack it in, the guests FINALLY started to arrive. Who the hell comes three hours after a party commences? If you know me, which this group kind of does, you know I’ll be tanked by then and most the booze will be gone. Alas, it all turned out for the best.

We all had a lovely time, or at least that’s how I remember things. Like I said, so many drinks in me. I do believe it was a solid step towards locking in some of these friendships. And Lacee was the perfect co-host. Once I was too lazy to continue a conversation I could hand people off. Perfect.

Next time I know to tell people we start at one if I want them to show up by four. Lesson learned. To the next (Lacee) visit!

R.B. Winters

AirB&Douche Bags

AirB&Douche Bags

I recently began using AirB&B to make a few dollars on my spare bedroom. For the first time in my life, I live in a two-bedroom apartment and don’t need a roommate. It seems only practical to not let the space go to waste. For the most part the visitors are polite, clean and don’t hang around much. Then there are the two which make me question my decisions.

One Friday afternoon a man who we will call V arrives. The front desk calls up and I tell them to let him upstairs. After twenty minutes, I text him through the hosting app. Apparently, he felt the need to wait for me in the lobby even though the doorman tried to let him up via the elevator. What was more odd was that he arrived with no luggage. He said his friend had their car and the luggage was in there. Reasonable, I didn’t think much of it after that moment.

Now, when people arrive, I greet them, show them the space and where things are at and they are on their own. This guy had other plans. He sat on the sofa and chatted my ear off for three hours. I like five-star reviews so I was accommodating, but finally I couldn’t take the vapid conversation and made up an excuse to leave my own apartment. V is one of those people who needs to tell you how he was a dancer, and now is the “best dance instructor in LA” and how “he has the best dance studio in LA.” Honestly, I don’t care. Even if he was paying me for conversation and not a room, I still wouldn’t care. There was no substance to the conversation.

Now, his travel partner, who may or may not be his boyfriend depending on which of them you ask arrived a little later. Five in the morning to be exact. AirB&B in my place is like coming to a hotel for old people. If you want to party and be out all night, this is not the place for you. I’m sure the second guy, who we will call B, was coked out of his mind. In his two days, here he didn’t go to bed a single time, but sat at the dining room table writing all over a map of the area I provided.

it would be great to say that’s all and they were just a bit odd. But on the second day of the stay, I received a text asking if they could open my wine. The wine I carried home from Italy. the wine which has a note (to myself) to not open until 2022. No, you can’t open the fucking wine! This made me march home asap. They didn’t touch the wine but helped themselves to a bottle of whiskey. To make it more awkward, there were now two random girls in the apartment that B met at a club the night before. Okay, my AirB&B listing is very clear about no extra guests, no parties and two people max. I wanted to be polite so I kept to myself.

Fast forward, these four-people stayed up all night, until I finally lost my shit and threw the two girls and forced them to all go to bed. Much to my surprise when they left the next morning while I was out getting coffee they kept the keys, garage gate opener and helped themselves to a phone charger. I can’t wrap my mind around the why? I guess it seemed like a good way to get revenge for me snapping, but who does that?

Alas, all my visitors since have been great, but I can honestly say, I’m very nervous about accepting reservations from gay couples now. The entitled, party attitude is too much for me to handle.

P.S. They also managed to get me in trouble with the HOA for calling the doorman a racist, he isn’t, and they walked around in the lobby without shoes. Oy vey. If you use AirB&B be sure to read people’s rules.

R.B. Winters

Pulling Strings

Pulling Strings

We are coming up soon on the two-year anniversary of my Gays [NYC friends] date of friendship termination. That friendship ended when the other party decided to stop speaking to me. Why? Because I wasn’t doing what I was told and behaving how they wanted.

Friendships are not supposed to have strings. At least mine aren’t – or can’t. I won’t allow them to. Strings are for relationships, which is fine, as that’s a whole different situation. Now I find myself in the same situation with my Straights [NYC friends who moved to the Midwest]. You may recall I previously posted about my visit to them five plus weeks ago and how they cutoff communication after.

Well, I finally know why after continued aggressive texting. On the final day of my visit [Friday] there was a pool party and lots of drinking. By 5:00 PM we were back in the Straights apartment watching television. Now, I was toasted. As in, my day started with a migraine so terrible I was nauseous and took medication. We then drank through my pain, there was no reason to cancel the party for a migraine that can’t be helped.

Now anyone who knows me, or what they should know about me, is if you get me really, intoxicated I will want to go out and dance. And since the straights didn’t want to leave their apartment, I told them they were boring and went and found a person to hangout with for the evening.

I received the silent treatment for calling them boring and going out. I didn’t realize we were five years old. Who cares?! I’m boring when I’m home, but on my last Friday in some other city – I’m going out.

That’s not what makes me think we will likely never again speak. Oh, no. It was when this was said: “We just want to make sure you value our friendship as much as we value yours.”

Seriously? When I received a drunken text asking me to come visit so the male half of the couple didn’t have to attend a concert and I didn’t bat an eye [at the $900 flight], was that not showing where I put my value? Or, before this trip, when I coordinated a friend trip, which was the Straights idea, confirmed they were in multiple times and then booked the $1,100 flight, was that not commitment to the value of the friendship? NOTE: The female half claims to have sent her decision to not go nine days before our exchange. Which I don’t believe, but even if true is still a huge fuck you and slap in the face as she knew the trip was booked and I’m only going because we were going together.

So, they are now moving to Seattle. I have my sights set on Europe. I think it’s safe the say the likelihood of reconciliation is slim, though probably nonexistent. I expect my friends to have a thick skin, but if I heart their feelings to say something and not play a game for five weeks.

Goodbye my Straights. Another New York chapter of this story is dead.

R.B. Winters

Straight Up Now Tell Me

Straight Up Now Tell Me

It’s a fairly common belief that making new friends in your thirties is difficult, if not nearly impossible. I don’t disagree, most of my friends come from my late teens and mid-twenties. For the most part, the friendships I have, though they are physically distant, have been pretty strong and lasted many years. My Straights are the most recent friends I’ve made and it’s been about four years since we met.

I share, as it’s the setup to understand some very interesting moments from when I traveled to Minnesota to visit them. They left New York almost a year ago and have been in the Upper Midwest living life. Several months back they invited me to visit for a June concert featuring Paula Abdul. Who could say no to such offer? I was also intoxicated when the request came via text and didn’t think the $900 plane fare was a big deal.

When I arrived, I had about eight hours to kill as my Straights thought I was coming the next day and were in route home from Ireland. So, I put the new skills I’ve acquired to work. You see, I understand it may not be possible to make new, true friends, but I can make friends for the hour. Someone to have a drink with, chat and then part ways. So, I pulled up Grindr, which is good for more than hooking up, I should know as I’m seven months without, and chatted up a nearby person. This gentleman was two floors down in the same building and bored. Perfect. We drank wine for three hours while I waited.

It wasn’t a secret, drinking with the neighbor, but it did spawn a confession by the Straights the next day. Though they’ve known me several years, we’ve gone on trips together, they’ve read my books, even with all this history they shared that they thought I was a prostitute. I take this as literal and not a joke because it was followed with, “not to offend you.” I wasn’t, I’m not, offended, but it did make me wonder if the people we are friends with for more than an hour ever really know you. True, we never talk about work, but we do talk about pretty much everything else. Yet, somehow, they thought I was making my money by sucking dick.

The next interesting moment came as we had beers near the concert venue and I tried to use the restroom. A woman yelled at me, “We’ve taken over. These bathrooms are gender normative.” My response to her was fuck off unless you are going to piss in the urinal. I understand women’s restrooms in bars aren’t adequate for the most part, and be my guest to take the stall in the men’s room, but don’t try blocking me with your millenial bullshit. In fact, there was not one single day in Minnesota that went by without me telling someone to fuck off. What is going on with the white people up there? They’ve lost their minds it seems.

After all of this, the cherry on top, Paula Abdul cancelled. It is always great seeing my friends, even though they have gone silent suddenly, but the whole reason I went was for a concert that didn’t happen. What’s worse is I do get the impression the Straights have been away from me and New York too long. I may have matured by buying a condo and other adult things, but I’m still the ridiculous mess I’ve always been. Loud and annoying like any New Yorker. I believe it may have been too much.

I am waiting to see if the trip we have planned for August will come to fruition. My theory is they may last minute bail and confirm my suspicions. Which makes me wonder, is it better to enjoy the vapid one-night friendships or continue to search for your people?

 

R.B. Winters

And Then it Was Over

And Then it Was Over

I wonder if dating is a skill, as so many self-help books, blogs and shows would have us believe, or if some people just can. I’m thinking it’s the latter and I’m the type that just can’t.

You may recall in the last post I questioned if I or Banana was the villain in our semi-relationship-thing. I do believe I have the answer. We are the villain to each other. A twist!

It started innocently enough when I shared a story. I was joking and mentioned that I could never get away with murder because I like to gossip and would end up ratting on myself. Now, Banana immediately interjected to inform me I meant to say brag and not gossip. He is technically right as far as definition, but I meant gossip as that was the story I was trying to tell.

It’s a silly thing really. Just a word. But I was already annoyed with Banana, and we had previously talked about him trying to tell me what I can say. So, I told him very clearly to not tell me how to articulate myself, and that if he does feel the urge, keep it to himself. He told me to fuck off. I told him to fuck off. We then walked a mile, ate dinner in silence and enjoyed a fairly uncomfortable evening. He seems unable to take the shit he dishes.

A day went by and it was Friday night, the only night of the week I’m actually fun. You see, there is no work in sight and the actual work of the day has come to a conclusion. A friend was at a nearby bar, I invited Banana and we made our way to Old San Juan. Banana sat in silence and didn’t engage with others, even as they attempted to engage him. I had three cocktails.

As those cocktails worked their magic I was certain that I could not wait another day to end whatever this is. So, I suggested we leave and brought up everything you’ve just read. Banana informed me that I’m selfish and that he is desperately trying to get a flight out of here. Also, he’s trying to schedule a therapists appointment as he needs to talk to someone because I’m so “grim” that he just walks around in a depression. I told him he’s a drama queen.

I don’t disagree with any of his commentary towards me. I’m kind of a cunt. Which Banana fervently tells me each day. But I’m a fun cunt. Except when we are together. He doesn’t get my humor or listen to me. He shuts down every comment I make, even if it’s my story. So, I sit silently. What’s the point of talking to someone who has no interest in hearing?

I am definitely his villain. He is not so much mine. To me he is more of an obnoxious man-child. Born to a very wealthy family, he has never worked, lives off a trust fund and has no concept of reality. Example: He felt I wasn’t giving him attention during the week. That’s because I have this horrible thing called a job. You know, to earn money.

To top it off, I thought he was leaving in just one more day, but he is actually here for five more. Since he is staying with me, we get five more days of uncomfortable existence. Which will end with us never speaking again. I believe we will both take pleasure in that.

R.B. Winters

Hero or Villain?

Hero or Villain?

Recently on a Delta flight, one which ended without bloodshed, I was re-watching the movie, How to Be Single. Being the second time around, there was a line I’d not paid much attention to originally, but this time I was strapped to a seat with nothing better to ponder. It was something along the lines of: If you’re single for so long, you run the risk of becoming too good at being single. Something like that.

I would say I fall into this category, and not necessarily for lack of trying, but mostly for lack of caring. In our present day, I am involved with a gentleman and it has been about six months. I credit the short lived longevity to our living situation. Banana lives in Minnesota…or Michigan…I have a hard time with the Upper Midwest. I live in Puerto Rico. We very rarely see each other and a majority of our communication takes place via text message. This is not a complaint, I love my space and it’s really the best of both worlds.

Now, Banana has a way of pissing me off. It’s usually when he tells me not to say something or overreacts [in my opinion] to something I say. If you’ve ever read anything I’ve penned or met me in person, you know the fastest way to hear things from me you don’t like is by telling me I can’t say something. What really sets me off is he prides himself on having an edgy tongue. I can’t recall his exact phrasing, but he has referenced how people get “offended” by him but it’s their problem. I’m not a fan of the double standard being imposed here.

This then got me to thinking on how I’m reacting. Am I overreacting? Am I trying to vilify him in the narrative? I think the answer may be yes, even if it’s only taking place in my subconscious. In my stories, and dating, there is always a villain. Generally, it’s the other person. It only occurred that I may be the villain the other day when Banana mentioned he was handing over all authoritative power in the relationship to me. Probably the most romantic thing you could say to someone like me, but it makes you wonder why a person would have to say such a thing.

As a single person of eleven years, excluding the past six month and the casual flings along the way, am I too good at being single? Too good in a way that the only way to coexist with me is in a work-style exchange where it is my way or no way? It’s something to think about. That, or perhaps we’re both villains in our own right.

R.B. Winters