R.B. Winters's Blog: Rent (minus) Control, page 7
December 16, 2015
No Going Back?
New York has a special place in my heart. As a little boy and a teenager it was the goal, the direction, the only thing that mattered. Today, however, I had a thought…what if I don’t go back?
San Juan is not easier than New York overall, I don’t speak Spanish, the Sun burns me at every opportunity and I can’t get half the food and merchandise I want without immense struggle (first world problems). At the same time, I have an enormous apartment with every single amenity which is thousands of dollars outside my reach in the city. So, it really comes down to people.
I’ve picked up and moved before, I left all my Utah friends almost nine years ago and only looked back now and then. We made it work because there is a mutual understanding to one another’s life goals. It is becoming clear that this is not going to be the case with my city friends. When and if I do go home in April what exactly am I returning to other than a half furnished apartment and the frustration of getting a damn cat through the airport?
Here’s the skinny: The Straights are so over New York that it’s disheartening. They’re likely going to be moving in less than a year, which in all honesty is too sad to consider at this time. I hate missing people, though I obviously miss them and my gays at this moment while I’m in San Juan. That was my decision so I’ll shut my mouth.
This raises the subject of my gays. After expressing their frustrations, well, one expressed frustration, but the message sounded tailor crafted from both, of their disdain for my decision to leave without their blessing via email it became a tad rocky. To be frank, no one gets a say in anything I do. This is my life. As a single adult with no children it is up to me how I plan and paint my future. The same courtesy is extended to all my friends, I have no say in their lives. Perhaps I’m being too blunt in this, but to me being a friend means nothing more than enjoying the time you spend with another person or group of people with no expectation of anything. Relationships, as in couples, are for expectations, not friends. So, now they speak to me with no regularity, and in fact, we could say they’ve all but stopped. I do not apologize when there is nothing to be sorry for, and this rift may be the end of a valuable friendship over truly silly things.
What is waiting for me in New York: Friends who don’t want to talk to me…friends who are leaving…and a small group of friends who are remaining in place. It’s fraction of the life I thought was there and now it appears as if it was all shallow, surface material. I hope to be proven completely wrong as this is not how I want things to be, but it is becoming clear that this is how they may have been all along.
December 9, 2015
Whore-nado
There are certain facts to life. Some of mine: Utah is place of birth, New York is home, Puerto Rico is currently a miscellaneous adventure. After a short five weeks on the Enchanted Island it was no longer possible to resist the call of play time, unlimited brunch and real home.
With a few keystrokes and rushed plans I was back on a plane to the city. My Straights let me takeover their sofa, though I only ended up using it a single night; Friday if you’d like to be specific. We planned on a simple happy hour as the Straights were jet-lagged from their trip to China and I was burnt from the week.
Arriving in top form [tipsy], I enjoyed a first class upgrade thanks to my one and only PR friend, Boston. I know, who ends up in Puerto Rico and finds a person from Boston to befriend. Go figure. Anyway, a simple wine bar turned into an all-night rager. So, so many bars. I can’t even remember them all, or some portions of the evening to be honest. We were removed from one bar and turned away from at least two during our escapades. Apparently there is a point where you can be too drunk…in the eyes of others.
Saturday brunch meant pulling a hangover together and doing it one more time. The twist, Shew joined us at brunch. If you’ve been reading any old posts or know the history, Shew used to make me think I was insane. However, I received validation as he finally admitted he used to intentionally go after guys I was interested in an effort to bed them. Vindication comes from knowing I was right all along and it actually makes it all better. Not that I’ve been fixating on it the past few years, but you always wonder about unfinished business.
No trip home would be acceptable without a booty call. Though it wasn’t Late Night, as you might assume, it was Apple Picker. I’ve left him out of here and maybe we can talk about him at some point, but it seem like a frivolous use of words today. Not only did my drunk ass walk from Chelsea to HK to meet him, it seemed like a good idea even though my twisted ankle disagrees, but I just whore-nadoed his apartment. Realizing such the next morning as socks were under the bed, shirt and sweater in the living room, pants on a lamp, etc. Totally worth every second.
After all this gallivanting what sucked, besides leaving, was the trip home. Again upgraded to first class thanks to Boston, the hangover was so intense I was unable to take advantage of the unlimited free drinks. Damn you liver! Oh well, there’s always the next unplanned escapade.
November 15, 2015
Life’s Some Kind of a Beach…
The first thing I’m asked by anyone who knows I’m in Puerto Rico, “How’s everything in paradise?”
Here’s how things are:
Sunny, beautiful, a little lonely and a lot of effort.
Upon leaving New York, I thought of how much money I would save with Starbucks being too far away. As it happens, I will walk a mile for my daily coffee, even on the days when I make a pot at home. There’s just something about my proper cup of $5, iced deliciousness that will drive me to walk. This is a drastic change from the two-block lifestyle I was living.
There’s not much time to go to the beach. Living near the beach is great, but unless I get up extra early or go at sundown, it’s difficult to make it over while getting actual work done. You’d think weekends are another prime time to hit the sandy shoreline, but there are too many tourists from the resorts to make it fun.
It’s just me, so I’m desperate for friend time and brunch fun. I miss unlimited drinks and pancakes. Actually, and remember, I’m no foodie, I miss dollar street pizza, midnight grilled cheese delivery and all other types of delivery. This is probably the one area of life in which money is being saved. If I opened a NYC style brunch spot here it would make a fortune.
I am staying extra fit as the walk each way to and from the gym is 2.5 miles. I have two more weeks of these long daily walks before moving to the next apartment which will eliminate this, thank Jesus. The gym is the Abercrombie of gyms. Seriously, it’s the first time I’ve been at the gym and thought I needed a lot of work to catch. Everyone is pretty perfect, from body to clothing, hair, everything. I’m the misfit, but a bitchy misfit apparently, I’m the only one who wears headphones. Gym time is not talk time. Music on, people stay away.
Today marks the beginning of week three. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t get all my complaining out of the way. What makes it all worth the effort and lack of NYC pleasures? The fact that it’s always at least 78 degrees or warmer.
November 14, 2015
I Hate LA
Two weeks into my stay here in sunny San Juan the solitude was beginning to become a bit much. So, I took to the multitude of social apps to try and engage with a voice outside of my head.
The short of things is a guy from LA, also here for work, asked if I’d like to grab a drink. Since he wasn’t a million miles away, I recommended an amazing 24-hour dive bar which would probably take each of us ten or so minutes to reach. I walked, he took a cab, not sure why as the cost of cabs here only make sense if you have them take you five or more miles.
Anyway, we sat at the bar, each with a drink in hand and began the usual first encounter conversation. Where are you from, what do you do, etc. He seemed stunned when mentioning he worked for HRC and I didn’t react. First of all, if you don’t say Human Rights Campaign, it’s pretty certain I won’t know what you’re talking about, they’re not my charity of choice, nothing personal.
The conversation continued and I was quickly reaching that point where you know it would be preferable to end things and never see this person again. Me, cynical New Yorker, enjoys making jokes, poking fun and having a good time. This guy, typical LA, set on telling others how they should behave and think, passing judgement on all and claiming to not be judging people in any capacity.
The moment things went wrong; when LA guy brought up skin cancer. He made a joke about my pasty skin, which I added to because, in all honesty, I think only British people who never leave the house are more pale. He then goes on to “inform” me the best way to overcome my skin pigment deficiency.
It’s simple:
Stop wearing sunscreen
Go outside in small increments each day to let the sun cause a light burn
Continue this and over time white skin will become immune to sunburn
Also, look into the sun for short increments – it strengthens the eyes
I honestly, can’t make this up, I wish to be so creative. First of all, this is the description for how to get a tan. When you’re this pasty, getting a tan is nearly impossible, my flesh is white, pink or lobster red, that’s just how it goes. Also, gazing into the sun is idiotic and probably not what the eye doc would recommend doing post Lasik.
After listening to this load of misplaced information, I gave what was intended to be a polite reply but coming off a tad blunt. My response was something to the effect of, that’s a bunch of shit, and having had a chunk of cancer cut from my back due to my teen tanning years, it’s best to stick to sunscreen and the shade.
LA went on to tell me all sunscreen causes cancer, dermatologists are lying to me and I’ve been brainwashed. Oh, he added only natural remedies work. To this, I stood, told him I’d rather get cancer than continue talking to him, I placed a twenty on the bar and walked out. Of course, slamming my drink before leaving, it’s a drink after all.
A few minutes later the pictured text message came across. Seeing as I do know the price of my drinks, two drinks at $6 a piece, I can’t see how he figures $20 was insufficient to cover my share of the bill. However, I hope they did overcharge this fool. he’d clearly be dumb enough to overpay.
This guy more or less has reaffirmed LA stereotypes shoveled down the throats of New Yorkers and ensured my continued distaste for them. I’d rather date someone with foreskin than with no brain, and that’s saying something.
November 4, 2015
The San Juan Diaries…
Lately, it’s not felt worth the effort to share what’s going on as it’s all the same old thing. A fling with Late Night, a new boy, a new tattoo, a first piercing…it’s the same thing I’ve been sharing for years.
Now I have something new to talk about, more than a thousand miles away from “the same old thing.” As I mentioned for months, possibly to deaf ears, the goal was to avoid another horrible New York winter by moving the San Juan, Puerto Rico. Where the beaches and bars are not only open year round, but so are the windows! With an average winter temperature in the high seventies, it’s hard to see this as a bad decision. Will I miss the below zero days of February in the city? Not even a little.
Having arrived, it did take four days before I actually made it to the beach. It was kind of amazing to be stepping into the warm waters of the ocean in November when I should be bundling up with sweaters and scarves. Okay, I will miss scarves, mainly because they’re awesome. Sunscreen, shades and shorts aren’t the typical for this time of year…until now! Hello, new winter lifestyle.
Give me a week and it’s likely the homesick feeling will set in, I mean, there’s already some withdrawal. Starbucks is a mile away (on foot), the grocery store has none of the regular foods, I don’t speak the local language and people are nice. Yes, nice. This throws me off the most. You know to avoid people in the city who engage you as they are clearly out to get something. Here, everyone smiles and speaks to one another. I don’t know who to avoid or be weary of, it’s a complete shift in reality. I’m the only New York asshole! I have met several people from Jersey while here, no idea why, but even they’re obnoxiously nice.
So, it begins with me and my pussy cat in a new location for the next five months. If we were a television show, this would be our attempt to garner higher ratings with an on location shoot.
September 25, 2015
In & Out…of the Mouth
This has been a whole week of fun, sexy, embarrassing firsts…as in first time I’ve done something since the big 3-0.
In South Carolina for a work conference, (first, 3-0 first) it was something I’d been dreading. Conferences are not my favorite of things for the most part. You are forced to parade yourself in front of people like a piece of cheap meat dressed in your best. This conference was not only one in which I had to sell myself it was one where I had to actually take in a ton of technical information and relay it back to the office.
Usually, I’m polite to the point which is required and drunk to the amount which my body says it can handle. Open bar? Yes, please! After the first day of long, long sessions I found myself a bit tipsy from a personal happy hour on the boardwalk, we were housed at the beach, where the drinks were free from 6-10pm. [Insert giant happy face] Sitting at a table with colleagues who run a similar/almost competing company it was dumb luck or gravity that put me next to the only other obvious gay.
Fast forward two hours and he’s got me taking a walk on the beach. Wait, is this the first romantic, moves being put on me, after thirty moment? Why yes, yes, it is. I didn’t resist, I’m at a conference with no cell reception and no WiFi, literally, what else am I going to do? So, that’s what I did…him. I mean, I tried to. Things didn’t exactly work out to plan.
We went back to my hotel room after last call and clothing hit the floor, my head hit the pillow and my stomach flipped a switch. Out of nowhere, okay, not nowhere, out of what should have been obvious behavior, I was way beyond my personal legal limit of consumption and things wanted to come back out to play. They did. Not in the bed thank god. I politely excused myself under the guise of needing to pee, as quietly as possible, vomited my guts out and returned. (First 3-0 vomit! Kinda proud. #NoShame)
A quick brush of the teeth and I went back in for more. I was determined to have the sex. My body disagreed with the determination of my penis. Back at it, as soon as he tried climbing over me there it was again, that sensation of vomit biting at the back of the tongue. I admitted my issue, again stepped away to vomit, eventually returning to set him free. It was clear I’d be praying before passing out and at that point my penis was more or less dead to the world.
The next day I apologized profusely as it’s not my goal to be unable to perform. That was the moment I was called something I’ve never, ever been called. This boy called me charming. Was it the vomit, or the jokes about the vomit? This is not a ‘C’ word I usually get called but I’m taking the compliment as my first one at this decade of life. Because now I can say: I’m a self hating, cynical, alcoholic, whore with just a dash of charm.
Overall, I call this a winning work trip. #Adulting
September 16, 2015
Au revoir, 29.
Happy hour is not something I love only because you can find $3 drinks, yes, even in New York City. I’m also a happy hour baby, born between the mystical hours of 5 and 6pm. Though people don’t worry about the time, it does linger in my mind that the actually birthday is at the specific time [life is in the details]…and with the proper cocktail.
Turning thirty isn’t such a big deal. I’ve already put out a book [shameless plug, Turning 30] on the topic and I’ve told people I’m thirty-something more often than not. Maybe all of this is why it’s anticlimactic. Twenty-nine was a highly memorable birthday, actually, alcohol poisoning aside [Thanks, Rachael] twenty-one was a truly memorable birthday. Between those two there was vomiting in parks, bars, on the street, hanging from trees, being thrown out of basement clubs, seeing naked men dance in showers and hit on my B, getting lost on the French Metro, tons of food, friends and fun.
Thirty will be absent of anything grand. I do have a plan to get a tattoo, mostly for selfish, mentally fulfilling reasons, but the day is already out of order and isn’t even here. It’s more likely the day itself will fade into obscurity. Brunch this Saturday, the actually party, will surely be fun, there’s no way it could be anything else.
At the same time, it feels like a slow descent towards goodbye. Knowing I’ll leave home in a month and a half for five months is terrifying. Yes, my decision, and necessary as I’ve become comfortable, complacent and risk-advert – scary nonetheless. Even knowing there is a return the idea of stepping away from the real world for five months, leaving home, friends and everything familiar is a terrifying concept.
So, thirty, here it comes. Well, here it is. Perhaps the year holds something remarkable, I’ve yet to succeed in obtaining the power of foretelling the future; only manipulating what it must be, hoping the mess I’m so good at making will continue to work out.
To the next thirty. Or, possibly twenty-three, the ironic coincidence of dying at fifty-three after joking about it for years would probably be the Universe’s ultimate gotcha.
September 10, 2015
The Clock is Ticking
Is there anyone out there who doesn’t think about time? If you are out there, please, please explain to me how you have managed to distance yourself from this life-consuming, and almost all too often, useless effort.
Good or bad, I think about time…all the time. Each day is a succinct process, nearly every action pre-planned to appease the mind. In the modern world this makes for efficiency in the work force. To me, it provides a level of comfort because it cuts down on confusion and the mess of life, even though time itself is completely uncontrollable.
As the final days of my twenties slip into memories which someday will be nothing more than foggy reflections, it has become difficult to not think of the state of life in which I live and time. Liking to think of myself as an overachiever, I wonder what would have happened if I’d not taken a four-year writing break, what if I moved to New York earlier, what if I selected a different career path or met different people? All questions to which there will never be an answer. The decisions which make these options nothing more than questions can never exist. So, we move on – because we have to.
There is a thrill to the future and being content with the past, though I’m not sure I can say I’m fully satisfied with the past. If a time machine appeared today and provided unlimited ability to alter, edit, fix, change and repair any and every moment, I’d most certainly take a ride down memory lane and fill in a few pot holes.
It is not so much wishing the past to be different that is the problem, it’s the fact the past is becoming the past, the distant past so quickly. I clearly recall eighteen months ago asking how I would ever be able to move forward and break away from one moment in time. And now the person from that moment feels like a stranger to whom I’m not familiar. Does it matter if we want to move forward? No. Time pushes us forward, like it or not, most often not.
Now I feel restless. If I can’t stop time from moving forward, and can do nothing to accelerate the rate at which it moves ahead, it becomes tiring to wait for time to pass in an effort to allow the next chapter, the next adventure. And so we count down to thirty and the wonder of what happens next…
September 2, 2015
Maybe You’re Not So Single
You’re single. Maybe it’s been a month, week or a decade. Like everyone on the planet, at one point or another you think about a lost love, ‘the one’ that got away or some variation. You might wish one would come back, another would go away or be dead curious why something ended.
In reality, the one who comes back will always be the crazy one you wish would disappear or die. The one you never hear from is the one you’ll most likely forever want back. While the majority will fall into the obscure category of: WTF?! There is a random exception, as I learned of late, the one who clearly states why they’re walking. It’s helpful and leaves no room for loose ends or questions. Why can’t they all end this way? #TooEasy
Since you’re now emotionally charged and ready to throw yourself from the nearest window, consider this: You’re completely fucked up. It’s a compliment, truly.
You know how there are the one, two or three really great friends who understand everything about crazy; Have you ever considered you’re actually in a sexless, long-term relationship with them? Seriously, consider this before rolling those eyes. Who goes out with you on request for dinner, drinks or a movie? When you have a public function, who are you texting first? When you’re being bat-shit crazy, who agrees with you totally? This/these individuals.
By societal standards you’re still pathetically single, need to change, be fixed and settle down. In reality, maybe you’re just content with having an awesome life. Instead of worrying about being single consider the possibility of the above…or disregard as utter bullshit. :)
August 15, 2015
I’m Cynical and Hate Myself
I’m beginning to believe the expression “Oh, Boy” is not meant not so much as one of confusion, excitement or frustration, but truly one of: What the fuck is going on with these things that have a penis attached?
You see, last night I was going to see PT guy after happy hour with my lady straight. We were celebrating the end of a particularly long and grueling week. All PT guy knew of my evening plan was my intention to see a friend. I said we would be wrapped up by nine at the latest, seven at the earliest. When I text him around eight to see what he was doing it seemed fair to let him know I was several drinks in and feeling no pain. Why let him know this? He doesn’t really drink, meaning it’s not always fun to be around a person who is drunk. Meaning you can easily opt out of seeing me if you prefer to enjoy your evening without someone being loud and giggly.
The short of it: PT guy told me I was choosing drinks over him and he’d prefer to not continue seeing me. Following this up with how nice and smart he thinks I am. These are lovely thoughts, but endings like this don’t work. If you don’t want to see me any longer I’d prefer you tell me how much you hate me so instead of being disappointed over what could have been I can focus on how much of an asshole you are. Is this the healthy way to respond? I’m sure PT’s therapist would say no. I respectfully disagree.
I was surprised by his reaction. He informed me of his intention to make me feel good about myself, and the failed attempt as I clearly hate myself and am overly cynical, etc. This is what I like to refer to as ‘therapist syndrome.’ When someone is unable to process how they feel, instead paying another person to tell them how they feel, it eventually grows into telling the person how to think. In the end people suffering from said syndrome then spew this back onto others as they are “enlightened.”
The summation of this: I’m cynical and hate myself. One is true, the other is a bit off as I suffer from the same disorder as Gwyneth Paltrow; High self-esteem, a disorder for which there is no know cure. What is the result? I tend to run my mouth, letting 95% of all thoughts fall out and into the world, most of which are comical, cynical and sometimes even down right mean. There’s no real need for political correct speech as it does no one any good, other than to prevent hurt feelings for which we are each individually responsible so it doesn’t matter anyway.
I’m getting off track, I did try to clarify my stance to his remark by informing of the joy I take in cynicism and that my commentary on people is mainly because I find them to be stupid and useless. Of course, this was turned around on me and it’s actually me that feels stupid and useless. What? Is this really the stuff your therapist is teaching you? I did waste my time disputing the comments, mainly because I don’t need to be diagnosed by someone who clearly has little interest in hearing.
Could all of this been avoided? I believe yes. A week or so back when we met post Larrymore getting his tattoo, or attempting to get his tattoo, PT brought my protein shaker. I’d accidentally left it at his place a few nights prior. This was odd to me as I thought I was spending the night. We ate dinner with little conversation and it felt this was the moment he would cut me loose. Then the night took a twist and he invited me to a movie. BTW, Paper Towns is a great movie, go see it immediately. Then at the end of the evening he asked if I was going to stay over. Thinking this was an invite of politeness and nothing more I said I needed to get up early. Going home I pondered what the night was on the bus. Why bring me the shaker and then invite me over? It’s a contradiction which still makes no sense.
PT then ran off to Fire Island, a place which I find repulsive, but to each their own. He continued to text the week he was away, probably out of boredom or politeness, who can ever really tell the difference. Had I taken the hint with the cup and stopped engaging I believe none of this would have happened and things would have faded into blissful nothingness. Now however we can put another notch in the belt and toss this one on the heap of waste of time guys.
But at least these are the kind things he has informed me of about myself. I’ll be sure to learn a lesson by repeating them as often as possible. I’m a:
Whore
Drunk
Cynic
Self-hater
Rent (minus) Control
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