Coming Out Day Connection

  
We first met at a Coming Out Day celebration at the University of Minnesota, but he doesn't remember it. He was part of the event team and was busy meeting all of the attendees. I was there alone trying to figure things out.


We met again at a state-wide conference to help craft the lgbtq agenda. I was a tragic mess. I was extremely poor and got there because my ex-boyfriend helped organize the event. I was supposed to be volunteering.

Instead, I drank and made a fool of myself. I grabbed the microphone and performed horrible songs and dance routines. At one point, I serenaded him. That is how we started our now 13+ years of friendship.

Late Night Ramen

 
We've had many exploits. A good amount involve booze and drugs. They culminated in almost burning down the apartment thanks to late night ramen. We should have seen it coming. Well...he did. I just ignored it.

It was someone's birthday, and my partner was out of town leaving the door wide open for crystal-laced antics. We had a tiny amount and shared it among the two of us. It wasn't enough, so we chased it with cheap tequila. The music pumped either Janet Jackson, Madonna, or some random disco tune, and we danced through our Castle getting ready to gow out throwing feathers and glitter and leather all over the place. A drag queen exploded.

We left the apartment and began our crawl looking for trouble along the way. She stood across the street in a rainbow-silver mini-dress. It was the same as the one in my closet. Her bright red 5-inch platform heels didn't match. Emboldened by intoxication, I approached, my black mesh sleeveless shirt and black and red boa a perfect compliment to her outfit.

"Hey honey. How are you?"

"What do you want, sugar?"

"We're looking for trouble tonight. Know where we could find any?"

"Sugar, dressed like that touble'll find you."

We laughed, kissed cheeks, and went our separate ways. The search continued.

After a few bars, some dancing, and more tequila, vodka, and Jagermeister, we wobbled from Polk street to SOMA, hopeful our quest would be fruitful there. We prowled the backrooms of My Place and Powerhouse and a variety of alleys each time getting a little more drunk, obnoxious, and belligerent. We were on a collision course leading directly to A Taste of Leather and the man dressed in black, a cap shading his eyes, whispering, "K, e, speed, and coke. K, e, speed, and coke."

We pulled out our wallets and counted our change.

"What will $20 get us?"

"Here," and he handed us a small baggie of something transparent white in small rock form as he took our money. "Have fun." He moved on. We stayed put.

"What the hell is this?"

"Looks like speed. Only way to tell is to do it."

"Who's going first?"

"I will! It's my birthday."

We crushed it up, and it was gone in four quick snorts.

There was more booze, some anonymous backroom sex, and a couple of pinball games. Then, everything closed and we were forced to stagger back to our Castle.

"I'm soooo hungry!"

"Me too. We should've had dinner."

"Let's go get food."

"I'm broke. I spent everything I had on drinks and that random shit we did."

"Ho you feeling?"

"I just want to fucking eat! Other than that I am fucking FANTASTIC!"

"Let's go grab some Thai food from Osha. It's cheap. I'll pay."

"Only if we bring it back here. I don't want to sit in the fucking florescent lights."

We managed to call in an order, pick it up, and bring it back to the apartment. Our feast of pad thai, fried tofu, and larb sat between us; chopsticks in both of our hands.

"This is SO good! I have an idea!"

"Oh god no."

"No really. This will be fabulous. You gotta trust me."

"No...I don't trust you."

"Come on! Come on!"

My goading prodded him further. Our feast turned into a mess. Noodles stuck to my face and sauce dripped from my chin. I qwnr in to the kitchen, pulled out a pot, and filled it with water.

"We need ramen!"

"What? We already have food."

"I know. And what would go better with our feast than some Top Ramen?"

It was one of those ideas that drugs makes good.

"We don't need ramen."

"Yes...I think we do."

I put the pot on the stove to boil. We both promptly fell asleep.

He woke up to the stink of the pan burning some hour and a half later. I was still unconscious. He turned off the stove and went back to bed.

The next morning...

"What the hell were you trying to do to me last night? Did you want to kill us?"

"Huh," was all I could muster.

"Ramen...does that ring a bell?"

"Kind of. I think I amde some last night."

"Uh...You started to make some. You were unsuccessful."'

"Really? I could have sworn we had some noodles," as I pulled one still stuck to my cheek.

"That was pad thai. Take a look in the dining room."

Our feast covered the table and spilled on to the floor.

"Wow. That Thai food was really good."

"Then why did you have to make ramen?"

"Because it was a fantastic idea at the time."

"You forgot all about it! I woke up to the pan burning."

"Thank god you were here."

We laughed.

"Yes, thank someone."

I learned my lesson: never listen to that inner voice that says "make ramen" in the early morning hours. Unless your best friend is there to save your life.

Library Pencils at Lush Lounge

 
Throwing things is a common theme in our friendship. It came up again at a bar: The Lush Lounge. We were there for a really terrible cabaret night with out-of-pitch singers and an arrhythmic piano player. The combination made it unbearable.

They were taking requests, so they put out pencils and paper at all the tables. It was our neighborhood bar and there was no way we were going to be the ones to leave. So we commenced a plan, something we do quite often, mostly with puckish intentions and wanton outcomes. Largely, our plans never see the light of day. Our martinis made this one possible.

I grabbed a pencil, the short kind you find in libraries, and waited patiently for everyone to turn their heads. He leaned in close and whispered, "Where did all these god damn carrots come from?" I chuckled and tossed. One. Two. Three. SMACK! The pencil hit the wall behind the performer. She looked around but didn't let it phase her.

Now, it was his turn. One. Two. Three. SPLASH! It fell into someone's drink. Everyone looked around for the culprit. No one knew it was us. A few more throws, all of which landed on the floor, and we were bored. We left.

We've grown up a little since then. We don't throw things anymore. We do still laugh uncontrollably. It's what keeps us young. Now, it's at our expense rather than others.

Where Did All These God Damn Carrots Come From?

 
We were bored and stupid and had a lot of left over carrots. We had been partying all night and were sloshed and high. Everything was funny. The night air was warm, humid the kind of summer night in July where mischief beckons. Everyone had left and the only thing to do was clean, so we said "Fuck that!" And went outside.

We smoke a little more on the porch with the bowl of carrots between us. They were not for eating. One of us started. One. Two. Three. Four. THUD. The carrot landed on the hood of a car. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nothing. The carrot only made it to the small patch of grass directly in front of us. Laughter errupted.

More carrots were tossed. Our goal: hit the tops of cars. The noise was hilarious.

This entertained us for hours. There must have been more than 100 carrots littering the city streets by the time we finally went inside. most of them landed in the same place: on or around a black sedan parked across the street. We had no intention of cleaning them up. We wanted people finding them in the morning thinking, "Where did all these god damn carrots come from?"

That became the mantra of our friendship. He's still my best friend to this day.

An Open Letter to Michael Lane

I am at the Des Moines Art Festival helping my best friend Michael with the Interactive Art Station. They have two projects: a "cray-pa-your-own square" of a mural of the city's skyline and a "create your own" skyline silhouette. The Festival is just kicking off today after many months of planning and hard work.

I am honored I get to see my friend at work. You can tell a lot about a person when you sit back and watch. Michael is one of those rare kinds that knows how to achieve a vision, something that lives outside of himself. He has that unique skill set of seeing the whole and the component parts. It is this skill I most admire and respect.

I'm not sure if he knows exactly how much I have learned from him over the years. He has seen me through a lot in the 12 plus years of friendship. He has showed me that hard work pays off, politics are inevitable, and compassion is sometimes wanting to tell someone to fuck off but instead saying "thank you".

What I am observing today reinforces all of this. Michael is nothing if not neurotic. He cares, like me, what people think of him. He obsesses, like me, about the impact of even the tiniest of actions. Earlier today he worried that the direction of the tables (should they run north to south or east to west) might not be the direction his colleague wants them to run. Some may view this as petty or ridiculous even. I completely understand him. I understand that something as simple as the direction of a table has significance. It creates mood, traffic flow, and can either support or hinder an activity. I understand that this decision not only impacts the participants, but the simple decision can impact the relationship between colleagues. It can make or break a friendship. And I appreciate deeply the fact that Michael understands this too.

Before the Festival started, we took a stroll through Des Moines. He showed me the Sol LeWitt paintings he helped paint. He showed the the Tara Donovan instillation he helped construct. He talked lovingly about one particular section of Tara's plastic cup rolling landscape he was responsible for and as such he fussed and fussed to make it perfect. He showed me parts of his life and how it has and continues to intersect the live of others, especially artists. And I am reminded of his humility, leadership, and grace.

Michael has an intrinsic sense of community and connectedness and is rooted in knowing how and when to step up and step back. He makes no claims that the art of Sol LeWitt or Tara Donovan or the mural being created are his. And yet he is a crucial factor in their existence. He picked up the brush and actually painted the Sol LeWitt. He placed the plastic cups one-by-one on the floor to create Tara's landscape. He helped create the system that empowers the community to "paint" a square of the mural. If he had not picked up that brush, placed that cup, or systemetized the mural, they certainly would still have been done. But he did do it. He contributed to their creation and in doing so he left his mark.

Now what matters is the narrative he tells about his involvement. His narrative rarely continues an "I". He understands and has internalized the true nature of community: we.

I am sitting here on the sidelines just watching and transcribing what I see. I hope I have an ounce of his humilty. I hope others learn from his presence. I know that if we all practiced a little less "I" and a little more "we" we would transform this world.

Thanks Michael for this important lesson.