Lemon Yogurt

 

The taste of lemon yogurt was never something I thought would appeal,
its sweet tart-refreshing flavor now brings memories so strange and welcoming,
I harken back to days of a childhood spent in murky downtown Hollywood,
the weekly trip across the freeway and up the elevator
to the ICU to watch as my father lay dying -
tubes in every orifice to keep him alive. 

 

Take the elevator down, down, down to the basement
where, if lucky, I would eat food strange and appealing in its beige crispness
but only ever offered the solitary healthy thing there.
Lemon yogurt so tangy and sweet
fills my brain with pictures of sun shining down on prostitutes and beggar women
who flip the bird at our offering of blankets and food -
give me money. 

 

Lemon yogurt like the sun setting soft yellow at the edges
to walk along this street to the only warm meal
served with a smile for two years,
in a building with an enormous burro atop its roof like a foreign mast sailing me away
for a moment of normalcy back to childhood,
to the time before the hard doom of life creeped back up
with every floor ticked off the elevator meter.

2014

 

So I Thought My Best Friend Was a Hooker, Turns Out I am Hard of Hearing. . .

In the early to mid '90's I was young, svelte and built like a brick house. Young men stood on the edges of the dance floor just to watch me dance to dark and broody music. Everything bounced and glided just as it should. Meanwhile during the day, I slaved away as a table busser and food runner in a three story restaurant. It was during this time that my friend advised me to look elsewhere for employment. My friend was making bank as a DJ in a gentleman's club, but was too uncomfortable (or too wise) to jump on the stage herself, yet somehow she convinced me that I would be perfect for the job.

One night I donned my shortest cut-offs, sexiest bra, tightest t-shirt, my ten hole patent leather Doc Martins and my best friend. We jumped into my friends cherry red Datsun hatchback and made our way just a couple of blocks to the seedy side of town, passed the round-a-bout and under the bridge to "the Club". The club had a reputation, as any business of that sort would, but I had never been there and marveled at the red lights, brass rails and velvet across the room. I was so nervous I wanted to throw-up or run away, but I resisted, the Rrriot Grrrl in me destined to demystify stripping, my body and ownership thereof.

I was going to be in a wet t-shirt contest. Yes, the brainiac, shy girl, the dark Goth one who rarely smiled, the one who would rather read than make love, was going to get wet and show her womanhood to the world, or at least the ten geezers in the front row. I was instructed to select my music from the wall of Cd's and await my turn up front for about five minutes till, then I would go in the back and wait with the real strippers. While I waited I got a crash course education in stripping and men. First, men love women. Men love women of every size, shape, color, and temperament. Secondly, wet t-shirt contests in strip clubs are there for three reasons: one get new girls for the club, two make money, three highlight traveling professional strippers and all of those reasons piss off the in-house strippers.

I saw women who obviously knew what they were doing throw a t-shirt over their more scantily clad strip outfits and do what was obviously a choreographed routine, which included acrobatics on poles. I saw biker mommas throw on a t-shirt and shake their shimmy mainly to impress their dude and his buddies. And then there was me, 19 and totally clueless. I took off my bra, donned a t-shirt and took off my shoes, as instructed by the guy off stage and when my song came on I walked, or shall I say slipped across the stage and danced the strangest most spastic uncoordinated dance to Jane's Addiction Been Caught Stealing, while holding on for dear life to the pole, all the while having an inner dialog whether or not to "take it off" or not. I took off my shirt, I did, and I got topless in front of other people, well more than two people. It was terrifying and electrifying all at the same time. I was the best dancer and worst stripper for the following two months.

It is with this perspective that I weigh the current situation of my best friends life. Broken hearted, financially broke and spiritually broke he has stumbled upon what he views as the only way to make some money and help out his mom; to become a screen cupcake. A boy who looks good and maybe does things on camera for tips.  When he first told me I thought, like the great temple goddesses of yore, he had finally risen to his calling. With an insatiable appetite for carnal pleasure I had recommended a venture into the Tantric arts in previous conversations about secondary vocational training. Alas, at the time he chose hair dressing. My friend had not risen to a calling but fallen so far into despair that he was convinced that this was all he had to offer to the world. I do not judge him for his actions, nor for the need to keep the cash flowing, but how do I express the sadness in my heart that he has lost his spirit, his drive and his mojo? In my life I have come to see that our bodies are not just temples but amazing gifts to ourselves and to others with whom we choose to share. Is a cupcake really offering a gift or in that illicit exchange of monetary goods does the gift sour and turn into a forgery?

Some time has passed since the great announcement and I still struggle with how to respond. How do I ask if he is still posing for the camera? How do I check-in with how he feels? Does this venture bolster his spirit in any way and if not as his friend, isn't it my obligation to tell him to stop? What does one say to their best friend who is making money on the sly?