I think maybe I dreamed it. I keep post it's next to my bed and my desk. The phrase powdered mint came to be written there a while ago. I know I've talked about it and maybe mentioned it here.
Or the notes that never make it here.
I think it's also a beautiful phrase too.
But yesterday Saturday I set myself to task to find some. I didn't try that hard but I went to every Indian spice store in Murray Hill and no one had it. They had loose dried mint, and ground mint leaf, like for tea. The two smaller spice stores swore they had it but then realized they didn't. Had never heard of it. But were polite about it. One store said I could come back and the guy would grind some for me. But no. The their smaller store the guy gave me a pastry as soon as I walked in and swore they had it but ultimately admitted that they only had leaf mint.
The bigger more famous spice store didn't have it either. Powdered watermelon? Sure. Powdered white chia seeds? Of course. Powdered kiwi? Check. I asked one of the guys working there if they had powdered mint and he looked at me as if I was a totally fucking crazy person. Of course not. He said. Mint? No. Shook his head, annoyed at my ridiculous question.
I want it so finely powdered that I just have to add water to make a paste. I want to add it to coffee grounds.
I want to add it to oatmeal overnight with frozen mango paste and chia seeds (black, whole).
But no. नहीं / nahin.
Powdered mint remains for me a pipe dream. I wanted something the consistency of matcha.
Which is what I ended up using instead.
The weekend was good. Quiet. Bored/tired. Full of sleep and errands. Chores. I went to a party with Erin and it was so glamorous and hilarious to be at an academic party, talking and laughing with college professors. Being the date of a Broadway sensation. You know.
The beau and I went to that fancy new Taiwanese restaurant that opened near my house.
I napped a lot and didn't bug anyone. I got I guess sleep.
And now I'm going to the Monster to see Lady Bunny's afternoon DJane set of funk and disco. That's what I want.
Perfect. Utterly. Like Ptown. Early. Mostly an older mostly mixed racially crowd of fags. Rich and poor seeming. Getting down to the classics.
This stuff this vibe used to make me feel gross. Too faggy. I thought I'd be violated here.
But I'm not so cute anymore. Not a chicken any longer. Now I'm turkey. I guess in some way I always as huh.
Lady Bunny wears plays "Macho Man". She wears a bedraggled wig. And why not? It's Sunday evening at a free party at the Monster.
These are the spaces that excite me now. These are the good parties.
And it's not nightlife. It's early and it's death. Old records before sunset.
Let the young have the night.
We guard the sunrise and we guard the twilight.
I get up before the sun to go running.
I dance before sunset. Drinking tequila. With my old gay brothers fathers uncles sisters moms. My sons.
I think macho man was a joke. Now I'm in on it. Now it's so provincial. To even hint at it. We can't talk about masculinity anymore. Not so cavalierly.
This is why I came. Because lady bunny is a serious dj.
She comes out to dance on the floor. She's a phenomenal dancer. Of course.
I want to see her solo show.
I feel yeah like at ptown. Old queers. Not all old of course.
Now I'm almost 33. Now I'm an old queer.
I was gonna say the only drawback is that the drinks aren't cheap. But they are! They're two for one. I lost my drink ticket but the bartender was nice about it.
Who has all this energy to dance so much on a Sunday afternoon?
I want to do a Sunday afternoon party. No food no barbecue. But chill music. Weed smokers. Maybe food. Candy. Curated. Give someone $300 for food. See what they come up with.
Make playlists instead of DJ.
Dispense with the frontal cortex.
God Lady Bunny is the best.
I love being in a room of queers to whom disco inferno means something.
They make fun of us. I mean even now that we're assimilated. They think we're weak. We have to pretend to be to fit in. They think we're sad and weak and broken. They think we're distracted. They think we're not working hard or something. They think we're a market.
But we've survived everything. We've always been here and always will be. We joke about death. Dance to songs about disco inferno.
We've seen death.
Who was the one who told you that a) you were beautiful and b) your beauty would fade?
This song always reminds me of Stella Starsky who I saw perform this song in ptown. In her show American baroness at Afterglow Festival She s an archetypal cool genius. If she likes this song it's worth listening to.
Once, a little over ten years ago, around that time. About that long ago, I went through a disco phase. I was sad. It was winter. Or summer. And disco saved me when I lost hope. Like it does for so many other people.
Okay okay I want whatever lady bunny has. She dances SO MUCH. How cool. What prescription is that.
Maybe I'm due for another disco phase.
Disco is like gay soul music.
But that comparison is fucked up and I'm sorry.
I never thought I would be so in love as I am. I never thought I'd be so rich. I couldn't conceive.
Right. And a piano bar upstairs. How chic and sad.
Our mausoleum. You don't know but in the basement we're still celebrating. We're not sad deep down inside. It makes me think of the new blow song.
About the fire inside.
I like seeing guys in their 50s, 60s feel each other up. I mean it.
The heat makes me so crazy. Like bewildered. The same way the extreme cold does. Makes me an animal.
It was so dark that you couldn't take pictures, in the basement of the Monster. You had to be there, it's kind of genius right. Impossible to convey; I'm not even really trying to.
On the morning of the new moon in Leo I'm waiting for good news. Everyone on the train is a math whiz.
Think about the way it must have affected artists, architects, dancers. A cancer of the faculty, the theater department. Imagine no one was there to tell you how gorgeous precious marketable easy you were. Hey ugly duckling let me get a dime bag and a copy of your demo tape.
We fear going crazy, fear being spied on, fear our robot kids e raised them but now they're unrecognizable and We worry they won't take care of us when we get old.
They'll recycle us. They'll dispose of us.
A kid fucking screaming wailing on the train as if being tortured
I mean case of the mondays.
While people helpfully suggesting ways to rearrange ourselves to better fit into crowded train.
The time of month, the end, when I'm hopelessly broke. Like really.